In the good old days before and after the First World War, the Paris Cabaret belonged to his late, lamented father. It stood on the Friedrichstrasse in the middle of pulsating night life and was a meeting place for theater people and writers.
Berlin was a wonderful, wicked, wild city in those days. A bawdy bohemia of artists, free love, and sex. It was a pompous and proper place with the highest order of opera and concerts.
From here sprang the weird charm of a Mac the Knife and the husky voice of Marlene Dietrich told the world for the first time that she was, from head to toe, consumed with love. It was a Berlin of the immortal Elisabeth Bergner and Tilla Durieux. Negro bands and shimmy dancers and ponderous Wagnerian sopranos all made the magic blends of Berlin.
It was Käthe Gold and the miracle plays of Reinhardt. Fritz Stumpf remembered his father lamenting the departure of the Jews from the Berlin scene. All those magnificent impresarios and virtuosos and fiery journalists had gone. His father said the Jews gave Berlin much of its charm just as they had given Vienna its charm.
Nonetheless, one had to live with the times. By the time Fritz took over from his father the Paris Cabaret had changed to a rendezvous for Nazis who tried to elbow in on the old culture hoping some of it would rub off on them. They came from the ministries that lined the nearby Wilhelmstrasse ... and the old days died.
When he returned early in the war with his wound, Berlin, for the moment, caught the restless sensation-seeking beat of the twenties. Then the Paris Cabaret was bombed out as indeed all of Mitte Borough was, and Stumpf moved into the safer cellar location. The end of the war left the Paris Cabaret in a shambles, but Fritz Stumpf was a clever man and quickly adapted once more to the new masters.
He quickly contacted high-ranking Russian officers, obtained a license, and set his house in order. Three Russians of the rank of colonel were cut in in exchange for protection, an arrangement that worked well for everyone. In the Nazi era, he took care of the needs of Nazi officers. In these days, he took care of his Russian friends.
Fritz Stumpf’s girls were young and pleasing, for the competition to work in the Paris Cabaret was keen. It was cold outside and the Paris Cabaret was as warm as the beds and mansions of the occupation officers.
Elke Handfest retained a popularity for the fun she was, the experience she had, and the fact that she would go along with any party. When she approached Stumpf on the matter of Hildegaard, insisting she was extraordinary, he agreed to look her over.
The front door of the Paris Cabaret was flanked by a pair of American military police. A sign read: OFF LIMITS FOR AMERICAN MILITARY PERSONNEL. This was all part of a show for visiting dignitaries. In a day or so they would be gone, the sign would come down, and the MPs would go away. Colonel Hazzard would, once again, drop by for a late beer on the way home from the Russian parties.
Hildegaard walked down the ten steps into the depths of the cafe and was watched from all over the room as the new girl. The place was smoky and noisy and put together out of odd chairs and tables. The bar girls were tightly corseted to enhance their bosoms and the girls lined up on the other side of the bar jealously watched and feared this unpainted, angelic-looking competitor in their midst.
A musically uncoordinated band played a theater song of the twenties, adding to the discordance by the presence of a badly out-of-tune piano, and girls danced together waiting for dates.
Fritz Stumpf kept a private booth on a balcony a few steps over the main floor. They were ushered to the booth by Hippold, Stumpf s bodyguard and an ex-middleweight champion of Germany.
Stumpf arose, took Hildegaard’s hand, kissed it, and asked her to be seated. She saw in traditional pinstripe a maitre d’ of the old school. He was monocled and wore a pearl stickpin. His withered left arm was permanently held against his body, the hand covered by a black leather glove and on its second finger an outlandish diamond ring, a mark of either great vanity or great hurt.
He spoke softly, questioned her carefully, and Hilde answered well. She was obviously from a good family, was well groomed, well mannered, well schooled. Her body appeared to be as lovely as her face. The only question was her ability to handle men. Elke assured him that, if they worked as a team, she would train Hilde.
As they spoke, Hippold, the bodyguard, palmed Stumpf several notes. There were already a half-dozen requests around the room to meet Hilde.
A drum rolled, an excited master of ceremonies introduced Renate, an immaculately groomed chanteuse who looked with moony eyes over the tarnished place and sobbed:
“Berlin, Berlin, I hardly recognize you,
Where is your reckless light heart? Where are the good old songs
You seem sad and lost ...”
Elke nodded to Hilde and they excused themselves and retreated to the temporary sanctity of the women’s room, sat side by side and repaired their makeup.
Hilde was baffled. She fully expected Stumpf, as “master,” to try out the new girl first.
“He is a fascinating man,” Hilde said cautiously.
“The old-school charm.”
“Is he involved with a woman?”
“He has many.”
“I have a feeling he does not like me.”
“Part of his arm was not all that was shot away during the war.”
Hilde changed the subject. “I take it we have dates.”
“Yes.”
“What about our pay?”
“Don’t get greedy, Hilde. You have been accepted on Herr Stumpf’s payroll as a hostess. He takes care of his girls. Remember, he does not deal with money and it is just as well we don’t get involved in the transactions. Besides, if you are a good girl, the soldiers will be generous with their tips.”
The thought disgusted Hilde. She was thankful Elke was with her to ease things. Elke bussed her, with a bit too much affection. “Come on.”
They were led to a table toward two British officers.
“Berlin, Berlin I could cry for you,
The most beautiful city in the world you once were.”
The sentiment struck deep. Renate continued with another verse on the demise of the beloved city.
The two British officers stood. Elke was impressed by Hilde’s quick adaptation. The British major made a sweeping gesture in offering Hilde a seat. She smiled as though she were a very little girl and someone had given her a big, beautiful doll.
“How nice to ask us over,” she said in English. “My name is Hilde ... Hilde Diehl.”
Fritz Stumpf watched the scene with a never-ending fascination. It was the endless game he and his father had watched played a thousand times. A new queen bee was in the hive to start a short and fruitless reign. In a small time she will be in such demand she will be heady with success. She will be a favorite of colonels and generals. But, in these days, there were no mistresses in the grand style, only prostitutes. She will become greedy and start making arrangements for herself. They always try.
Stumpf desired her for himself, but in a new girl there is always a certain amount of pride and temper. She could not be degraded immediately. That was a way to ruin a good race horse. Sooner or later she would degenerate by herself. He would be patient until the facts of life softened her up.
Such were things! In the old days, girls like her loved for love and adventure. The Paris Cabaret rocked with laughter and not this dirge-like sentimentality. Beautiful women could not swim the treacherous channel today ... they had to crash into the rocks.
But ... without me, he rationalized, they would be prowling the streets and making love in rubble piles for worthless occupation currency.
A note was handed him. It was a lucky night. A case of excellent champagne was being offered for five women to come to the French officers’ billet.