Germans take Christmas seriously, and they celebrate on Christmas Eve, which created a problem for me: I couldn't be in three places at the same time. I worried about that for several weeks, which demonstrates how insulated I was.
For most Germans, the Christmas of 1922 was turning into a nightmare. By the middle of December one dollar was worth more than 7,000 marks -and a pound of butter that had cost 800 marks in November now cost 2,000 marks.
When I went shopping I had to pick up money at Waldstein & Co. The cashier's messenger came into the little consultation room carrying a maroon tin box, and the wad of bills he put on the table had to be divided into separate bundles, which I then distributed among the pockets of my suit and my new double-breasted overcoat.
It was snowing. The faces in the streets looked cold and gray and worried. The word Ruhr! was a scream in the headlines of every newspaper, every day. The French announced that if the Germans did not catch up in their deliveries of coal and steel and telephone poles, the French army would move into the region of Essen, Duisburg, Gelsenkirchen, Mülheim, Bochum, Dortmund - the smoke-blackened cities, the valleys of factories and coal mines and steel mills: Ruhrgebiet, industrial heart of Germany.
Those were the headlines. Inside, the newspapers were filled with offers to purchase gold and jewelry, wedding rings, engagement rings. . . . "Unbelievable Prices!"
And yet the stores were filled with people buying things. At the Kaufhaus des Westens, the huge department store, business was frantic; people streamed through the revolving doors from the Wittenbergplatz, jammed the aisles, packed into the elevators, pushed and shoved each other to admire the displays: jewelry and evening gowns and linen, glass from Bohemia and porcelain from Saxony, beautiful books, toy trains pulled by real steam locomotives, armies of lead soldiers arranged in battle scenes from more successful wars.... While some people had to sell their wedding rings to eat, other people - people like me, people with the resources to speculate, Americans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Belgians, people from eastern Europe whose nationalities I could not distinguish - all of these and many Germans seemed to be loaded with paper marks, spending them as fast as possible, converting them into Christmas presents that would cost much more tomorrow than they cost today.
I bought: a brown cashmere cardigan for Frau Keith; a leather handbag for Frau Meier; an identical handbag for Mutti Bauer; and a tiny gold wrist watch for Lili. The only problem was Bärbel versus Baby. Should I give both of them the same present? If I didn't, then whatever I gave one would seem better to the other.
Clutching my packages I allowed myself to be swept along in the crowds as I pondered my special puzzles. There was a giant Christmas tree in the central hall of the Kaufhaus des Westens. In front of the tree a chorus of children sang carols.
It was harder to see Lili in the winter. She lived with her parents in the mansion at No. 4, Pariser Platz. On weekdays she was driven to school in the Horch. After school she was either picked up in the Horch or she went to visit one of her classmates. On Saturdays she went riding in the Tiergarten - always with a group of girls under the supervision of a bony, sullen young woman from the Baltic, a war widow who supported herself by giving riding lessons. In the evenings Lili went to dancing classes - or to parties.
"Couldn't I rent a horse and ride along with them?" I asked Helena.
"Rent a horse?" Helena wrinkled her beautiful nose. "I've never heard of anyone renting a horse. Sounds unsafe. But in any event they wouldn't allow it. What if every young man wanted to ride along? Where would it end?" Helena giggled. We were drinking martinis in her apartment, waiting for Christoph to come over from the Bank.
"Helena, you've got to help me see her. I mean, be alone with her. I can't stand this. The only time I can see her is Sundays at tea, with everybody sitting around that huge salon talking about whether the French will really move into the Ruhr -"
Helena produced a cigarette. I lighted it for her. She glanced at me through the smoke. "Why, if I may ask, should I encourage you to see my cousin alone, Mr. Ellis?"
"What? "
"I think you heard my question."
"But I don't understand it!"
Her eyebrows went up. "Really not?"
"No, I really don't. You know I'm crazy about Lili."
"And what does that mean?"
"What does it mean?"
"Mmmm." She blew out another cloud of smoke and gazed at some spot above my right shoulder. "What are your intentions for Lili, Peter?"
