The whole thing was Keith's idea. It came to him about one o'clock in the morning, at a table on the sidewalk in front of the blazing lights of the Cafe du Dome in Montparnasse.
The meeting at the Ritz Bar only lasted one round; it was destroyed by centrifugal force. George Graham and the French lawyer and Robert von Waldstein all seemed embarrassed by the reunion scene and by Christoph Keith's account of how I had pulled him out of his burning airplane. George Graham and the lawyer wanted to discuss their case; I was staring at Keith, still finding it hard to believe that this was coincidence; and Robert von Waldstein apparently had a late date somewhere. He explained that while Germans could not afford to stay at the Ritz in these times, he just wanted to see the place because his father had never used any other hotel in Paris. George Graham asked if there was a connection with Waldstein & Co, the private bank in Berlin. Smiles. Of course there was a connection. Waldstein's ancestor founded the bank, both he and Keith were here on the Bank's business.
I had never heard the name, but I could see that George Graham was impressed.
"Doesn't your bank go back to the eighteenth century?" he asked.
"Seventeen-ninety, I believe, is the official date."
"Always in your family? That's really something to be proud of," said George Graham. "And now you are carrying on the tradition, Baron?"
Another smile - a somewhat enigmatic smile, I thought. "I try to carry on, Mr. Graham, but some people believe I will need a lot of help."
"I think you may be late for your appointment," said Christoph Keith, looking at his watch and standing up. "Maitre Delage, we thank you for your hospitality and will report to your chambers at ten tomorrow. Mr.Graham, a pleasure, sir ... If you visit Berlin . . ."
I stood up with them. "Looks like I will show one German banker the town after all," I said to George Graham as we shook hands. "Give my love to Mother and Dad."
'You do that, Peter. And put this in your pocket." He handed me a crisp white envelope.
Keith limped, but he didn't want to take a taxi. As we walked slowly through the summer night, we told each other our stories. I told him about my crack-up and how my family put me into Friends Hospital and how the doctors had gradually got me so I could function again.
He told me about his years in French hospitals and prison camps, his return to Berlin in the midst of a revolution, how he began to study law- and how he stopped.
"There was no money anymore. My parents are living on a pension, one brother was killed in Rumania, my youngest brother has no job because he is not trained for anything except a soldier -. we simply had no money, and the Waldsteins gave me a job with their bank."
"Do you know anything about banking?"
"No, but I am learning, trying to learn what I can. They have what you call an apprentice system: you work with older men, you are sort of an assistant, carry papers around, attend meetings, listen to what is said-"
"Are you Robert von Waldstein's assistant?"
Keith laughed. "No, not quite! That is a different problem - and really the reason they gave me this job. Bobby is a wonderful fellow. Generous, polite, loves music and good wine and beautiful women - but banking? Well, he is not so much interested in banking. You have really never heard of the Waldsteins? It is quite a story - a long story. Tell you some other time. The problem now is who will continue in the bank when the old men die, the father and the uncle. Bobby had two brothers. Alfred is the oldest. You have not heard of him? He was in my regiment, he was in Poland and Rumania with the horses, he wrote stories about it, they were published, then he wrote a novel, Licht Aus! It was about the end of the war and the German revolution, it made a big success, so now he has become a famous writer, he is writing another book, he is married to a most beautiful girl - and of course he does not go to the Gendarmenmarkt, to Waldstein and Co. There was another brother, Max, he did what I did, transferred to the aeroplanes, only he was not so lucky. Shot down by the Canadians, I think in 'seventeen. That leaves only Bobby, who was too young for the war. So my job - a part of my job - is to look after Bobby, try to make him learn the business, anyway try to keep him out of trouble. They know me, they know my family, they think I am a good influence. Shall we sit down here and have a drink? "
We were on the Left Bank now, walking up one of the streets from the river to the lights and the traffic on the Boulevard St.Germain. Despite the hour, a lot of people were still sitting in the sidewalk cafes. We settled down in the wicker chairs by a marble table and ordered Calvados. The streetlights shone through the leaves above us.
Keith seemed to think it was my turn again. He lighted a cigarette and sat back to listen, so I told what had just happened to me.
I finished my story just as he finished his drink.
"Shall we look at Montparnasse now?"
"That's another long walk," I said. "Let's take a taxi."
"No, it's good for me. We will walk slowly, and drink a glass at every corner."
