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

“You’re still angry with me,” he murmured reproachfully.

“Why should I be?”

“Oh yes, excuse me, you are.”

“Really, I’m not.”

Kuno gave my hand a limp squeeze.

“May I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“You see, I don’t wish to be personal. Do you believe in Platonic friendship?”

“I expect so,” 1 said, guardedly.

The answer seemed to satisfy him. His tone became more confidential: “You’re sure you won’t come up and see my flat? Not for five minutes?”

“Not tonight.”

“Quite sure?” He squeezed.

“Quite, quite sure.”

“Some other evening?” Another squeeze.

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I laughed: “I think I should see it better in the daytime, shouldn’t I?”

Kuno sighed gently, but did not pursue the subject. A few moments later, the limousine stopped outside my door. Glancing up at Arthur’s window, I saw that the light was burning. I didn’t remark on this to Kuno, however.

“Well, good night, and thank you for the lift.”

“Do not mention it, please.” <

I nodded towards the chauffeur: “Shall I tell him to take you home?”

“No, thank you,” Kuno spoke rather sadly, but with an attempt at a smile. “I’m afraid not. Not just yet.”

He sank back upon the cushions, the smile still frozen on his face, his monocle catching a ghostly glassy gleam from the street lamp as he was driven away.

As I entered the flat, Arthur appeared, in shirtsleeves, at his bedroom doorway. He seemed rather perturbed.

“Back already, William?”

I grinned: “Aren’t you pleased to see me, Arthur?”

“Of course, dear boy. What a question! I didn’t expect you quite so soon, that’s all.”

“I know you didn’t. Your appointment doesn’t seem to have kept you very long, either “

“It—er—fell through.” Arthur yawned. He was too sleepy even to tell lies.

I laughed: “You meant well, I know. Don’t worry. We parted on the best of terms.”

He brightened at once: “You did? Oh, I’m so very glad. For the moment, I was afraid some little hitch might have occurred. Now I can go to sleep with a mind relieved. Once again, William, I must thank you for your invaluable support.”

“Always glad to oblige,” I said. “Good night.”

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The first week in November came and the traffic strike was declared. It was ghastly, sopping weather. Everything out of doors was covered with a layer of greasy, fallen dirt. A few trams were running, policemen posted fore and aft. Some of these were attacked, the windows smashed and the passengers forced to get out. The streets were deserted, wet, raw and grey. Von Papen’s Government was expected to proclaim martial law. Berlin seemed profoundly indifferent. Proclamations, shootings, arrests; they were all nothing new. Helen Pratt was putting her money on Schleicher: “He’s the foxiest of the lot,” she told me. “Look here, Bill, I’ll bet you five marks he’s in before Christmas. Like to take me on?” I declined.

Hitler’s negotiations with the Right had broken down; the Hakenkreuz was even flirting mildly with the Hammer and Sickle. Telephone conversations, so Arthur told me, had already taken place between the enemy camps. Nazi storm-troopers joined with Communists in the crowds which jeered at the black-legs and pelted them with stones. Meanwhile, on the soaked advertisement pillars, Nazi posters represented the K.P.D. as a bogy skeleton in Red Army uniform. In a few days there would be another election; our fourth this year. Political meetings were well attended; they were cheaper than going to the movies or getting drunk. Elderly people sat indoors, in the damp, shabby houses, brewing malt coffee or weak tea and talking without animation of the Smash.

On November 7th, the election results were out. The Nazis had lost two million votes. The Communists had gained eleven seats. They had a majority of over 100,000 in Berlin.

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“You see,” I told Frl. Schroeder, “it’s all your doing.” We had persuaded her to go down to the beer-shop at the corner and vote, for the first time in her life. And now she was as delighted as if she’d backed a winner: “Herr Norris! Herr Norris! Only think! I did just what you told me; and it’s all come out as you said! The porter’s wife’s ever so cross. She’s followed the elections for years, and she would have it that the Nazis were going to win another million this time. I had a good laugh at her, I can tell you. ‘Aha, Frau Schneider!’ I said to her, ‘I understand something about politics, too, you see!’ “

During the morning, Arthur and I went round to the Wilhelmstrasse, to Bayer’s office, “for a little taste,” as he put it, “of the fruits of victory.” Several hundred others seemed to have had the same idea. There was such a crowd of people coming and going on the stairs that we had difficulty in getting into the building at all. Everybody was in the best of spirits, shouting to each other, greeting, whistling, singing. As we struggled upwards, we met Otto on his way down. He nearly wrung my hand off in his excitement.

“Mensch! Willi! Jetzt geht’s los! Just let them talk about forbidding the Party now! If they do we’ll fight! The old Nazis are done for, that’s certain. In six months, Hitler won’t have any storm-troops left!”

Half a dozen of his friends were with him. They all shook my hand with the warmth of long-lost brothers. Meanwhile, Otto had flung himself upon Arthur like a young bear. “What, Arthur, you old sow, you here too? Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it grand? Why, I’m so pleased I could knock you into the middle of next week!”

He dealt Arthur an affectionate hook in the ribs which made him squirm. Several of the bystanders laughed sympathetically. “Good old Arthur!” exclaimed one of Otto’s friends loudly. The name was overheard, taken up, passed from mouth to mouth. “Arthur … who’s Arthur? Why, man, don’t you know who Arthur is?” No, they didn’t know. Equally, they didn’t care. It was a name, a focus-point for

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the enthusiasm of all these excited young people; it served its purpose. “Arthur! Arthur!” was caught up on all sides. People were shouting it on the floor above us; in the hallway below. “Arthur’s here!” “Arthur for ever!” “We want Arthur!” The storm of voices had risen in a moment. A mighty cheer, exuberant, half-humorous, burst spontaneously from a hundred throats. Another followed it, and another. The crazy old staircase shook; a tiny flake of plaster was dislodged from the ceiling. In this confined space, the reverberation was terrific; the crowd was excited to find what a noise it could make. There was a powerful, convulsive, surging movement inwards, towards the unseen object of admiration. A wave of admirers elbowed their way up the stairs, to collide with another wave, cascading down from above. Everybody wanted to touch Arthur. A rain of hand-claps descended on his wincing shoulders. An ill-timed attempt to hoist him into the air nearly resulted in his being pitched headlong over the banisters. His hat had been knocked off. I had managed to save it and was fully expecting to have to rescue his wig as well. Gasping for breath, Arthur tried, in a muddled way, to rise to the occasion: “Thank you …” he managed to articulate. “Most kind … really don’t deserve … good gracious! Oh dear!”

He might have been quite seriously injured, had not Otto and his friends forced a way for him to the top of the staircase. We scrambled in the wake of their powerful, barging bodies. Arthur clutched my arm, half scared, half shyly pleased. “Fancy their knowing me, William,” he panted into my ear.

But the crowd hadn’t done with him yet. Now that we had reached the office door, we occupied a position of vantage and could be seen by the mass of struggling people wedged in the staircase below. At the sight of Arthur, another terrific cheer shook the building. “Speech!” yelled somebody. And the cry was echoed: “Speech! Speech! Speech!” Those on the stairs began a rhythmical stamping and shouting; the heavy tread of their boots was as formidable as the stroke of