I was having breakfast alone when they arrived. I don't know how they got there, but I didn't hear a taxi so presumably they walked from the trolley stop. They didn't come in the front door. They must have gone to the stable first, because I heard them coming in the kitchen door, and then I heard Kaspar shouting at the servants. I couldn't hear exact words, but of course the meaning was clear enough. I held my breath and touched the hard little revolver through the cloth of my jacket, but I needn't have worried: the word of the Herr Oberleutnant was still law at the Villa Keith. The Meiers played dumb, and a moment later Kaspar burst into the dining room, with Tillessen directly behind.
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning," said Kaspar. "Where is the car?"
"What car?"
"The Austro-Daimler we put into the stable last night' Where is it?",
As I shook my head, wondering if I could bring this off, I noticed the difference in their expressions. Kaspar's pale face was flushed, his eyes distended by surprise and fear. Tillessen, taller, older, still very much the naval officer, regarded me with icy suspicion. Tillessen wasn't going to believe a word I said.
"Kaspar, we were out very late last night, and I don't know anything about a car in the stable. I didn't know you had a car."
"It's not my car - " Kaspar fairly shouted, but Tillessen put a restraining hand on his shoulder and interrupted:
"Excuse me, sir, but may I ask what time you came home?"
"I don't know exactly.... We were at the theatre, then we had dinner and went dancing .... " This was the bad part, because if they were in the house they might have seen my coat and hat in the hall closet- but I didn't think they had been in the house at all. "I guess - it must have been after two o'clock."
"Really? So late? And you came with Oberleutnant Keith?"
"No, he came later."
"Oh, even later? And now the butler tells us he has already gone to his bank?"
"I assume so. They keep bankers' hours, you know."
Apparently bankers' hours don't have the same connotation in Germany. They both just stared at me for a moment, genuinely puzzled. Then a thought struck Tillessen, a thought that probably never left his mind, a thought that may have had some effect on what happened (or didn't happen) later.
"Sir, may I ask, were you in the War?"
"Yes, sir."
"An American officer?"
"No, sir."
"Ambulance driver," said Kaspar, with something of a sneer. Tillessen apparently didn't believe that. "May I ask your rank in the American army?"
"I didn't have any rank in the American army because I wasn't in the American army. I was a civilian volunteer, driving for the French. Your colleague here knows all about it. Now it seems to me that if you parked a car in the Keiths' stable last night and it isn't there this morning, you might consider calling the police. I mean, that's what we would do at home." By now I had worked myself into a fine state of indignation that made me feel better about telling them a barefaced lie.
"We will of course notify the police at once," said Kaspar, causing Tillessen to look at him without expression.
"Well, I would certainly think so," I said, seeing Christoph had been right, they hadn't told Kaspar any details because Kaspar was too young, too inexperienced, and probably not cool enough for this kind of work. "The telephone is in the pantry."
"You think I don't know where the telephone is in my own house?" Kaspar's face was getting redder, and Tillessen didn't like this conversation a tall.
"In Germany it is not customary to send for the police by telephone if there is no emergency," he informed me. "We will go now and report this situation at the station house."
"Well, Kaspar seems to think there is some emergency, but of course it's entirely up to you." They were not listening. They were already out of the dining room, heading for the front door.
I went up to my room and put the pistol into the drawer of my bedside table. I had gone through the War without a gun - we were not supposed to carry them - but after they let me out of the hospital I bought a snubnosed .32 Smith & Wesson Hammerless Safety and went out to a friend's farm one Saturday and fired at tin cans until the explosions didn't scare me anymore. I had not used it since, but I kept it, and early this morning I had dug it from the bottom of my Gladstone bag, loaded it, and put it in my pocket. It made me feel a little better, but not much.
What was I doing in the bathtub at nine o'clock in the morning? I was thinking about my conversation with Christoph as we walked out of the Grunewald at dawn. I was too excited to sleep, I didn't want to face Meier, and there wasn't time for the trip to Falke's in Neukölln because I'd promised to have lunch with Christoph downtown. So I took a hot bath.
German forests don't look like American forests. People come and pickup every branch and every pine cone because they need them for fuel. They don't let weeds grow, or underbrush. The Grunewald at the edge of the city, and the Tiergarten in the center, are manicured, like gardens.