"Well! My intentions? . .." I guess the only word is "spluttered." I spluttered, reached for my glass, finished the martini and announced: "My intentions toward Lili are honorable!"
"Honorable ... How nice. In English, in American, that means you wish to marry her?"
Up to now I had avoided it. I considered squirming sideways: was this really Helena's business? But I couldn't squirm in front of Helena.
"Yes," I said.
"Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." And then, suddenly, I was.
Helena nodded. "Will you pour me another drink? ... Thank you. I met Professor Liebermann at a tea the other day. He lives in the Pariser Platz also, you know. And he is a charming old man, very much still interested in the ladies. And he took me aside. 'What is the name of Leutnant Keith's American friend?' and I told him. And he nodded, very amused. And he told me that he sent a student, former student of his, very modern artist, very political, he said he sent this student to give this American lessons because he knew the artist needed money badly, but now this American - meaning you, of course - is producing pictures quite the opposite extreme of his teacher - and Professor Liebermann looked so amused. And he gave me the name of a gallery - Joseph Ansbach in the Potsdamer Strasse?"
Helena's eyes twinkled over the edge of her glass. I knew what was coming so I said, "Did you like them? " and I heard that my voice sounded defensive.
"The pictures ... or the girls? The pictures are - well, not exactly modern, are they? Almost photographically accurate, one can almost smell the perfume, and they show tremendous skill, Peter. Tremendous skill! But they are so realistic that I don't think ... I don't think I would want them in my living room, not those two girls, I think. Though many other people apparently do want them, according to Herr Ansbach."
"You don't like my pictures?"
"Oh Peter, it's not a question of liking your pictures. You are obviously going to be a successful painter, you paint a woman's face, a woman's body exactly as she would like it to look -but we are talking of your life. And your interest in Lili."
"What have my pictures got to do with Lili?"
"Peter!" Helena slapped her hands, exasperated, and leaned toward me. "Look, dear boy, everybody knows that painters sometimes sleep with their models, but must you make it so obvious? This study of the two girls on the bed, the hazy feeling, the sleepiness, the softness ... everybody, Professor Liebermann, me, everybody who sees that picture knows you have just made love to them, both of them, it positively screams it! And what do you think Lili's mother will say, or her father?"
That had not occurred to me. "You think I should paint some different way? "
"No, my dear, of course not. A painter paints what he feels, your paintings show what you feel. But where does that leave my little cousin Lili?"
I thought about that. "Maybe I should paint Lili," I said, and then the doorbell rang.
One third of my Christmas Eve problem resolved itself, rather sadly, just before dawn on December 24. I woke up hearing shouts, hearing the doorbell ring several times, hearing doors slam, hearing people in heavy boots running around the house. My first thought was that Kaspar and his friends had returned. I put on my bathrobe, transferred my little Smith & Wesson revolver from the bedside table into my bathrobe pocket, and peeked into the hall. I felt a cold draft. The front door was open. I walked to the top of the stairs, just in time to see two soldiers wearing Red Cross armbands and forage caps carrying a stretcher out the door, followed by Christoph and his mother and Dr. Goldschmidt.
Meier closed the door as I came down the stairs. "Herr General collapsed in his bathroom this morning. Dr. Goldschmidt came immediately and diagnosed a heart attack. He is being taken to the military hospital in Potsdam." Meter looked pretty sick himself, but he served my coffee, and about an hour later Christoph telephoned: His father's condition was stable, his mother insisted on spending Christmas Eve at his side, Helena had now arranged for Christoph to be at the Waldstein's big family celebration - to which I had already been asked by Lili. We were to present ourselves at six, in evening dress.
At four I was still down in Neukölln, not in evening dress and not quite sober.
Falke and I had picked up a little Christmas tree at an outdoor stand in the frozen slush of the Hermannplatz. I paid 1,500 marks for the tree and bought six candles for 100 marks each.