That's what we did. We drank our way from St.-Germain-des-Pres to Montparnasse and got talked to by lots of women - some very pretty, all very polite.
"Pas d'argent, mamselle," said Keith to each and every one of them, smiling and tipping his hat, and by the time we settled down in front of the Cafe du Dome he was moved to exclaim "My God, some of them look tempting, don't they? I can see why you don't want to leave."
"No, that's not the reason I don't want to leave."
"An American in Paris and you don't have a girl?"
"No girl."
He started to ask why, but checked himself and squashed his cigarette with great deliberation into the Cinzano ashtray. He continued to stare at the ashtray for a moment, and then he looked into my face. "I would like to ask a question, but it is not a question one asks here in Europe.... Still, I will ask it: How much money did Mr. Graham give you to settle your affairs and go home? "
"Well, let's take a look." I drew the envelope out of my inside pocket, tore it open, removed a pink check drawn on The Provident Trust Company and slid it across the table. Christoph Keith twirled it around without picking it up, looked at it, looked up again.
"You owe a lot of money here?"
"No, I think just the rent for next month."
"All the rest of this is clear?"
I nodded.
"Come to Germany," said Keith.
"To Germany? "
"My friend, in Germany we have an inflation. You know what that means? The money is worth less and less, I mean our German mark, it buys less and less every day. You know what an American dollar was worth today -I mean this afternoon when the banks closed? About two hundred marks -so one of our marks is one-half of an American penny! And it is getting worse, they still have not decided how much Germany is to pay in reparations to the Allies, every day the mark drops more, and for this check you can live in Germany - well, very comfortably."
"How long?"
He shrugged. "Depends. How well do you want to live? How bad does the inflation get? Do you speculate in foreign currencies? Do you speculate in the stock market? Some men have become millionaires with fewer dollars than are in this check."
"I just want to learn to be a painter."
"We have very good painters in Germany, and most of them are hungry, I can tell you that. If you live quietly, take private lessons. . ." He drank some Calvados, apparently doing numbers in his head. "On this check you can stay in Germany a year." He paused again and gazed across the Boulevard Raspail. There was much less traffic now, and most of the tables around us were empty. "It's quite strange, isn't it? We sit here and I give you personal advice like an old friend, when we really have only known each other - how long, perhaps two hours - five years ago! "
I felt the same way. Was I drunk? I should have been, but I wasn't. Who is Christoph Keith, this stranger, this German officer, to set me against my old man? My old man, who is so disappointed in me already. I thought about the house on Washington Lane and I thought about the faces of my mother and my father when they first came to see me in the hospital. (I never did get to paint the faces of my parents. Years later Grant Wood - who never laid eyes on them - did a picture he called American Gothic and there were my parents, dressed as an Iowa farm couple, with my father holding a pitchfork!)
I didn't want to go back to Philadelphia- I didn't want to go back to college. I didn't want to go back to Drexel & Co. Here was the solution. Do you live life for yourself or for your parents? And is Christoph Keith a stranger? I saved his life. No, you didn't. Yes, I did, he'd never have gotten out by himself, he'd be underground five years by now. But it's stealing money, isn't it? They sent the money to get you home and now you're going to use it to live in Germany. They're going to be furious; well, anyway the old man. Ma will be "disappointed" . What they'll really think is that I've cracked again. Might they send somebody after me? No, they'll do nothing and say nothing. What do I do when the money is spent?
"You don't have to decide tonight," said Keith, after he finished his Calvados. "I'm afraid our inflation will not go away so soon."
"I have decided, Christoph. I think it's a good idea, a chance worth taking. Now how do I go about it?"
"Fabelhaft!" Keith slammed his hand on the table so hard that the saucers jumped. "We are going home on Friday. Is that too soon for you? It's much better you come with us, we will find you the right place to stay. And don't leave your dollars here in Paris, we don't know what the French are going to do, they are being very difficult about everything, you transfer your dollars to Amsterdam, we have an affiliate there and it will work much better. If you have any difficulty with your concierge, I will ask Maitre Delage to take care of it. We will get you a ticket in the same compartment. And now I must go back to the hotel because we have a meeting in the morning - No, no, I'll pay the bill, you are the client, I have just acquired my first dollar account for Waldstein and Co.!"
On Saturday morning I arrived at the Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse in Berlin,with Christoph Keith and Bobby von Waldstein.
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