“Actually,” he assured me, “these so-called communists are merely a handful of criminals, the scum of the streets. And most of them are not Germans at all.”
“I thought,” I said politely, “that you were telling me just now that they drew up the Weimar Constitution?”
This rather staggered him for the moment; but he made a good recovery.
“No, pardon me, the Weimar Constitution was the work of Marxist Jews.”
“Ah, the Jews … to be sure.”
My pupil smiled. My stupidity made him feel a bit superior. I think he even liked me for it. A particularly loud snore came from the next room.
182
“For a foreigner,” he politely conceded, “German politics are very complicated.”
“Very,” I agreed.
Otto woke about tea-time, ravenously hungry. I went out and bought sausages and eggs and Frl. Schroeder cooked him a meal while he washed. Afterwards we sat together in my room. Otto smoked one cigarette after another; he was very nervy and couldn’t sit still. His clothes were getting ragged and the collar of his sweater was frayed. His face was full of hollows. He looked like a grown man now, at least five years older.
Frl. Schroeder made him take off his jacket. She mended it while we talked, interjecting, at intervals: “Is it possible? The idea … how dare they do such a thing! That’s what I’d like to know!”
Otto had been on the run for a fortnight, now, he told us. Two nights after the Reichstag fire, his old enemy, Werner Baldow, had come round, with six others of his storm-troop, to “arrest” him. Otto used the word without irony; he seemed to find it quite natural. “There’s lots of old scores being paid off nowadays,” he added, simply.
Nevertheless, Otto had escaped, through a skylight, after kicking one of the Nazis in the face. They had shot at him twice, but missed. Since then he’d been wandering about Berlin, sleeping only in the daytime, walking the streets at night, for fear of house-raids. The first week hadn’t been so bad; comrades had put him up, one passing him on to another. But that was getting too risky now. So many of them were dead or in the concentration camps. He’d been sleeping when he could, taking short naps on benches in parks. But he could never rest properly. He had always to be on the watch. He couldn’t stick it any longer. Tomorrow he was going to leave Berlin. He’d try to work his way down to the Saar. Somebody had told him that was the easiest frontier to cross. It was dangerous, of course, but better than being cooped up here.
I asked what had become of Anni. Otto didn’t know. He’d
183
heard she was with Werner Baldow again. What else could you expect? He wasn’t even bitter; he just didn’t care. And Olga? Oh, Olga was doing finely. That remarkable business woman had escaped the clean-up through the influence of one of her customers, an important Nazi official. Others had begun to go there, now. Her future was assured.
Otto had heard about Bayer.
“They say Thälmann’s dead, too. And Renn. Junge, Junge… .”
We exchanged rumours about other well-known names. Frl. Schroeder shook her head and murmured over each. She was so genuinely upset that nobody would have dreamed she was hearing most of them for the first time in her life.
The talk turned naturally to Arthur. We showed Otto the postcards of Tampico which had arrived, for both of us, only a week ago. He examined them with admiration.
“I suppose he’s carrying on the work there?”
“What work?”
“The Party work, of course!”
“Oh, yes,” I hastily agreed. “Of course he is.”
“It was a bit of luck that he went away when he did, wasn’t
it?r
“Yes … it certainly was.”
Otto’s eyes shone.
“We needed more men like old Arthur in the Party. He was a speaker, if you like!”
His enthusiasm warmed Frl. Schroeder’s heart. The tears stood in her eyes.
“I always shall say Herr Norris was one of the best and finest and straightest gentlemen I ever knew.”
We were all silent. In the twilit room we dedicated a grateful, reverent moment to Arthur’s memory. Then Otto continued in a tone of profound conviction:
“Do you know what I think? He’s working for us out there, making propaganda and raising money; and one day, you’ll see, he’ll come back. Hitler and the rest of them will have to look out for themselves then… .”
184
It was getting dark outside. Frl. Schroeder rose to turn on the light. Otto said he must be going. He’d decided to make a start this evening now that he was feeling rested. By daybreak, he’d be clear of Berlin altogether. Frl. Schroeder protested vigorously. She had taken a great fancy to him.
“Nonsense, Herr Otto. You’ll sleep here tonight. You need a thorough rest. Those Nazis will never find you here. They’d have to cut me into little pieces first.”
Otto smiled and thanked her warmly, but he wasn’t to be persuaded. We had to let him go. Frl. Schroeder filled his pockets with sandwiches. I gave him three handkerchiefs, an old penknife, and a map of Germany printed on a postcard which had been slipped in through our letter-box to advertise a firm of bicycle makers. Even this would be better than nothing, for Otto’s geography was alarmingly weak. Un-guided, he would probably have found himself heading for Poland. I wanted to give him some money, too. At first he wouldn’t hear of it, and I had to resort to the disingenuous argument that we were brother communists. “Besides,” I added craftily, “you can pay me back.” We shook hands solemnly on this.
He was astonishingly cheerful at parting. From his manner you would have supposed that it was we who needed encouragement, not he.
“Cheer up, Willi. Don’t you worry … Our time will come.”
“Of course it will. Goodbye, Otto. Good luck.”
“Goodbye.”
We watched him set off, from my window. Frl. Schroeder had begun to sniff.
Toor boy … Do you think he’s got a chance, Herr Bradshaw? I declare I shan’t sleep the whole night, thinking about him. It’s as if he were my own son.”
Otto turned once to look back; he waved his hand jauntily and smiled. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders and strode rapidly away, with the heavy, agile gait of a boxer, down the long dark street and
185
into the lighted square, to be lost amidst the sauntering crowds of his enemies.
I never saw or heard of him again.
Three weeks later I returned to England.
I had been in London nearly a month, when Helen Pratt came round to see me. She had arrived back from Berlin the day before, having triumphantly succeeded, with a series of scalding articles, in getting the sale of her periodical forbidden throughout Germany. Already she’d been offered a much better job in America. She was sailing within a fortnight to attack New York.
She exuded vitality, success and news. The Nazi Revolution had positively given her a new lease of life. To hear her talk, you might have thought she had spent the last two months hiding in Dr. Goebbels’ writing-desk or under Hitler’s bed. She had the details of every private conversation and the low-down on every scandal. She knew what Schacht had said to Norman, what von Papen had said to Meissner, what Schleicher might shortly be expected to say to the Crown Prince. She knew the amounts of Thyssen’s cheques. She had new stories about Roehm, about Heines, about Goring and his uniforms. “My God, Bill, what a racket!” She talked for hours.
Exhausted at last of all the misdeeds of the great, she started on the lesser fry.
“I suppose you heard all about the Pregnitz affair, didn’t you?”
“No. Not a word.”