12. 

A VIEW OF THE GENDARMENMARKT

At J. P. Morgan and at Drexel and at Brown Brothers - at all the American private banks that I have seen - everything is done right out in the open. At least they try very hard to give that impression: large opulent rooms, a "floor" where all the partners - J. P. Morgan himself - sit at rolltop desks, working over their papers or talking with their visitors in full view of the world. If you give us your money to invest, you should be free to watch us doing it, they seem to be saying.

In Berlin's financial district around the Gendarmenmarkt - the Jägerstrasse, the Französische Strasse, the Markgrafenstrasse - the atmosphere was different. Not so much as a brass name plate identified the Venetian palazzo at No. 4, Gendarmenmarkt - actually at the corner of Französische Strasse and Markgrafenstrasse. If you didn't know which house this was, you had no business there.

I walked up the steps and rang the bell, and a tailcoated butler admitted me into a gloomy reception hall. No telephones, no stock tickers, no rolltop desks, and no partners - at least no live partners. Oriental carpets, a crystal chandelier, dimly lighted portraits, and a large bronze bust of David Waldstein (I770-1848).

This was not a waiting room, and the butler did not ask who I was or what I wanted. He led me up a few more steps, through a swinging wooden gate and into a corridor lined with closed doors, numbered like hotel rooms. He unlocked one of these and opened it - to reveal another closed door. He opened this second door and ushered me into a small conference chamber containing a beautiful mahogany table and two comfortable wing chairs covered in green leather. The blinds were closed, but sun light entered the room through the cracks - enough sunlight to illuminate the objects on the table: a writing tablet, an inkstand, a pair of scissors, a tray with three crystal decanters and two glasses.

"Herr Oberleutnant Keith is on the telephone, sir, but Herr Baron Robert is on his way. Will you have sherry? Madeira? Mosel wine?"

I chose sherry. Just as I finished the little glass Bobby appeared, immaculate in a double-breasted gray suit and a stiff white collar, a fresh white rose in his lapel. We shook hands.

"Welcome to our Bank, old fellow. We have a few minutes before lunch, so let me show you around."

"What are the double doors for?" I asked him. "And the locks."

Bobby smiled. "To assure privacy, of course. When a client speaks with his banker, he wants to be sure that nobody is listening at the keyhole.,"

"But where do you do your work? Don't you have an office"

"Oh yes, but we only let very special friends see them. Come along and I will show you."

The butler took my glass and locked the room again. I walked along the corridor with Bobby, wondering what was going on behind all the closed doors we passed. At the end of the corridor Bobby led me up a flight of polished marble stairs. On the second floor, we entered a more conventional reception area a huge refectory table holding a bronze Chinese goat, some comfortable chairs, more portraits. Through open portals I saw dignified older secretaries typing, and behind them more closed doors leading to what Bobby told me were the partners' offices.

If you want to see where the real work is done, you must climb still another staircase," said Bobby, so I followed him up another flight. We emerged in a big bright noisy room that looked much more familiar to me: row after row of desks, men working over documents or talking on telephones, girls pounding typewriters, several stock tickers, young boys writing trade prices and currency quotations on a huge blackboard at the end of the room. ... I didn't see anybody in his shirtsleeves, though. All the men had their coats and ties on. Nobody had his feet on the table, either.

Christoph Keith sat behind one of the desks in a glass cubicle he apparently shared with Bobby. He rose to shake hands.

"You have come to see where the peons work?"

It looks very much like the place I used to work."

I sat with them while they tried to explain in general what they did: finance exports and imports, represent clients in foreign currency operations, participate in underwriting syndicates, lend money to businessmen. They didn't accept checking accounts, they didn't deal with the general public at all; they dealt with corporations and with governments. Much of their work had always been with clients in Paris and London and New York and South America. This network was being laboriously restrung after the War, and now the devaluation of the mark was making the task enormously difficult. While they talked to me, Christoph and Bobby kept glancing over my shoulder toward the blackboard where the boys erased the changing values of the dollar and the guilder and the pound sterling in relation to the mark, and chalked up new ones.

A girl came in and said something to Bobby. He stood up. "We are summoned to the partners' dining room."