The rain had stopped, and between the tall black tree trunks the sky was getting lighter. Christoph limped along, not following a path but moving straight through the forest, sure of his way. He didn't say a word until we had walked a quarter of a mile or so.
"I want to thank you."
"No need for that -"
"-and to ask for your help again. I will need a lot of help. I would not ask if I did not have to, but I must. I cannot do it without your help, Peter."
"Well, of course I'll do whatever -"
"When I saw that car, I made my decision. I have to get my brother out of this. Somehow. But I don't know exactly how."
"Out of what?"
"They are going to kill Rathenau."
"You mean - Tillessen?"
"Maybe not Tillessen himself, but he is part of the group."
"How do you know?"
159 /
"Well, I just know. He's in the O.C."
"You wouldn't tell me - "
"Organization Consul. Don't ask what the name means, it means nothing. They are extreme Nationalists, former Freikorps people, mostly Ehrhardt people. Ehrhardt himself is supposed to be the 'Consul.' They are based in Munich now. The Bavarian government protects them from the federal government. They collect money from bankers and industrialists who are frightened of socialism and communism. And they kill people. You know the word Feme? It's from the Middle Ages. Secret courts of honor, Femegerichte. They held secret trials and condemned people to death - people who violated their code of honor, or just political rivals. That's what the O.C. is doing to men they think betrayed Germany, men who made peace with the Allies, men who are running the Republic. They've killed a lot of people. The most famous was Matthias Erzberger, last summer. I told you about that - Tillessen's brother?
"Yes, but how do you know-"
"I know! I feel it in my bones. They're going to kill Rathenau."
"Then we should try to stop them."
"Can't. Can't stop them. Everybody has warned him. He won't take any precautions, won't allow bodyguards, rides around in an open car.... There's no way to stop them, but I don't want my brother involved, my name, my father's name - "
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.
"But if Kaspar's already in with them ... ? "
Christoph shook his head. "I don't think they've told him. Wouldn't be safe. He talks too much, he drinks too much, he's too emotional and too young. They're using him. They want a quiet place to keep their men, a quiet place to hide their car.... Do you know that Rathenau's house is only a few blocks from ours? My guess is that Kaspar's been told they have a secret mission, sealed instructions or something like that. These are navy people and navy people are always giving orders to be opened at sea- you understand what I mean? So I must get him out. Before it is too late."
"By force?"
"Yes, certainly. There would be no other way."
"You mean kidnap him or something?"
"Yes, something, but I don't know exactly what. I need your help, you see. Now we have destroyed their car, they will have to find another. It's not so easy to find a big fast car, and very expensive. They will be busy, and it is the last moment to get Kaspar away from them. Will you help? It may be dangerous."
What could I say? The birds were singing as we walked out of the woods, but among the shuttered suburban villas in front of us the street lights were still on.
I had agreed to meet Christoph in a restaurant called Lutter, across the street from the Gendarmenmarkt and just around the corner from his office. The place was very dark and very old and very crowded. It smelled of wine and sauerkraut and sausages. Christoph had already secured a corner table, where he was sitting with a man I didn't immediately recognize.
"You remember Hans Kowalski," said Christoph as they rose to greet me. "Our host that noisy evening in the Nollendorf Platz, my companion behind the wire at La Rochelle."
Kowalski remembered me, remembered our efforts to translate Bertolt Brecht's V.D. song into English.
An ancient waiter came. Black jacket and white apron to his ankles. They told me what I should order here. I watched Christoph as he talked with the waiter. He had worked all day Wednesday, spent the evening at the play and the Adlon, the rest of the night with Helena and in the Grunewald, and now he had worked all morning again. He didn't show it. When the waiter left, he turned to me.
"Peter, I took some funds from your account. I told Hans we need his help and that you will treat us to a good lunch here at Lutter's."
Was he going to discuss this in a restaurant? Why weren't we behind one of those double doors at Waldstein & Co? He read my mind. "Don't worry, they're all busy shouting about the stock market, and we will talk quietly. You wonder why Hans is here, and Hans wonders the same thing."
