Maybe it was the weather, but after Paris Berlin felt damp and gray and dirty. The huge station and the square outside were crowded with gray people, some of them rushing from the trains, others just standing around. Beggars were everywhere: men with only one leg supported by crutches, men with no legs sitting on blankets, blind men with black glasses - most of them wearing pieces of their gray uniforms, all of them wearing medals. The streets seemed crowded with cars. Paris had smelled of coffee and strong cigarettes; Berlin smelled of gasoline.
Christoph Keith and Bobby von Waldstein were both rather quiet this morning. We had consumed a bottle of Cognac in our compartment the previous evening, but I didn't think they were hung over. Looking out of the taxi windows, they showed me a few sights - the Landwehr Canal, the Tiergarten... but they seemed depressed to be home, and my thoughts were elsewhere, because the German voices, suddenly and for the first time all around me, brought back the first German voice I ever heard, brought it back so vividly that her lips might have been beside my ear....
We dropped Bobby in front of an elegant old apartment house, promised that Christoph would bring me out to the Waldsteins' country place on Sunday, and drove into the suburbs, old villas along tree-lined streets.
The taxi stopped in front of a dignified house - ivy over faded yellowish stucco - that looked much like the others on this street. The driver carried our luggage to the door, which was opened by an old man in a green apron.
"Herzlich willkommen, Herr Oberleutnant!"
This was Meier, the General's batman since the General had been a lieutenant himself. I had heard of Meier before. He bowed politely to me and took charge of the luggage. Christoph led me through a dark paneled hallway, hung with antlers and sabers and rifles and old flags and old framed photographs of groups of men on horseback.
The retired Generalmajor and his wife were having coffee and rolls in the dining room. They were of course expecting us, and again I heard myself introduced in what became Christoph's standard explanation of who I was: "Er hat mich bei Verdun aus der brennenden Maschine gezogen!"
I had not been warned about the General. He had a fine head of snow-white hair and a handsome moustache of the same color and he wore a navy-blue suit with a wing collar, but he sat in a wheelchair and nodded his head without stopping and his wife had just removed a large white napkin from around his neck. I could see the crumbs and coffee stains as she quickly folded it, and stood up to shake hands with me.
She looked younger - tall and bony, with pale freckled skin and the same features as Christoph. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a severe bun. She seemed pleased to meet me, bur her English was not as good as Christoph's. Haltingly, I tried a few words of German. We joined them at the table.
What do you say to a guest who has pulled your son out of a burning airplane? Frau Keith asked polite questions about my parents. Did I have my brothers or sisters My father was a doctor? What kind of doctor? Nobody could think of the German word for surgeon. I demonstrated, using a silver butter knife to slice open my stomach. Ach, ein Chirurg. And so it went.
Frau Keith then began to talk rapidly to Christoph. I under stood most of it, but she told him to translate - Herr General and she wished me to be a guest in their house, for as long as I wanted to stay. She knew I would be more comfortable at a hotel, but on the other hand there were advantages to life in a private home. It was not a large house, but they had an extra room, because they had lost a son in Rumania.
The General nodded emphatically and got out a few words: "Rumänien... gefallen!"
I was ready for the invitation. On the trip from Paris, Bobby von Waldstein and I were alone for a few minutes while Christoph went to the toilet. I was trying to sketch Bobby's movie star face in my notebook, we were talking, about Goya, but the moment Christoph was gone, Bobby changed the subject:
"Peter, the Keiths will ask you to live with them. They have an extra room because their middle son was killed. Now listen carefully: You will have plenty of money in Berlin because you have dollars, so you can stay at the best hotels, do whatever you like. But if you decide to stay at the Keiths', I must tell you that they have very little money. He is a retired general, living from a pension, and with the inflation that pension gets less every day. The mother also has some income, her father's estate or something, but it's not so very much. They still keep servants, the General's old batman and the batman's wife. Their name is Meier. I have no idea what they are paid, if anything, but they have meals and a roof over their head."
I had stopped sketching, amazed. Bobby the smiling, carefree playboy suddenly sounded like a different person.
"If you stay with the Keiths and give them just a few dollars a week, it will make all the difference in the world to them. A few dollars in Berlin is like a few hundred dollars in America. But of course they won't take it. They won't take it from a guest. So what you do -" Bobby grasped my knee and leaned forward intently. "You put a few dollars in an envelope each week and you give it to Meier. When you are alone with him."
"Will he take it?" I asked.
"Yes. He will take it and he will buy food and wine and things for the house."
"How much should I give him?"
"Can you give him five dollars?"
'Five dollars a week?"
"You can do that?"
"Certainly."
"All right, you do that the first week - and I will tell you if you should give more or less."
I wanted to ask him what if the Keiths wouldn't find out I was paying their butler - but the door slid open and Christoph stepped back into the compartment.
Now, in the sunny dining room, I told Christoph's mother that I would be delighted to stay in their house until I could come to know the city and to find my own place, I told her I had lived alone in Paris, and had not liked it.. . and then I heard somebody else come in. I turned, and rose to be introduced to a blonder, thinner, shorter, much younger version of Christoph, wearing a military-looking trench coat that was too big for him.
"This is my little brother Kaspar ... Mr. Peter Ellis aus Amerika."
Kaspar Keith grabbed my hand firmly, bowed, clicked his heels. He didn't smile.
"B-B-B-Bild," said the General, quite clearly. "Bild!"
Kaspar left the dining room and came back a moment later, still wearing the creaking trench coat, holding in his hands a small framed picture, which he handed me: my sketch of Christoph, face blackened by fire, one leg tied with a bloody tourniquet, leaning his head against the left front wheel of my ambulance - Verdun 1916 - I had scribbled in the corner before I tore the sheet out of my notebook.
They were all watching me. I didn't know what to say. I handed the picture back to Kaspar. "Thank you very much. That was a long time ago."
Christoph announced that he would have to go to the office but he wanted to show me my room. The General continued to nod, watching. Frau Keith again shook hands. Kaspar apparently wanted to talk to his brother; he followed us up the carpeted stairs.
When they opened the door to the bedroom at the end of the hall, I sensed that it had just been aired and dusted - a comfortable room with a narrow bed, leather sofa, Persian carpet, writing desk and heavy oak armoire. On the walls were more of the decorations I had seen downstairs - framed photographs, groups of smiling officers on foot and on horseback, in gray battle costume, in black-and-silver parade dress, moustaches, tall fur shakos faced with enormous white death's heads - the Totenkopfhusaren.
"Were you in the War too?" I asked Kaspar.
The boy shook his head. "Too young. I was a cadet in 1918."
"But our Kasparle did plenty of fighting just the same," said Christoph. "Marinebrigade Ehrhardt."
That meant nothing to me.
"Freikorps," said Kaspar, raising his chin. "Best one."
"Oho, I'm not so sure," said his brother, smiling. "Remember the Kapp Putsch!"
Kaspar's face turned red, "That was not our fault. That was --"
"What's a Freikorps?" I asked.
Kaspar's anger turned against me. "What is a Freikorps? May I ask, where were you in 1919?"
"In 1919 I was in a mental hospital."
"A what?" He didn't understand but Christoph told him in German, adding, "Halt gefälligst die Schnauze!"
"I beg your pardon, sir!" snapped Kaspar, his face still red. He turned and stomped out of the room.
"Peter, I must apologize!" Christoph sat down on the sofa. "You understand he is still very young, and he has had a pretty terrible adolescence. " He glanced at his watch. "Will you sit down a moment and let me explain? I have to appear at the office, but I want you to understand about my brother."
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