Unknown - Isherwood, Christopher (The Berlin Stories - The Last of Mr Norris - Goodbye to Berlin) (TXT)

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Arthur began by assuring us that the officials had treated him most politely. One of them had helped him off with his coat and hat, the other had offered him a chair and a cigar. Arthur had taken the chair, the cigar he had refused; he made a considerable point of this, as though it were a proof of his singular strong-mindedness and integrity. Thereupon, the official, still courteous, had asked permission to smoke. This Arthur had granted.

There had followed a discussion, crossexamination disguised as chat, about Arthur’s business activities in Berlin. Arthur was careful not to go into details here. “It wouldn’t interest you,” he told Bayer. I gathered, however, that the officials had politely succeeded in frightening him a goqd deal. They were far too well informed.

These preliminaries over, the real questioning began. “We understand, Mr. Norris, that you have recently made a journey to Paris. Was this visit in connection with your private business?”

Arthur had been ready for this, of course. Perhaps too ready. His explanations had been copious. The official had punctured them with a single affable inquiry. He had named

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a name and an address which Mr. Norris had twice visited, on the evening of his arrival and on the morning of his departure. Was this, also, a private business interview? Arthur didn’t deny that he had had a nasty shock. Nevertheless, he had been, he claimed, exceedingly discreet. “I wasn’t so silly as to deny anything, of course. I made light of the whole matter. I think I impressed them favourably. They were shaken, I could see that, distinctly shaken.”

Arthur paused, added modestly: “I flatter myself that I know how to handle that particular kind of situation pretty well. Yes.”

His tone appealed for a word of encouragement, of confirmation, here. But Bayer didn’t encourage, didn’t condemn, didn’t speak or move at all. His dark brown eyes continued to regard Arthur with the same brilliant attention, smiling and alert. Arthur uttered a short nervous cough.

Anxious to interest that impersonal, hypnotic silence, he made a great deal of his narrative. He must have talked for nearly half an hour. Actually, there wasn’t much to tell. The police, having displayed the extent of their knowledge, had hastened to assure Mr. Norris that his activities did not interest them in the least, provided that these activities were confined to foreign countries. As for Germany itself, that, of course, was a different matter. The German Republic welcomes all foreign guests, but requires them to remember that certain laws of hospitality govern guest as well as host. In short, it would be a great pity if the German Republic were ever to be deprived of the pleasure of Mr. Norris’ society. The official felt sure that Mr. Norris, as a man of the world, would appreciate his point of view.

Finally, just as Arthur was making for the door, having been helped on with his overcoat and presented with his hat, came a last question asked in a tone which suggested that it hadn’t the remotest connection with anything which had previously been said:

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“You have recently become a member of the Communist Party?”

“I saw the trap at once, of course,” Arthur told us. “It was simply a trap. But I had to think quickly; any hesitation in answering would have been fatal. They’re so accustomed to notice these details. … I am not a member of the Communist Party, I said to them, nor of any other Left Wing organization. I merely sympathize with the attitude of the K.P.D. to certain non-political problems. … I think that was the right answer? I think so. Yes.”

At last Bayer both smiled and spoke. “You have acted quite right, my dear Norris.” He seemed subtly amused.

Arthur was as pleased as a stroked cat.

“Comrade Bradshaw was of great assistance to me.”

“Oh yes?”

Bayer didn’t ask how.

“You have interest for our movement?”

His eyes measured me for the first time. No, he was not impressed. Equally, he did not condemn. A young bourgeois intellectual, he thought. Enthusiastic, within certain limits. Educated, within certain limits. Capable of response if appealed to in terms of his own class-language. Of some small use: everybody can do something. I felt myself blushing deeply.

“I’d like to help you if I could,” I said.

“You speak German?”

“He speaks excellent German,” put in Arthur, like a mother recommending her son to the notice of the headmaster. SmiU ingly, Bayer considered me once more.

“So?”

He turned over the papers on his desk.

“Here is some translation which you could be so kind as to do for us. Will you please translate this in English? As you will see, it is a report of our work during the past year. From it you will learn a little about our aims. It should interest you, I think.”

He handed me a thick wad of manuscript, and rose to his

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feet. He was even smaller and broader than he had seemed on the platform. He laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“This is most interesting, what you have told me.” He shook hands with both of us, gave a brilliant parting smile: “And you will please,” he added comically to Arthur, “avoid to entangle this young Mr. Bradshaw in your distress.”

“Indeed, I assure you I shouldn’t dream of such a thing. His safety is almost, if not quite, as dear to me as my own… . Well, ha ha, I won’t waste any more of your valuable time. Goodbye.”

The interview with Bayer had quite restored Arthur’s spirits.

“You made a good impression on him, William. Oh yes, you did. I could see that at once. And he’s a very shrewd judge of character. I think he was pleased with what I said to them at the Alexanderplatz, wasn’t he?”

“I’m sure he was.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“I know very little about him, myself, William. I’ve heard that he began life as a research chemist. I don’t think his parents were working people. He doesn’t give one that impression, does he? In any case, Bayer isn’t his real name.”

After this meeting, I felt anxious to see Bayer again. I did the translation as quickly as I could, in the intervals of giving lessons. It took me two days. The manuscript was a report on the aims and progress of various strikes, and the measures taken to supply food and clothing to the families of the strikers. My chief difficulty was with the numerous and ever-recurring groups of initial letters which represented the names of the different organizations involved. As I did not know what most of these organizations were called in English, I didn’t know what letters to substitute for those in the manuscript.

“It is not so important,” replied Bayer, when I asked him about this. “We will attend to this matter ourselves.”

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Something in his tone made me feel humiliated. The manuscript he had given me to translate was simply not important. It would probably never be sent to England at all. Bayer had given it me, like a toy, to play with, hoping, no doubt, to be rid of my tiresome, useless enthusiasm for a week at least.

“You find this work interesting?” he continued. “I am glad. It is necessary for every man and woman in our days to have knowledge of this problem. You have read something from Marx?”

I said that I had once tried to read Das Kapital.

“Ah, that is too difficult, for a beginning. You should try the Communist Manifesto. And some of Lenin’s pamphlets. Wait, I will give you …”

He was amiability itself. He seemed in no hurry to get rid of me. Could it really be that he had no more important way of spending the afternoon? He asked about the living conditions in the East End of London and I tried to eke out the little knowledge I had collected in the course of a few days’ slumming, three years before. His mere attention was flattery of the most stimulating kind. I found myself doing nearly all the talking. Half an hour later, with books and more papers to translate under my arm, I was about to say goodbye when Bayer asked:

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