SMALL CHANGE
It rained so hard the day I left,
The weather it was dry,
The sun so hot I froze to death,
Susannah, don't you cry!
It was raining and I did feel like crying, but I don't suppose the legless musician knew the words he was playing on his accordion. He was sitting in a doorway, protected from the rain, his leather-covered stumps supporting the accordion, and he was only playing an American song for a passing American. Instead of a tin cup he had an open suitcase, in which a rusty horseshoe was keeping a little mountain of bills from blowing away, and I hardly knew what I should give him.
"Please sir, amerikanische Münzen?" he croaked as he saw me hesitate, and when I found a couple of copper pennies to throw into the suitcase, he dropped the accordion in his haste to fish them out.
I don't remember where this was - somewhere in the financial district, the Jägerstrasse or the Behrenstrasse. I was walking aimlessly through the rain, numb, furious, hating myself, feeling that I had to talk to somebody.
I walked for hours. I must have walked all over Berlin. In front of every grocery store, in front of every butcher shop, in front of every bakery, I saw long lines of weary rain-soaked people - mostly women - but at the time I was too absorbed in my own problems to wonder why.
They tell you that you shouldn't drink when you feel depressed.
They tell you that, you know they're right, but you do it anyway. The rain was pouring down, I wanted a drink, so eventually I walked down the steps of a Bierkeller.
I wish I hadn't done that.
The place was big and dark and smoky and crowded, a real cellar with stone walls and a slimy tiled floor. It reeked of beer and wet clothing. I found a place at the bar and ordered "einen Klaren" -just a shot of clear, colorless schnapps. I carefully counted out six hundred marks while the burly bartender stared at me in what seemed an unusually hostile manner. I drank the shot, felt the warmth, felt a little better, ordered another- and only then became conscious of some kind of commotion going on at the back of the cellar, shouts and laughter, shrieks, people pushing and shoving to watch something - so I asked the bartender what was going on.
"Some of your countrymen having fun," he said through his teeth. I paid for the second drink, drank it, and pushed my way deeper into the cellar.
This was not a night crowd. These were bank cashiers, secretaries, telephone operators, sales clerks from the big department stores - people going home from work - and they were saying things like "Unverschämt!" and "Schweinerei!" while standing on tiptoe and even climbing on chairs to watch whatever was going on.
Of course I should have walked out, but I was curious and maybe a little relieved to have my thoughts distracted, so I shoved forward and suddenly saw a completely naked woman crawling around on the floor, a heavy middle-aged woman with shaking white buttocks, crawling around on her hands and knees, picking coins off the dirty wet tiles.
Two men were leaning back against the bar, watching the woman on the floor. The others had moved away from them. They wore hats and raincoats, celluloid collars, tiepins, cufflinks, watch chains stretched across their vests ... a couple of middle aged traveling salesmen. The one with heavy horn-rimmed glasses was showing a handful of coins - American small change.
The other one was tugging at his sleeve. "Come on, Charlie, that's enough now, let's get the hell out here!"
"Leave me alone, for Christ's sake," said Charlie, brushing the hand off. 'Okay, girls, who's next?"
In the meantime the naked woman was back on her feet, pushing herself into the crowd which surrounded her as she struggled back into her clothes.
"I want to see a bunch of them at once," said Charlie to the fat barmaid who was pouring his drink. "How much you think that'll take?" He was talking English, but she seemed to understand, because she clapped her hands and shouted into the crowd: "All right, ladies, this time there is a chance for everybody. He's going to throw five dollars!"
There was a gasp from the crowd. She reached across the bar and took some coins from Charlie's hand. "This one is twenty-five cents, one quarter of one dollar, seven thousand five hundred marks! This little silver one is ten cents, one tenth of a dollar, three thousand marks! This one with the Indian on one side and the buffalo on the other side, five cents, one thousand five hundred marks! And these copper pennies, they are only three hundred marks, good for one beer. But remember, you are not allowed to pick them up if you have one stitch of clothes on!"
The bartender who served me was beside her now. "Are you completely crazy? That's more money than we make in a week! You're going to cause a riot with this Schweinerei, the cops will come -"
"You shut your mouth," the barmaid said, her face glistening with sweat and excitement. "For that much money I might just strip myself!" and the American reached across the bar and pressed all of the change into her large red palm.
"Here you go, sweetheart. You toss 'em for me."
The barmaid grinned and held the fistful of change The armpit of her dress was black with sweat.
"Eins!" she shouted, her huge breasts rising.
"Wait a minute!" I said it in English and the Americans looked at me, but it was too late, because all through the crowd secretaries and telephone operators and salesgirls who worked all week long for the equivalent of one buffalo nickel were pulling their dresses over their heads, kicking off their shoes, rolling down their stockings ...
"Zwei!"
What was I supposed to do? What could I do?
"Drei!" A shower of American coins flew across the room, rattled off the walls, hit the tiles and rolled all over the cellar, as a dozen naked women -- old ones, young ones, fat ones, thin ones - began to scramble about on the slippery floor, picking up the coins with their fingernails, shoving each other out of the way, crawling under the tables, crawling between the legs of the watching men. . . .
The watching men. I watched the watching men, knowing that somebody would pay for this, someday; knowing that it wouldn't be two salesmen from Chicago - or wherever they were from. It may sound erotic but it wasn't erotic at all. It was a nightmare, a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
I guess I could have done something, but I didn't.
I didn't do anything at all. I put up my coat collar and walked up the steps into the rain.
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