Michael Moorcock: The Brothel in Rosenstrasse

I have never heard her speak so passionately. She has captured Rakanaspya’s attention. He asks her, with deference, how she is so well-informed about prison. She shrugs. She has known short spells in Berlin and in Odessa. She has talked to many people whose experience of prison was far worse than her own. ‘You know me, gentlemen. I am a law-abiding citizen. I believe in peace and quiet; an orderly society. You will not find me taking up the cause of anarchy. However, I can say from the bottom of my heart that the whole conception of prison is disgusting to me.’ With that she continues pecking at a tiny piece of stale cheese. She has brought silence to the company. Perhaps that was her intention. The table is shaken by another blast. Count Stefanik has undone his collar and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He is the kind of man who should wear loose, peasant clothes. Even then he would not seem entirely comfortable. He puts his hand under his beard and pushes it up towards his face. He is wary and thoughtful, as if he listens for Holzhammer’s footsteps in the vestibule. He is wanted by the Austrians for more than one offence, including the scattering of nationalist leaflets from the skies above Prague. If Holzhammer arrests him he knows that he, himself, faces prison, if not death. He sighs a deep desolate sigh and rises, excusing himself. ‘I feel sorry for him,’ says Clara. Caroline Vacarescu makes to follow him, then returns to offer Captain Mencken all her attention. She has given up her hopes, it seems of balloon-escape. A little later he passes the open door of the salon to go out. He clears his throat and puts on his hat and overcoat. ‘The man’s a fool to walk the streets!’ says Kolovrat dispassionately. ‘Perhaps he’d rather be killed than captured,’ says Rakanaspya. I am overwhelmed by a sudden depression, a fear of betrayal and loss. I excuse myself. I take Clara’s hand and we go upstairs to her room where I insist on making slow, gentle love. She is warm. She is tender. She is womanly. I rise in agitation from the bed. I am disgusted with myself. Another shell explodes nearby. She is baffled by my behaviour. I silence her question with a gesture.

She sits up. ‘This bombardment is getting on everyone’s nerves. I’m almost praying for defeat now, for peace, even the peace of the grave. If the Bulgarians are allowed’. She cannot finish.

‘The house must be evacuated before that happens,’ I say. ‘Every effort must be made to get the girls out and split up. They must not be recognised for what they are. Frau Schmetterling won’t keep this place going as a cheap soldier’s bordello. It would destroy the point of it. She has always been clear on that.’

Clara frowns. ‘True. But it will be up to the girls. They will be frightened. Are you leaving, Ricky?’

I ignore her question. ‘You wouldn’t stay here, would you? To service those pigs?’

She lowers her head. ‘No,’ she says, as if keeping her temper, as if I have insulted her. ‘No, I would not.’

‘That’s good. That’s good.’ I am distracted. It is almost dusk. I look at my watch. ‘My bag is packed and hidden. I assume Alice has also packed. The time is passing slowly. ‘Let’s have some cocaine,’ I say. ‘Then I think I’ll go downstairs and see what’s happening.’ She begins to prepare the drug. ‘Be careful,’ she says, when I go.

In the dirty snow of the quays the soldiers stagger to their guns with shells from boxes stored for safety’s sake behind sandbags on the other side of the street. I watch them through the murk. They are ham-fisted, filthy, worn out. Black smoke billows across the southern suburbs. It would appear Holzhammer has fired that entire section of the city. An officer, mounted on a skinny horse, peers through field-glasses and sees nothing. The smoke is oily, moving sluggishly. It is snowing fitfully again. Papadakis! The pain is coming back! It is like shrapnel in my belly! Oh, God, I need a woman here. But I have spent too long taking revenge on women. Now there are none to comfort me. When romance dies, cynicism replaces it, unless one is prepared to relinquish all the consolations of religion at a stroke. I could not. I fled into lies, flattery, deceitful conquest. I fled into mistrustful artifice. Even my wholesome lechery became tainted by fear and wary cunning. I lost my capacity to trust. Was I so dishonest and so hypocritically cruel before Mirenburg? Too much romance was destroyed at once, in the space of a few days. Mirenburg crumbles. The twin spires of St-Maria-and-St-Maria are down. The Hotel Liverpool is obliterated. All the care and artistry of centuries, all the worship, the love, the genius, is ground up as if in a mortar and scattered on the wind. The museums and the galleries, the monasteries and the great houses, fall down before Holzhammer’s insane ferocity. It is too late to parley. Holzhammer will not accept anything less than the absolute obliteration of the city. He wants no monuments to remind him of his crime. These are the actions of children, of wild beasts. Love and hope drown beneath the exploding iron. Clara is still in bed when I return. She stretches on her cushions, smoking a cigarette, looking at me with an expression I find unreadable, but which I fear is contempt. Tt is terrible out there,’ I say. ‘The whole southern side is burning. The Radota Bridge is destroyed and all the statues are down. The river is piled with corpses. Presumably they were trying to get away from the Bulgarians.’