"I think in America very few men go home for lunch," said Dr. Strassburger, as the waiter was removing the soup plates.

"Yes, sir, that's correct. At least in the big cities."

"They all cat in clubs, like the English," said Baron Eduard von Waldstein. "Here many people still go home."

In Italy they all go home for lunch," said Bobby. "Then they take a siesta."

"They don't necessarily take a siesta," said another partner,

whose name I hadn't caught.

"They don't necessarily go home," said Baron Eduard, and

everybody laughed. Even Dr. Strassburger.

New plates were in front of us. One waiter passed steaming

silver platters with veal cutlets, fried potatoes, peas; the other waiter offered a choice of white and red wines, carefully displaying the labels.

I sat at the long table by the window, between Christoph and Bobby. Half a dozen other men, to whom I had been introduced,

sat around us. Baron Eduard, Bobby's father, sat at the head. Dr. Strassburger sat across from me. Through the big window I could

see the Gendarmenmarkt - two eighteenth-century churches, a huge nineteenth-century theatre, and a statue of Schiller. Behind

me, at smaller tables, other partners were dining with their own guests.

As we ate and talked I watched the faces and tried to imagine what was really going on here. Bobby's father sat at the head of the table - a charming, witty, cultivated man, but a man who looked older than his middle sixties, a man who did not seem entirely fascinated by talk about the Allied Reparations Commission or the possible effect of the Rapallo Treaty. Bobby was even less fascinated by these subjects. (Somebody made a remark about his white rose. Christoph asserted that it brought the spirit of the Champs Elysees to the Bank, but Dr. Strassburger announced, "This is not the Champs Elysees, this is the Gendarmenmarkt, and the damned French are the cause of all our troubles! " Baron Eduard compressed his lips, cut himself a small piece of veal, and said nothing.)

Dr. Strassburger was obviously the one who had issued the invitation. He was full of questions: Philadelphia's role as a financial center, as compared to New York; the present management of Drexel & Company; he understood my people were Quakers - how long had they lived in Philadelphia? What did my father do? And I really wanted to be an artist? Was I taking lessons in Berlin? Oh, excellent, a pupil of Professor Liebermann, had I seen Liebermannn's picture of the Baron's father, out in the reception room? ... At first the name didn't mean anything, but then: Falke? Falke? That Bolshevik, with his filthy swinish Red propaganda drawings? The fellow had been with Liebknecht's Spartacists, should have been shot in 1919.... Dr. Strassburger's face paled; he drank half a glass of Moselle to compose himself . :. and meanwhile attention shifted, people turned to look at two men entering the dining room.

I recognized the taller one immediately: pointed bald head, graying Van Dyke beard, coal-black eyes, heavy eyebrows now frowning with annoyance. Walther Rathenau obviously thought he was going to lunch alone with his host, a short round smiling man with unmistakable Waldstein features, and here was a whole room full of men, rising to shake hands with His Excellency the Foreign Minister.

He handled it quite well. The host, who turned out to be Baron Eduard's younger brother, Baron Fritz, quickly steered his guest around the long table. Rathenau recomposed his features into something that might be described as a smile, shaking each extended hand. The only awkward moment came when it was my turn. Baron Fritz looked puzzled, Rathenau clearly didn't remember me, then Baron Eduard, Bobby, Christoph, and Dr. Strassburger each began to explain who I was, in slightly different words. But that was over in an instant. Baron Fritz said something to Baron Eduard, who nodded and accompanied his brother and Rathenau to an empty table in the most distant corner of the room, where two waiters were already drawing back the chairs.

I tried to watch Dr. Strassburger without turning my head. The others were watching him too. I wish I could have sketched him at that moment. I wish I could have illustrated the emotions reflected in the glittering pince-nez, in the compressed lips.... Anyway, he masked it all in the fraction of a second and made his decision.

"Keith, when Mr. Ellis has finished his coffee, will you bring him to my office and wait for me." It was not a question, it was an order. I have an urgent matter to discuss with Minister Rathenau." He pushed his chair back and walked across the room.

