Nicholas Mosley - Hopeful Monsters

I was on my own now: the others had gone on ahead. I was playing the part of a streetwalker. Of course it was in my interest

to play the part quite well or I might be caught; so here I was, high heels, furs, cold air coming in between; clip-clopping on the pavement. So this was being in the presence of death! Looking down on myself as if from the edge of a bed; a tart dressed up to help drop a bomb through the skylight of a brothel. And just because I could see this did I think I could say — Hullo, hullo, my little one! The three people who were to climb up on to the roof had gone off down an alleyway. They had been like schoolboys, indeed, with satchels over their shoulders. I thought — But I must be careful; I do want, after all, to live? I came to the street where there was the back entrance to the cafe-brothel. The street was empty as most streets were in Berlin at night at this time: there was too much violence; though the violence would also go on, of course, indoors, in torture-cellars, brothels. I went and stood in the doorway of a courtyard from which I could see the back of the building across the road. There was a parapet at the level of the roof at which, if things went to plan, the raiders might briefly appear and indicate any message to be transmitted. I thought — Well, what might we learn from knowing that this is ridiculous, my little one. There was the sound of a car at the end of the street. I thought — Well, either it is Bruno or it is not: in either event, I am a tart in this doorway. The car came towards me down the road. It was my car and Bruno was driving. Bruno was staring straight ahead: he seemed to be smiling. I thought — He is getting out; he is one of those mad archaic statues. Then — I know, but how do I know, that something has gone wrong: Bruno is telling me but, of course, he cannot be seen to be telling me. I stayed where I was in the doorway. Bruno had not looked at me. There were people running in the wake of the car, chasing it; they were calling out; they were, yes, a group of Nazis. When they got close to me they slowed to a walk; there were five or six boys; they were talking and laughing. One of them saw me and stopped: the others went on towards the back door of the cafe-brothel. I thought — But we never discussed what happens to me if I am simply approached as a tart: even for Bruno and me, that was a joke we did not think of talking about. The boy who had not gone on with the others was coming towards me: he had taken off his cap and held it in his hand; he had fair hair; he wore a Brownshirt uniform. I thought — But he is quite like Franz. I had been thinking, had I not, quite recently, of getting in touch with Franz. I had thought he might be able to tell me something of importance. The other Nazi boys had gone in through

the back door of the cafe; they had called out mockingly to the one who was now standing in front of me. One of the raiders at this point appeared at the parapet on the rooftop; he was looking in my direction: I thought — Well, you will get the message, won't you? Is it or is it not just that I am being picked up as a tart. The boy who was like Franz said 'Hullo.' I said 'Hullo.' I was standing in the shadows of the doorway. He said 'Have you got a light?' I said 'Yes.' He pulled out a cigarette-case that seemed to be made of silver; he offered me a cigarette. I took one. Then I had to say 'I'm sorry, I haven't got a light.' He said 'Oh that's all right!' I thought — Oh well, yes, this is all right, isn't it? He pulled out a lighter and lit my cigarette. Then he lit his own. He was a good-looking boy, not so tall as Franz, but with a lean face and clear skin. We blew smoke about. The raider on the roof had disappeared from the parapet. The boy who was like Franz said 'Don't go in there.' He made a gesture with his head to the back door of the cafe-brothel. I said 'Why not?' He said 'There's going to be trouble.' I said 'Trouble?' He said 'A raid.' I thought — Oh dear God, yes, there is some sort of message here! The boy and I stood close to each other; we blew smoke about. After a time I said 'How do you know?' He said 'We've had a tip-off I thought — Well a tart might say, mightn't she, 'What sort of tip-off?' The boy had taken me by the arm and was trying to move me into the light of a street-lamp. I tried to resist. Then I thought — But I have to try to get information, don't I? I let the Nazi boy move me into the light of a street-lamp and I stared up at him. After a time I said 'What sort of tip-off?' He said 'What do you do?' I said 'What?' Then 'Oh, anything.' He said 'Anything?' I said 'Yes.' He was this good-looking boy dressed up in a Brownshirt uniform: he was staring at me. I thought — Well, somewhere or other he is a child on the edge of a bed. He said 'Do you do English lessons?' I thought — English lessons? Then — Oh English lessons, yes. Then — Would you know what 'English lessons' are, my beautiful English boy! I said 'If you like.' He said 'You are beautiful.' I thought — Dear God, is this the message, that they like to be given English lessons, these terrible, beautiful Nazi boys? Then — But should I not thus be able to find out what I need to know? There was an explosion from somewhere inside the cafe-brothel; bits of glass fell out into the street. Someone started screaming. The Nazi boy said 'I must go, but can I see you?' I said 'Yes.' He said 'Where?' I said 'Here.' He had not stopped looking at me when there had been the explosion. He said 'Can I really?' He

put his head down meekly in front of my shoulders. I thought — Oh you are a child all right; you were lain over the edge of a bed by your mother? I put my hand on his arm and held it firmly. I said 'Who was it who gave you the tip-off?' He said 'Why do you want to know?' I said 'Just tell me!' He said 'It was one of their own people.' I said 'Who?' He said 'I don't know.' After a time I said 'All right, you can go.' Then I put my hand up and touched his cheek. He seemed transfixed. I moved away. I thought — So after all, this is not ridiculous?

There was the arrangement that if anything went wrong with the plans we would make our own ways back to the Rosa Luxemburg Block. The Nazi boy did not try to stop me as I walked away: I did not think that he would. I thought — Oh but I have heard stories about how Nazis like to be treated like that: to be beaten, shat on -

— Perhaps that's why they like to get people with mops and pails out on to the streets -

— To compensate for wanting this to happen to themselves?

I was a tart clumping along the pavement in high-heeled shoes. Bruno had come past in the car like a mad archaic statue.

But who had given the tip-off: Bruno might be suspected?

But it was Bruno who had nearly been caught! Or was he in fact just getting away -

And it was myself who had been seen talking to a Brownshirt in a doorway.

I thought — You mean, we all might like being beaten; being shat on-

— What else are we up to?

When I got back to the Rosa Luxemburg Block I found all the others had got back too. The raid had been a success — I mean the bomb had been dropped through the skylight of the brothel; it was likely that Nazis had been injured, even killed. I thought — So what would be the point if I told the story of a tip-off? Would it not just seem that I was out to cause trouble -

— It would be just to myself or Bruno that I would be causing pain?

The people in the Rosa Luxemburg Block were excited, yes: they were on the look-out through cracks in barricaded doors and windows: the enemy might come at any moment! I thought — I do not need to complicate their game.

Bruno's story was that the gang of Nazi boys had come running up where he was in the car; he had had to get away to avoid them.

My story was that I had managed to distract the attention of the Nazi boys while the raiding party was on the roof. I thought — Well, if I make myself into something of a heroine, is not this a point of the game?