The square was cold, the square was dark, the square became crowded as tired men and women stepped off the trolley cars. Sullen anger, threadbare clothes, the smell of hunger, of unwashed bodies, of cheap alcohol ...Falke was drunk. He tried to help me carry the tree, but he kept stumbling and bumping into people who turned and cursed at us, so finally I just slung the tree over my shoulder and tried to keep out of his way.
As we started up the endless flights of cement stairs, Falke tried to help me again. At each landing, children came out of the doors and looked silently at our tree. Falke began to sing, his voice echoing up the icy stairwell:
0 du fröhliche
0 du seelige,
Gnadenbringende
Weihnachtszeit!
Baby yelled, "Hurrah, ein Welhnachtsbaum!" and kissed me on the mouth. Behind her was little Ferdi in his shorts and his ragged sweater. My God, I had forgotten to get a present for Ferdi! What should I do? There wasn't time to go out again.
The kitchen was full and warm and smelled wonderful: I had given the girls enough money to procure a goose - I didn't ask how or where -and Mutti Bauer was cooking and there was a lot of noise as the girls shouted and Falke continued to sing. Mutti Bauer's face was beet red but I couldn't tell if it was from the heat of the stove, because her eyes were red too.
Bärbel kissed my ear. "The neighbors smell the goose, you see, and they have been making remarks all morning. Mutti's running a Puff, they're going to call the police! Can't we move out of this stinking monkey house? Why don't you buy us a cottage, in Schöneberg or Wilmersdorf? You wouldn't have to climb those god-damned stairs, and we wouldn't have this jealous bitching all the time. . . ." She leaned against my back and put her arms around me.
Falke took a bottle of schnapps from the closet. His hands shook as he filled the little glasses on the table. Over my shoulder Bärbel watched, her hair brushing my cheek, and he knew she was watching. I moved away and helped the boy, who had filled a bucket of water. We put the tree into the bucket, and Baby attached the candles with long hatpins.
"Do you want the tree in the studio?" I asked.
"No!" they all shouted. "It's freezing in there. Christmas in the kitchen," said Falke, handing around the glasses.
Mutti Bauer lifted the lid of the heavy roaster and poked the goose. "Another hour," she said, turning her glistening face to me. "You will stay to eat some of your goose?"
"What do you mean?" asked Baby, who was lighting the candles on the tree. "Of course he'll stay."
Falke raised his glass. "Meine Damen und Herren, a toast!" He was swaying slightly. "I suspect that my hardworking pupil is awaited at another feast- a Christmas carp on the Pariser Platz? and so I ask that we lift our glasses to thank him for what he has done here and wish him FröhlicheWelhnachten!"
They raised their glasses, even the boy.
Was I supposed to drink to that? And how exactly did he mean it? I wondered, picking up the little glass of clear liquid after all, looking around into their eyes, looking particularly at Falke's ironic expression, trying to fathom his feelings.... They drank, I drank, the schnapps burned, we put our glasses down - and Falke immediately refilled them - all but the boy's.
"Well, thank you very much," I began. " I want to thank you for all you've done for me -" We stood so close together in the tiny kitchen, it was warm, the candles were reflected in Bärbel's eyes but it was Baby's hand that crept into mine. . . . "I want to wish you a Merry Christmas, and I've brought a few things ..."
I was so late that I had to take a taxi back to the Villa Keith. My head was full of schnapps, and my conscience hurt. Why couldn't I have stayed with them? They needed me, and the Waldsteins didn't.
They liked my presents. At the last second I remembered the fat black Mont Blanc fountain pen I'd just bought. myself, so I pulled that out and presented it to the boy, who gasped, held it reverently in both hands, and sat right down in the corner to try it out.
Mutti Bauer seemed overwhelmed by the handbag, she burst into tears again, while Bärbel and Baby tore away at the elaborate wrappings the people at Waldstein & Co. had contrived for me. At my wit's end, I had finally decided to give them money so that they could buy whatever they wanted - but money in slightly romantic form, so I persuaded Waldstein's cashier to find me some rare items - a couple of five-dollar gold pieces.
Now each girl stared at the coin in her palm while I made my little speech: 'just couldn't think what you might like ... pick out whatever you want ... may be a good to hang on to these for a little while....