I wished I had eyes at the back of my head. So apparently did Christoph, who steadfastly ate his strawberry tart. Some of the men on the other side of the table pretended to be eating; others didn't. Bobby von Waldstein simply turned around in his chair and stared.

Dr. Strassburger collected Chinese figures of bronze and jade; his office was full of them. Little horses and goats and Buddhas stood about on the tables and bookshelves. There was also a Chinese carpet, and a gloomy Boecklin landscape above the little fireplace, and behind the enormous desk a big window with velvet drapes and a fine view of the domed French Church in the Gendarmenmarkt.

"Does the Foreign Minister often eat here?" I asked Christoph as we sat in the leather club chairs in front of the empty desk.

He shook his head. "Perhaps once or twice since he has been in office. More often before that. His company is a client, of course. He is close to the Barons, especially Fritz, and he desperately needs the support of all these bankers for his program. They still have good connections abroad, in London, in New York - they could be helpful in making the Allies take a more reasonable position."

"You mean about reparations?"

"Yes, of course. The people in the City and in Wall Street, they must realize we cannot pay these sums, we simply cannot do it, and if they continue to press ... well, this government, this form of republican government ... it cannot survive."

"And Rathenau wants the Waldsteins to carry this message abroad?"

Christoph nodded. "Something like that, I think."

"Will they do it"

"Well, they are patriotic Germans, they will certainly do what the government asks, but how much sympathy they have for this particular government, this constant parliamentary infighting, this instability ... uncertainty ... this policy of trying to reason with the Allies ... That's another matter. You heard what Alfred said the other night. Who helped finance the Freikorps?"

"But that was to fight the Communists."

"Yes. And they still are more afraid of the Left. Remember they are bankers. Capitalists by profession. Capitalists by definition." Christoph suddenly grinned. "Listen to me talking about them. What am l?"

"I don't know, Keith, what are you?" asked Dr. Strassburger as he opened the door and marched in. We both stood up. "Sit down, sit down, gentlemen, I'm sorry, I had a difficult situation in Holland to bring to His Excellency's attention, and my partners were grateful that I reminded them. Now Mr. Ellis, I did want to discuss a matter of business with you, and since Lieutenant Keith will handle the details I wanted him to be here too." He settled into the leather swivel chair behind his desk. "You have, I believe, a dollar account with our affiliated bank in Amsterdam."

"Yes, sir. A very small one."

"Mr. Ellis, in Germany today, even a small amount of hard currency, especially located outside of Germany, presents the opportunity" - Dr. Strassburger paused to rephrase - "presents the possibility of making extremely profitable investments. Over a short period of time."

I assumed he was talking about currency speculation.

He was.

I didn't really understand these things when I was supposed to be working for Drexel, and I didn't understand them any better as Dr. Strassburger explained them now, leaning back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together.

It was all perfectly legal, of course. There would be no transfer of funds abroad because my money had never been in Germany. The German mark had fallen so sharply that the Reichsbank, the central bank, might have to support the price in foreign markets. If they did that, the value of the German mark would rise at least for a little while. If I understood him correctly, he wanted me to use my dollars to buy some German marks, while everybody else was selling them. When - and if - the Reichsbank starts to buy and runs the price up, I would sell.

Why is Christoph Keith staring down at the Chinese carpet?

Does any of this make sense?

"Dr. Strassburger, the money I have in Amsterdam is all I have to live on. If this operation goes wrong - for example if the Reichsbank doesn't stabilize - I'd lose my money, wouldn't l?"

Dr. Strassburger smiled bleakly. "Yes, you would, Mr. Ellis. There is no investment without risk."

"But some investments are riskier than others."

"Absolutely."

What's the point of all this? He knows how little money I have. Is the second oldest bank in Berlin trying to bilk Peter Ellis out of a thousand dollars? Of course not. He's trying to prove something to me. Can I hedge a little?

"Dr. Strassburger, could I start with just a small bite? I could put up five hundred dollars. Would that be worth it?"

Christoph Keith's eyes left the carpet. Was that a twinkle of amusement? But Dr. Strassburger was not amused.