Clara nods to herself and offers me a lighted cigarette which I take. ‘Are we to expect them tonight, do you think?’

‘Not tonight. But possibly tomorrow. At the latest the day after.’

‘Then perhaps we should do something.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It would be a good idea. I have plans. I’ve some business this evening. I won’t tell you about it now, not until I’m certain. But in the morning, everything should be clear.’

I detect a smile on her long lips. She stretches and yawns. I want to see Alice, to remind her exactly of the plan, to be certain that she knows what we are to do. But I console myself that it is simple enough. She will meet me in Papensgasse at midnight, slipping out unseen as I shall slip a little earlier.

‘Shall we go to Alice and Diana, to see how the child is?’ asks Clara. I dart her a look. ‘Leave them. They said they wanted to rest.’

She shrugs. ‘Just as you like.’ Then she says: ‘Come here, Ricky. I want to make love to you.’

I am disconcerted. Off-duty she is not normally so direct. But I do as she orders. I undress. She is ferocious. She kisses every part of me. She sits astride me, shoving my penis into her cunt. The pleasure is astounding. It seems altogether fresh. I am exhausted. She throws herself off me, laughing. ‘That wasn’t fair. But I enjoyed it.’

I kiss her. ‘What?’ she says. ‘You seem to be crying.’ Of course I am not crying. Where is Papadakis? I need to piss and the pot is full. I am having trouble breathing. The lamp is flickering. There is not enough air in this room. The flowers are wilting.

As soon as Clara is asleep I get up carefully and go to the cupboard where I have hidden my bag. I dress and creep from the room. The house rocks and vibrates constantly. It will not be long before there is a direct hit. Half Rosenstrasse bears the marks of Krupp now. There is noise and music from •the salon. No soldiers guard the door. I am out into the cold, into the darkness, shivering and suddenly very cowardly. I think to turn back, but it would be impossible. I move falteringly between the heaps of filthy snow, through the passage and into Papensgasse. There will be no military patrols tonight, I am sure, to enforce the curfew. I look at my watch. It is eleven-forty-five. I will not have long to wait. Soon Alice will be mine alone. Married. I shall be secure with her. She would not dare to betray me. But this will not stop us sharing further adventures—and in Paris! The very prospect warms me and makes me forget how cold I am. Firelight dances on the far river bank. Men are shouting. There is not much terror in their voices now. They are too weary. The guns fire. The guns reply. Love will come back to me. Alice is late. She will be having trouble getting away from Diana. We shall roll again in fresh linen, with great cups of newly-made coffee in the mornings, with delicate lunches in the restaurants of the Champs Elysees, with drives to Versailles, and in the summer we shall go south to Venice, and I will show her North Africa and bring joy to her exotic heart. But it is twelve-thirty. I hear voices whispering in Rosenstrasse. Has she been caught? Eventually I risk peering round into the street; it is too dark to see anything. Then, at last, someone emerges from the archway and I grin to myself, full of the prospect of escape and further adventure. The woman wears a cloak with a cowl covering her head. I know immediately that it is Clara and I am filled with hatred for her. She has guessed! She has interfered. She lifts a hand to silence me. ‘They went hours ago,’ she says. ‘I thought this might be what you were doing. They left before dark, Ricky.’ I fall back against the wall, not fully understanding; not wishing to understand. ‘What?’