Waiting patiently, I recalled how Cologne had recently shone in the political news. The gentleman showjumper Franz von Papen had craftily made a secret rendezvous there with Hitler behind the back of Chancellor 'Artful Dodger' Kurt von Schleicher-who got wind of it, planted a spy with a camera, and had it over the next morning's newspapers. Hitler anyway regarded the gentleman showjumper as a joke. So absurd a joke that he later planned to provoke his invasion of Austria in 1938 by having Ambassador Papen in Vienna spectacularly murdered.
'There doesn't seem to be any trouble.' Jeff tapped the steering-wheel with his reflecting gauntlets. 'The Jews keep well out of sight, and the Communists choose their own time and place to trail their coat. I guess everyone else is too cold or too scared, and staying home. This sort of game is played in Berlin every night-you should have seen it when Hitler became Chancellor, the SA in thousands, parading in the Tiergarten and marching in columns through the Brandenburger Tor and along the Unter den Linden. There was nothing of a rabble about it. Everything was very military, bands playing and the marchers singing their heads off.'
'What was the reaction?'
'Rapturous. You know how the Germans love a torchlight procession.' He flicked up another Chesterfield. 'And they say old Hindenburg looked down from his window muttering _"Du lieber Gott,_ I never knew we'd taken so many Russian prisoners".'
We were making for a cabaret called the Sphinx, of which Jeff had heard from some fantastiche girl called Heike in Berlin. It was hardly the famous Parisian Sphinx, where I went-off limits-with the Americans after the Liberation, and where girls did strange things with cigarettes. We discovered a narrow dark doorway, a sequence of white electric bulbs writing Sphinx continually above. It was somewhere in the old town within the elbow of the Rhine between the Hohenzollern Bridge and the suspension bridge to the south, near the Gurzenich, the building where laws were made for the Holy Roman Empire. Through the unhappy propensity of Europeans for blowing up each other's cities, the whole area is now replaced by orderly pedestrian precincts providing all services from supermarkets to sex shops.
The lobby was flanked with panels of coloured glass depicting palms, pyramids and camels, symbols of greater romance and mystery to the Germans than the British, who policed them. Jeff's brow clouded. It clearly was not a patch on fantastiche Berlin. But I was excited enough, never having been inside a cabaret before.
Down a narrow staircase hung a crimson plush curtain guarded by a German in fez and tasselled uniform, suggesting an advertisement for Abdullah Turkish cigarettes. The management tired abruptly of Eastern pretence. Beyond was a long brightly-lit basement resembling a teashop, with wall mirrors and small wicker tables under white fringed cloths, each with a numbered card in a bamboo holder and an old-fashioned telephone. At the far end, the curtain was down on a small stage, and two men in tails played _How Deep is the Ocean _on piano and drums as though it were a march. Attendance was thin, the weather and political turmoil not being conducive to carefree nights out.
'In Berlin, there's men dressed as women and women dressed as men,' complained Jeff.
The waiter in a floor-sweeping apron suggested champagne. Jeff ordered beer. He sat back in his fragile-looking gilt chair, lighting another cigarette and scowling. His black and white check tweeds came from Savile Row, his silk shirt from Florence, his foulard tie from the Rue de Rivoli. He dressed his part as man of the world. 'If you want a girl, you call up her table number,' he explained, nodding towards some gaudily dressed women sitting alone or in pairs against the walls.
But my attention was diverted by waiters equipping the patrons at tables near the stage with long bibs of red rubber. I was speculating what fancy dish might be on its way, when the curtain rose to a roll on the drums, revealing a small roped boxing ring, a mirror sloping above, into which a melancholy man in a long white coat was tipping buckets of greenish mud.
Jeff stuck his thumb in his top waistcoat pocket. 'We're going to see a couple of girls wrestling in mud.'
'Why mud?' I asked in surprise. 'Girls wrestling would be unusual enough for me.'
'It has to be in mud. The Germans have a genius for the extreme.'
It was a coy, even lugubrious entertainment. One girl was fresh-faced and solidly-built, good looking in a farmyard way. The other was pale and sad, seeming in need of a square meal. Both were dressed for the beach, in white rubber bathing caps and ankle-length robes of dazzlingly patterned towelling, removed to reveal swimsuits demurely skirted across the tops of their thighs. They climbed into the ring and braced themselves against the ropes, like the prizefighters in the newsreels. The band broke into Franz von Suppй's _Light Cavalry._ They fell upon each other, standing in the mud with their breasts pressed together, slapping each other's buttocks.
'This election's going to be a walkover for Hitler.' Jeff was affecting intense tedium. 'He's got big business in his pocket-I heard in Berlin how Sacht and Gцring fixed it.'
The music stopped. The wrestlers separated, standing in their corners glistening with green mud, their heaving breasts decrying any sham in the struggle. Jeff lit another cigarette. 'Hey, have you read Hitler's book, _Mein Kampf?'_ I shook my head. 'This _fantastiche_ girl Heike translated bits for me.'
'You talk politics with whores, do you?'
Jeff looked offended. 'She's a student learning English.'
I have since smelt through its flatulent pages. They expose the author's contempt for the mass of his fellow-Germans and his greatest respect for the English-so much for our Great War Prime Minister, the reader might imagine that Lloyd George knew Hitler's father. It spelt out the Fьhrer's plans with such determined precision, it is unfortunate that it was not translated in bed to an English statesman by some other wayward student of his language.
The bout restarted, the girls entwined on their floor of mud, flicking the rubber bibs of the nearest spectators. 'Only the Army can stop Hitler now,' Jeff continued.
'Why should they? He's hardly a pacifist.'
'But he's an upstart, and the Germans are even worse snobs than the English.' The pale girl grabbed the larger one between the legs, tipping her overhead into the mud then sitting astride her waist. The pair were barely distinguishable, covered with green slime. One of the big girl's breasts plunged free from her slippery bathing-suit. 'That was as rehearsed as the gestures in Hitler's speeches,' observed Jeff.
I quoted Comte de Mirabeau, 'Other states have an army, in Prussia the army has a state".'
Jeff countered this with a grin. 'What do you expect, in a country which calls war the continuation of foreign policy by other means?'
'Clausewitz' remark was irresponsible and immoral.'
'At least it was logical.'
The thin girl was acclaimed the winner. Both disappeared for a shower. The waiters began untying the red rubber bibs. Within six months, this entertainment would be banned in Germany, along with the music of Mendelssohn and the novels of Thomas Mann.
Then I noticed at a table against the wall the dark Slav girl from Professor Domagk's laboratory.
6
'She looks a pretty thing, why don't you call her up?' Jeff indicated the telephone.
'Don't be ridiculous! She'd be dreadfully embarrassed.' I had recounted our meeting in the laboratory at Wuppertal.
'She's peddling her ass, she isn't in the position to be embarrassed about anything. You're not a sissy, are you?'