"No, Mr. Ellis, I think to make this sort of thing worth one's time, a somewhat larger investment would be required." He paused, tapped his fingertips together, turned his chair so that he could gaze out at the French Church for a moment, turned back to face me

"I tell you what we will do: you put up a thousand dollars, and our Amsterdam bank will lend you another four thousand dollars at their normal rate. You give them a note, payable let us say in one year. Then you have five thousand dollars to buy German marks. If you make money on the transaction, you pay them back. If you lose your money on the basis of our advice ... well, perhaps they will just tear up the note. How does that sound?"

How does that sound? Why is Christoph staring at the carpet again?

"That sounds like a very nice deal for me, Dr. Strassburger. May I ask why you're being so generous, and for such small sums?"

He nodded. "Yes, you may ask. And I will tell you. This is a very old bank, as you know, but it Is still a private bank. We have sufficient capital for our needs, but our capital is small compared to the banks with public depositors and public shareholders - the Deutsche Bank, the Disconto Gesellschaft, the Dresdner Bank. Our real capital is not in shares, not in money; our real capital is up here." He tapped his index finger against the side of his head. "Our real capital is our professional skill, and hundreds of influential people all over the world who know us and trust in our skill. You understand what I am saying?"

"Yes, sir."

"So I don't like to miss the opportunity to make a new friend, to show a visitor from another land how good we are at our profession."

"But Dr. Strassburger, I'm going to be a painter!"

He nodded again. "Yes. Perhaps you are going to be a painter. And perhaps you are not going to be a painter. You know what I was going to be, when I was a boy in Dresden? I was going to be a writer and a poet. Like Heinrich Heine. I published poems in the newspaper. Did you know that, Keith?"

"No, Herr Geheimrat, I didn't know that."

"Yes, it's quite true. Several poems, and an article about a trip to China. My father sent me to China to buy jade for his store ......"  Dr. Strassburger suddenly slammed both palms on the top of his desk, stood up, and extended his hand. "Also! Do I understand we have made what you Americans call 'a deal'?"

"Yes, sir." I stood up too and shook his hand.

"Very good. Lieutenant Keith will take you upstairs and have you sign the necessary papers, powers of attorney and so forth. I'm afraid I have another meeting now. Good afternoon, gentlemen."


previous chapter, next chapter



PROLOGUE - THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 1922
I. HOW I GOT THERE
1. PARIS 1922
2. VERDUN 1916
3. IT'S STEALING MONEY, ISN'T IT
4. WHERE WERE YOU IN 1919?
5. RELIABLE TROOPS
6. AN ISLAND
7. BISMARCK FOUND THEM USEFUL
8. INTRODUCTIONS
9. THE LITTLE HOUSE
10. INDIAN CROSSES
11. ANOTHER PART OF TOWN
>12. A VIEW OF THE GENDARMENMARKT
13. TWO FOR TEA
14. ON THE TOWN
15. A VIEW OF THE HAVEL
16. REIGEN
II. WHAT HAPPENED
17. THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 1922
18. MONDAY, JUNE 19, 1922
19. WEDNESDAY, JUNE 21, 1922
20. FRIDAY, JUNE 23, 1922
21. SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1922
22. WHAT HAPPENED?
III. THE WITCHES' SABBATH
23. SILENCE WITH VOICES
24. THE JUDGMENT OF   PARIS
25. SAME SONGS, DIFFERENT SINGERS
26. THEY'RE ONLY GOING TO HIRE HIS VOICE
27. INFLATION WORKS IN DIFFERENT WAYS
28. SMALL CHANGE
29. WHY NOT PAINT LILI?
30. COLD WIND IN MAY
31. ROLLING THUNDER
32. WALDSTEIN'S VOICE
33. THE MATTER OF A DOWRY
34. A RUSSIAN WORD AND A GERMAN WORD
35. THE MARCH ON BERLIN
36. A PIG LOSES MONEY ALL THE TIME
37. THE ARTISTS' BALL
IV. STRIKE TWELVE ZEROs
38. AMYTAL DREAMS
39. LETTERS
40. PROFESSOR JAFFA'S PROGNOSIS
41. THE OTHER SUBJECT
42. ROLLING HOME