I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.
But soon a call is sure to sound, so piercing, so insistent, so despairingly human, that at last I have to get up and peep through the slats of the Venetian blind to make quite sure that it is not—as I know very well it could not possibly be—for me.
Sally’s German was not merely incorrect; it was all her own. She pronounced every word in a mincing, specifically “foreign” manner. You could tell that she was speaking a foreign language from her expression alone.
“Somehow, when people have cash, you feel differently about them—I don’t know why.”
“I’m awfully glad. I’ve wanted you to like me ever since we first met. But I’m glad you’re not in love with me, because, somehow, I couldn’t possibly be in love with you—so, if you had been, everything would have been spoilt.”
We went to the little cinema in Bülowstrasse, where they were showing a film about a girl who sacrificed her stage career for the sake of a Great Love, Home, and Children. We laughed so much that we had to leave before the end.
[Clive] had about him that sad, American air of vagueness which is always attractive; doubly attractive in one who possessed so much money. He was vague, wistful, a bit lost: dimly anxious to have a good time and uncertain how to set about getting it. He seemed never to be quite sure whether he was really enjoying himself, whether what we were doing was really fun.
We had nothing to do with those Germans down there, marching, or with the dead man in the coffin, or with the words on the banners. In a few days, I thought, we shall have forfeited all kinship with ninety-nine per cent of the population of the world, with the men and women who earn their living, who insure their lives, who are anxious about the future of their children. Perhaps in the Middle Ages people felt like this, when they believed themselves to have sold their soul to the Devil. It was a curious, exhilarating, not unpleasant sensation: but, at the same time, I felt slightly scared. Yes, I said to myself, I’ve done it, now. I am lost.
A Nazi journalist reminded his readers that tomorrow, the fourteenth of July, was a day of national rejoicing in France; and doubtless, he added, the French would rejoice with especial fervour this year, at the prospect of Germany’s downfall. Going into an outfitters, I bought myself a pair of ready-made flannel trousers for twelve marks fifty—a gesture of confidence by England.
“I don’t know what it is… You seem to have changed, somehow…”
“How have I changed?”
“It’s difficult to explain… You don’t seem to have any energy or want to get anywhere. You’re so dilletante. It annoys me.”
Indeed, I was so absurdly upset that I began to wonder whether I hadn’t all this time, in my own particular way, been in love with Sally myself.
But no, it wasn’t love ether—it was worse. It was the cheapest, most childish kind of wounded vanity…. The awful sexual flair women have for taking the stuffing out of a man!
Seen thus, alone and off his guard, he seemed rather pathetic: he looked shabbier and far younger—a mere boy. I very nearly said: “He isn’t here.” But what would have been the use? They’d have got him anyway. “Yes, that’s him,” I told the detectives. “Over there.” They nodded. I turned and hurried away down the street, feeling guilty and telling myself: I’ll never help the police again.
When you read this, Sally—if you ever do—please accept it as a tribute, the sincerest I can pay, to yourself and to our friendship.
And send me another postcard.
That evening Peter walked along regent street and picked up a whore. They went back together to the girl’s room, and talked for hours. He told her the whole story of his life at home, gave her ten pounds and left her without even kissing her.
The other morning I saw a child of about five years old, stark naked, marching along all by himself with a swastika flag over his shoulder and singing “Deutschland über alles.”
“He’s going round to his Nazis, I suppose. I often wish he’d never taken up with them at all. They put all kinds of silly ideas in his head. It makes him so restless. Since he joined them he’s been a different boy altogether… Not that I understand these politics myself.”
“You see, Christoph… Peter hurt me very much. I thought he was my friend. And then, suddenly, he left me—all alone…”
The whole neighborhood owed [the Jewish tailor] money. Yet he was not unpopular: he enjoyed the status of a public character, whom people curse without real malice. “Perhaps Lothar’s right,” Frau Nowak would sometimes say: “When Hitler comes, he’ll show these Jews a thing or two. They won’t be so cheeky then.” But when I suggested that Hitler, if he got his own way, would remove the tailor altogether, then Frau Nowak would immediately change her tone: “Oh, I shouldn’t like that to happen. After all, he makes very good clothes. Besides, a Jew will always let you have time if you’re in difficulties. You wouldn’t catch a Christian giving credit like he does… You ask the people round here, Herr Christoph: they’d never turn on the Jews.”
My mouth pressed against Erna’s hot, dry lips. I had no particular sensation of contact: all this was part of the long, rather sinister symbolic dream which I seemed to have been dreaming throughout the day. “I’m so happy, this evening…” Erna whispered.
“I await always that the worst will come. I know how things are in Germany today, and suddenly it can be that my father lose all. You know, that is happened once already? Before the War, my father has had a big factory in Posen. The War comes, and my father has to go. Tomorrow, it can be here the same.”
“You, Christopher, with your centuries of Anglo-Saxon freedom behind you, with your Magna Carta engraved upon your heart, cannot understand that we poor barbarians need the stiffness of a uniform to keep us upright.”
“I’m getting rather tired of what you call your experiments. Tonight wasn’t the first of them by any means. The experiments fail, and then you’re angry with me. I must say, I think that’s very unjust… But what I can’t stand is that you show your resentment by adopting this mock-humble attitude… Actually, you’re the least humble person I’ve ever met.”
In May, I left Berlin for the last time. My first stop was Prague—and it was there, sitting one evening alone, in a cellular restaurant, that I heard, indirectly, my last news of the Landauer family.
Last night, Fritz Wendel proposed a tour of the “dives.” It was to in the nature of a farewell visit, for the Police have begun to take a great interest in these places. They are frequently raided, and the names of their clients are written down. There is even talk of a general Berlin clean-up.
I catch sight of my face in the mirror of a shop, and am horrified to see that I am smiling. You can’t help smiling, in such beautiful weather. The trams are going up and down the Kleistrasse, just as usual. They, and the people on the pavement, and the tea-cosy dome of the Nollendorfplatz station have an air of curious familiarity, of striking resemblance to something one remembers as normal and pleasant in the past—like a very good photograph.
No. Even now I can’t altogether believe that any of this has really happened…
