A counteroffensive was launched. The Berlin Assembly, on a bill by Falkenstein, voted to return the university to the Magistrat. Trepovitch ignored the mandate but both he and Rudi Wöhlman were puzzled by the growing anger and wondered where the next strike would come.... It did not take long to find out.
Hanna Kirchner summoned Adolph Schatz into her office in the Magistrat.
In the presence of the department heads of the Magistrat and the leaders of the Assembly she addressed the tormentor of Berlin.
“I accuse you of collaboration with the Soviet Union against the people of Berlin by police brutality, by the hiring of ex-Nazis, by the use of political terror through your so-called SND and for participation in the ‘workers’ Putsch.’
“Yesterday, you attempted to fire five hundred policemen because they are members of free parties. You will either answer these charges here and now satisfactorily or you are discharged as president of police.”
Adolph Schatz, a bully all of his life, blinked with disbelief at the little woman behind the big desk. He growled that all of them would regret it and stormed from the place beelining for Soviet Headquarters.
Trepovitch naturally denounced the Magistrat action as “illegal.”
At the same time People’s Radio ridiculed the move, Hans Kronbach entered RIAS. Adolph Schatz’s forte was political terror. He was neither a good organizer nor an efficient administrator. While his strong-armed squads ran rampant for three years, Hans Kronbach had constructed an excellent police force predominantly loyal to the Magistrat.
Hans Kronbach as the new police president issued an order for all police to report to the Western Sector. The next morning 90 per cent of the Berlin force crossed over to where Hans Kronbach established a new office.
Adolph Schatz had outlived his usefulness, but for the sake of saving Russian face he continued to run a police force in the Russian Sector. Berlin now had two police forces.
This was the first break within the city government but there were more to come as department after department underwent merciless harassment. The Germans, now finding safe haven, fled to the West.
The British returned to the people of Berlin their Victory Column commemorating the Bismarck Wars.
The United States redesigned the eagle at Tempelhof as an American eagle and set it atop the building.
Trepovitch said that this was all a return to militarism and in the same breath announced there would be no more midday meals for workers from the West in the Russian Sector.
At the Tempelhof elevated station, throngs gathered each day to watch the Gooney Birds take off and land.
Dozens of men were gathering in Wiesbaden from all over the world wearing the China/ Burma/ India Theater of War arm patches and waiting for the arrival of the boss, Major General Hiram Stonebraker.
Although the first load of coal had been dramatically flown into Berlin, the situation was desperate. The Gooney Birds were weary beyond weariness and so were the crews. Rain leaked into their cabins and there wasn’t so much as a spare windshield wiper left in Europe.
Chapter Nine
CLINT LAY ON THE BED with his back propped up sipping a martini and watching Judy dress. It was a repeat performance of a ten-year ritual that neither of them seemed to tire of. Judy had a rounded voluptuous body, soft without being fat. She always sat before the mirror putting on her face without a bra because she knew Clint liked to look at her. When she finally did slip into the bra, it was the signal for him to begin shaving and showering as the timing would work out for both of them to be dressed at the same time.
Clint reached to the nightstand, grasped the martini pitcher, swirled it, drained out another half glass.
“Who are we?” he intoned abstractedly.
“Sweet people on the high road to becoming sweet rich people.”
“We are perverters of the American dream. We prostitute for the worthless products of a flabby society.”
“That nasty old man must have upset you, lover. You haven’t been yourself all week.”
“That nasty old man is Hiram Stonebraker, humanitarian. He handed me a mirror and said, look at you, Clinton Loveless. Will the American people pull through with white toilet paper? Will womanhood survive with the old, gray telltale boxes?”
Judy slipped into her bra delicately and glanced into the mirror. Clint wasn’t even looking.
“It’s that thing in Germany with all the airplanes.”
“Yes ... that ... thing.”
“I don’t know that I’m in favor of spending tens of millions feeding Nazis. What for? Another war?” She opened her closet. “Clint, start shaving. We’ll be late for dinner.”
“Who are we?”
Judy went to him, rumpled his hair, lifted his legs, and put them on the floor. “We’ll ditch Milt and Laura early and get back and make love like animals.”
Clint stretched and walked into the bathroom.
“I’ll put the children down,” she said putting on a robe.
Clinton and Judy Loveless met Laura and Milton Schuster in the lobby of the restaurant. Clint and Milt shook hands; Judy and Laura bussed cheeks and each said, “Darling how lovely you look,” or words to that effect and Milt said, “Let’s have a drink.” He had come straight from the office and was in need.
The restaurant was noisy. The meal was smothered in sauce. The four of them sat side by side along the wall with other fashionable New Yorkers ... like sides of beef in a butcher shop window.
Milt Schuster was a pale, articulate lawyer in one of the big ad agencies and as a matter of company and personal policy gave his dissertation on “that idiot in the White House.”
Clint didn’t know about that. He thought Harry Truman was doing a hell of a job both feeding the world and keeping it from moral collapse. American prestige had never been so high. However, he did not wish to intrude on Milt Schuster’s soliloquy because it wouldn’t change Milt’s mind anyhow.
Laura began chattering about an Italian film by a newly acclaimed genius, Dino Massavelli. “The picture has such honesty, such realism ... so earthy. Why can’t Hollywood make such films?”
“Because it would bore the crap out of people,” Clint said. “Laura, you liked that picture because it showed a couple of Dagos pissing in an alley and the leading lady refused to shave her armpits. Otherwise no one, including Dino Massavelli, had the slightest idea what the picture was about.”
Milt Schuster said that business was on the skids because of the bureaucracy in Washington. Laura said they simply must see the Cuban-African Dance Group at Town Hall. Clint knew she got kicks from it because of a half-dozen six-foot Negroes built like there was no tomorrow, muscles glistening in their own sweat. Looking at Milt, who could blame her? They had to gobble down the last course because it was getting close to curtain time.
The check came to $61.00, which never failed to hit Clint like a kidney punch. He greased his way out of the place passing the bulwark of captain, maitre d’, check-room attendant, wash-room attendant, and a frantic doorman who blew his whistle desperately for a taxi that never came.
It was only six blocks to the theater ... let’s walk it. They galloped off at a half trot. Fortunately the curtain was fashionably late. They were forced to split up because seats were hard to get, even at fifteen bucks apiece. As was the custom, Clint drew Laura Schuster.
The theater was another of those New York atrocities, an ancient firetrap that seemed to have been constructed for the discomfort of the audience.