They both kissed me and thanked me profusely, but there was something odd in the way they reacted. Both of them. Was it the fact that I gave them money - as of that morning each coin was worth about 40,000 marks- or was it something else?
Falke had poured the third round. Now he said: "We have something for you, too," and disappeared into the bedroom. Instantly both girls pressed against me and slipped their coins into the pockets of my jacket. Mutti Bauer watched, then turned away to busy herself at the stove.
"Please keep them for us," whispered Bärbel. "Otherwise he'll take them the minute you're gone."
"Do you really have to go?" Baby looked frightened. "He's acting nice while you're here but underneath he's in a rotten mood, he'll kick the shit out of us -"
"Not out of me, he won't," said Bärbel. "I'm going to eat some of that goose, but after that I'll do my celebrating on the Friedrichstrasse!
"You're going to leave me and Mutti up here to get our asses whipped all evening?" asked Baby, but then Falke returned to the kitchen, and with a bow he handed me a parcel.
I removed the paper and looked into my own eyes: a framed charcoal sketch, done in Falke's inimitable cartoon style, very carefully done with much attention to detail, certainly not flattering but also not as bitter as it might have been (should have been?), the picture of a rather conventional-looking young man in a striped suit, white shirt, dark necktie, neatly combed hair, suggestions of money in the clothes and lechery around the eyes ... but the inscription said it all: The American as Paris in Berlin. Falke. Christmas '22. It was a damned good picture. (I still have it. It is not over my mantelpiece, but I have it.)
The women didn't understand the reference to Paris. I understood it. "You should have drawn in Venus and the other two," I said as I thanked him. "Who were the other two anyway?"
"Well, you have already drawn the other two, I think."
We laughed. The girls looked at us, puzzled. Mutti Bauer poked the goose. I consulted my watch.
"Listen, Fritz, it was stupid of me to think the girls could carry those coins around, down here. Somebody will knock them over the head, or break in.... I'm going to lock them up in my vault, they can get them whenever they want them, of course, or we can have the Bank change them into single dollars, but I don't think they should carry them
around "-Falke said nothing as I babbled. He looked into his glass, poured the contents into his mouth, swallowed, grimaced - and then turned his face toward the ceiling, bellowing:
Stille Nacht,
Heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft,
Einsam wacht ...
I had to go. I kissed all three women, shook hands with the boy, and asked Falke to step into the hall for just a moment. He followed me out and leaned against the dirty plaster wall. He looked at me, waiting. I could hardly see him in the gloom. I didn't know what to say before I said it.
"I really do appreciate this picture, and I thank you very much." "Bitte, bitte," mumbled Falke.
"You've been a wonderful teacher."
He shook his head. "You don't need a teacher. But I need the money."
"No, I do need a teacher, Fritz, and I want to go on with you. But if there's any trouble here tonight, I'm not coming back. Is that clear?"
"What do you mean? " Were his eyes turning yellow? It was too dark to be sure.
"You know what I mean. I don't want to go, I want to stay here, it's just that I've got to go. But if there's any trouble - and you know I'll hear about it - then I'll rent my own studio, you won't see me again."
Falke bit his lip and looked down at the cement floor. He should have thrown me down the stairs , but all he did was shrug and turn around and walk back into the apartment.
I paid the driver with a handful of 100-mark bills, ran up the
walkway, slipped on the ice, and fell flat on my face. As I struggled to my feet, the door opened and in the bright light stood Christoph Keith and Meier. For a second they just stared at me, then they both came forward.
"My God, man, what's happened to you?" asked Christoph.
"Nothing happened, I slipped on the ice, I'm perfectly all right -"
"You've got blood all over your face."
"Herr Oberleutnant, please! " Christoph was immaculately dressed: white tie and tails and medals. Meier, who didn't want my blood to spoil the effect, pushed himself between us and tried to help me into the house, but somehow his feet got in front of mine, and I fell down again.
"Draw a bath for Mr. Ellis," said Christoph. "A cold bath."
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