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

At the beginning of March, the posters for the Presidential Election began to appear. Hindenburg’s portrait, with an inscription in gothic lettering beneath it, struck a frankly religious note: “He hath kept faith with you; be ye faithful unto Him.” The Nazis managed to evolve a formula which dealt cleverly with this venerable icon and avoided the offence of blasphemy: “Honour Hindenburg; Vote for Hitler.” Otto and his comrades set out every night, with paint-pots and brushes, on dangerous expeditions. They climbed high walls, scrambled along roofs, squirmed under hoard-87

ings; avoiding the police and the S.A. patrols. And next morning, passers-by would see Thälmann’s name boldly inscribed in some prominent and inaccessible position. Otto gave me a bunch of little gum-backed labels: Vote for Thäl-mann, the Workers’ Candidate. I carried these about in my pocket and stuck them on shop-windows and doors when nobody was looking.

Briining spoke in the Sport Palace. We must vote for Hindenburg, he told us, and save Germany. His gestures were sharp and admonitory; his spectacles gleamed emotion in the limelight. His voice quivered with dry academic passion. “Inflation,” he threatened, and the audience shuddered. “Tannenberg,” he reverently reminded: there was prolonged applause.

Bayer spoke in the Lustgarten, during a snowstorm, from the roof of a van; a tiny, hatless figure gesticulating above the vast heaving sea of faces and banners. Behind him was the cold façade of the Schloss; and, lining its stone balustrade, the ranks of armed silent police. “Look at them,” cried Bayer. “Poor chaps! It seems a shame to make them stand out of doors in weather like this. Never mind; they’ve got nice thick coats to keep them warm. Who gave them those coats? We did. Wasn’t it kind of us? And who’s going to give us coats? Ask me another.”

“So the old boy’s done the trick again,” said Helen Pratt. “I knew he would. Won ten marks off them at the office, the poor fools.”

It was the Wednesday after the election, and we were standing on the platform of the Zoo Station. Helen had come to see me off in the train to England.

“By the way,” she added, “what became of that queer card you brought along one evening? Morris, wasn’t his name?”

“Norris … I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him for ages.”

It was strange that she should have asked that, because I had been thinking about Arthur myself, only a moment be—

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fore. In my mind, I always connected him with this station. It would soon be six months since he had gone away; it seemed like last week. The moment I got to London, I decided, I would write him a long letter.

CHAPTER NINE

Nevertheless, I didn’t write. Why, I hardly know. I was lazy and the weather had turned warm. I thought of Arthur often; so often, indeed, that correspondence seemed unnecessary. It was as though we were in some kind of telephathic communication. Finally, I went into the country for four months, and discovered, too late, that I’d left the postcard with his address in a drawer somewhere in London. Anyhow, it didn’t much matter. He had probably left Paris ages ago by this time. If he wasn’t in prison.

At the beginning of October I returned to Berlin. The dear old Tauentzienstrasse hadn’t changed. Looking out at it through the taxi window on my way from the station, I saw several Nazis in their new S.A. uniforms, now no longer forbidden. They strode along the street very stiff, and were saluted enthusiastically by elderly civilians. Others were posted at street corners, rattling collecting-boxes.

I climbed the familiar staircase. Before I had time to touch the bell, Frl. Schroeder rushed out to greet me with open arms. She must have been watching for my arrival.

“Herr Bradshaw! Herr Bradshaw! Herr Bradshaw! So you’ve come back to us at last! I declare I must give you a hug! How well you’re looking! It hasn’t seemed the same since you’ve been away.”

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“How have things been going here, Frl. Schroeder?”

“Well … I suppose I mustn’t complain. In the summer, they were bad. But now … Come inside, Herr Bradshaw, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Gleefully she beckoned me across the hall, flung open the door of the living-room with a dramatic gesture.

“Arthur!”

“My dear William, welcome to Germany I”

“I’d no idea …”

“Herr Bradshaw, I declare you’ve grown!”

“Well … well … this is indeed a happy reunion. Berlin is herself once more. I propose that we adjourn to my room and drink a glass in celebration of Herr Bradshaw’s return. You’ll join us, Frl. Schroeder, I hope?”

“Oh … Most kind of you, Herr Norris, I’m sure.”

“After you.”

“No, please.”

“I couldn’t think of it.”

There was a good deal more polite deprecation and bowing before the two of them finally got through the doorway. Familiarity didn’t seem to have spoilt their manners. Arthur was as gallant, Frl. Schroeder as coquettish as ever.

The big front bedroom was hardly recognizable. Arthur had moved the bed over into the corner by the window and pushed the sofa nearer to the stove. The stuffy-smelling pots of ferns had disappeared, so had the numerous little crochet mats on the dressing-table, and the metal figures of dogs on the bookcase. The three gorgeously tinted photochromes of bathing nymphs were also missing; in their place I recognized three etchings which had hung in Arthur’s dining-room. And, concealing the washstand, was a handsome Japanese lacquer screen which used to stand in the hall of the Courbierestrasse flat.

“Flotsam,” Arthur had followed the direction of my glance, “which I have been able, happily, to save from the wreck.”

“Now, Herr Bradshaw,” put in Frl. Schroeder, “tell me your candid opinion. Herr Norris will have it that those

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nymphs were ugly. I always thought them sweetly pretty myself. Of course, I know some people would call them old-fashioned.”

“I shouldn’t have said they were ugly,” I replied, diplomatically. “But it’s nice to have a change sometimes, don’t you think?”

“Change is the spice of Life,” Arthur murmured, as he fetched glasses from the cupboard. Inside, I caught sight of an array of bottles : “Which may I offer you, William—kiim-mel or Benedictine? Frl. Schroeder, I know, prefers cherry brandy.”

Now that I could see the two of them by daylight, I was struck by the contrast. Poor Frl. Schroeder seemed to have got much older; indeed, she was quite an old woman. Her face was pouched and wrinkled with worry, and her skin, despite a thick layer of rouge and powder, looked sallow. She hadn’t been getting enough to eat. Arthur, on the other hand, looked positively younger. He was fatter in the cheeks and fresh as a rosebud; barbered, manicured and perfumed. He wore a big turquoise ring I hadn’t seen before, and an opulent new brown suit. His wig struck a daring, more luxuriant note. It was composed of glossy, waved locks, which wreathed themselves around his temples in tropical abundance. There was something jaunty, even bohemian, in his whole appearance. He might have been a popular actor or a rich violinist.

“How long have you been back here?” I asked.

“Let me see, it must be nearly two months now … how time flies! I really must apologize for my shortcomings as a correspondent. I’ve been so very busy; and Frl. Schroeder seemed uncertain of your London address.”

“We’re neither of us much good at letter-writing, I’m afraid.”

“The spirit was willing, dear boy. I hope you’ll believe that. You were ever-present in my thoughts. It is indeed a pleasure to have you back again. I feel that a load has been lifted from my mind already.”