The waiter brought rolls and butter and glasses and a bottle of Rhine wine. The cork was drawn, the wine was poured; we sat and watched the ceremony. The waiter left.
"Gentlemen," said Christoph, "I drink to old comrades."
We lifted our glasses. "To old comrades." The wine was too sweet for me.
"Those years at La Rochelle," said Christoph. "We heard a lot about Kowalski's brilliant brother, the research chemist, the fellow who works to develop substitutes for morphine. Is he still doing that?"
"Yes", said Kowalski, puzzled as I was. His brother was with Bayer they were developing barbiturates, not as addictive as morphine....
"Ellis here wanted to give me morphine at Verdun, when the plane came down, you know, but I was so afraid of morphine I rather let the leg hurt... and it hurt like hell." He looked down at the white tablecloth and spoke very quietly. "Hans, we need some of this stuff your brother makes, we need it right away, and don't ask us why we need it." Then he looked up. "All right?"
They stared at each other.
"It's not for Ellis, and it's not to sell to anybody. The less you know the better. We will pay in dollars, and nobody will find out."
The waiter came with plates of Bismarck herring and sliced cucumbers in sour cream. We began to eat in silence.
I decided to ask a question. "Can these synthetic substances be given by injection? You can inject morphine with a hypodermic needle, but - "
"He understands the problem," said Christoph. "We cannot use pills. Does that mean we must use morphine?"
Kowalski's mouth was full. "No idea. I will try to find out but it won't be easy. My brother is in Leverkusen, that's where their laboratories are."
"Leverkusen?" Christoph didn't like that. "Near Cologne, isn't it? Where the British are? Can you get in."
"I suppose so, but it will take several days to get there and back. If you're in a hurry, there's plenty of morphine right here in Berlin. You know that."
Christoph drank his wine thoughtfully. "I am in a hurry ... but I hate the thought of morphine. I suppose we can wait a couple of days."
The waiter was back, removing the herring, then serving us from huge platters: steaming veal sausages, sauerkraut, boiled potatoes. The glasses were refilled. The waiter withdrew. We ate.
After a long time Kowalski said: "All right."
"You'll go to Leverkusen?"
"You know I owe you something. If I go, will that make us even? "
"Of course."
"Then I have to go, don't I ?" He turned to me. "How much do you need?"
"He doesn't know," said Christoph. "And I don't know either. Your brother will know. Enough to keep a strong young man asleep for - what? Several weeks?"
"Several weeks?" Kowalski shook his head.
"Oh, that can be done," I said. "They did it to me."
All eyes on me. Was that necessary? Am I drunk? "Yes, they really did." I gulped what was left in my glass, feeling my face turning red, feeling the wine seeping into my blood.
"Really asleep?" asked Christoph quietly.
"No. Intermittent sleep, general drowsiness, stupor. Most of the time you really don't know if you're asleep or awake."
"Could you eat? Go to the toilet?"
"They fed me somehow. Sometimes they used bedpans, sometimes they helped me to the can. Had to hold me." I shook my head to make the pictures disappear, and tried to peel one of the sausages with my knife and fork, the way they were doing it.
We finished our plates. The waiter offered more wine, which we declined. A cart loaded with desserts was rolled to the table: fresh strawberries, sliced peaches, raspberry tarts, three different kinds of chocolate cake....I couldn't eat any more, but I saw Kowalski's expression as he looked at the cart and I knew that he wouldn't take anything if we didn't, so I insisted that everybody have dessert.
After the waiter poured the coffee and we were alone again, Kowalski said: "You mentioned payment in dollars?"
Christoph nodded: "They are in my pocket - and will be in yours after we walk around the Gendarmenmarkt. They come from Ellis, needless to say. One hundred dollars, at this morning's rate, that would be thirty thousand marks - but at that price, Hans, we need something else. We need a small bottle of chloroform."
Kowalski finished his raspberry tart and his coffee. When he put down his cup, he asked: "This is political, isn't it?"
"You know I have no politics," said Christoph.
"Might be better for our country if you did," said Kowalski.
Christoph smiled. "Your comrades wouldn't trust me anyway."
And now Kowalski smiled for the first time. "But the Limping Eagle of La Rochelle still trusts in his old comrades. All right, gentlemen, I will try to get what you need." He turned to me. "And
thank you for the best meal I've had in -" He paused to think, then smiled again. "- in years."
"Kaspar showed up while I was having breakfast, and Tillessen was with him."
"I know. Meier telephoned. What did they say to you?"
I told him. We were sitting on an iron bench in the Gendarmenmarkt, just outside the French Church. Christoph had taken off his hat and was stretched back, his eyes closed against the afternoon sun.
"Tillessen suspects you of being an American agent? That could be helpful. These fellows want to destroy the Republic, but they have respect for American power. They may want to stay away from you. We'll see."
We sat in the sunshine a few minutes. Then he said: "I must get back to work. I'm falling asleep. Thank you for the lunch."
"Christoph, why did we have to do that in a restaurant? Why didn't we use one of those rooms in your bank?"
He opened one eye. "Guess."
"You don't want the Waldsteins to know about this?"
"I don't want the Waldsteins in any way involved."
The food and the wine and the sunshine had made me drowsy, but now something in my memory floated loose and rose to the surface. "Tell me about Helena's father."
Christoph sat up straight and rubbed his eyes and looked at me. "Where did you see Helena's father?"
"At Havelblick, at lunch."
"Oh yes. Well, what do you want me to tell you?
"What does he do?"
"What does he do? He expresses opinions." Christoph leaned back again and closed his eyes. He sounded tired now.
"What do you mean by that? What's his job?"
"He has no job, he's a rentier. Lives from income on his investments. As a young man he inherited a weekly journal, quite successful, started by his father, that's Helena's grandfather. Waldstein's Woche. Waldstein's Weekly. But everybody called it Waldstein's Stimme, Waldstein's Voice."
"That was the poet?"
"No, the poet's son. The poet had a literary monthly."
"I'm getting mixed up."
"It doesn't matter, the point is Helena's father owned this excellent highly respected paper, they employed the best writers, they published articles about books and the theatre and politics, it never made a lot of money but it was a voice. You understand? A voice of the educated upper- bourgeoisie, and it gave him - and in a way the whole family - a certain position in the town ..., no, in the whole country, really. People read it - I mean they still read it - in Hamburg, in Hanover, in Munich, in the universities -
"It still exists?"
"Oh certainly, doing better than ever. But it doesn't belong to the Waldsteins, because Helena's father sold it to the Ullstein chain - you know of them? They are also Jews. They own a lot of newspapers and magazines, they publish books - of course they kept the name but everybody calls Ullstein's Voice now!"
"Why did he sell it?"
"Well, why? Good question. Because he wanted money, I think. His father, his grandfather, they had this name, this famous name, but they never had money like their cousins in the Bank, you see. No Schloss on the Havel, no titles, no places in hussar regiments - and I think as a young man Helena's father didn't like that. The poor relation, the guest at the party. Always invited, of course, but always the guest. So the Ullsteins come along, they want some prestige for their empire, they offer him so much money that he will be rich for the rest of his life ... but it was probably the wrong thing. Even if he could marry his daughter to a prince. If Helena had a son, he would be the grandfather of a prince. But Helena had no son, her prince is killed in the first weeks of the War, and then the Austrians not only lose the War but abolish their nobility. So Helena's father is just another rich old man. He reads a lot and thinks a lot and talks a lot - but nobody pays any attention to him. No voice. And now the banking cousins produce Alfred: famous writer, Kleist Prize, translations into French and English.... Helena's father isn't happy."
"He doesn't like Walther Rathenau," I said.
"No, he doesn't. They are exactly the same age, same schools, very similar backgrounds, both inherited their businesses from their fathers - but Rathenau is the foreign minister while Helena's father gives lectures at family dinners."
"He thinks Rathenau wants to die."
"He said that to you?"
I told him what I had heard.
Christoph nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. He could be right. You see why it is useless..." He began again. "You see why the best that I can do is rescue my brother? Or try to."
Above us, church bells began to ring. Christoph stood up, adjusted his jacket and his necktie, cocked his hat at a faintly hussar-like angle and picked up his cane.
"Tell Meier we will have a light supper, just an omelet or something. I think we better sleep tonight." He saluted casually with the cane and went limping across the square.
first pages of book
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