The Berlin Connection Read online

  I said it seemed appropriate to me, for what I am about to recount is a tale of fear and not only my fear. Those jets were a suitable overture.

  The last few months had been an inferno for me.

  Professor Pontevivo relieved me of that fear. He is a great man. Perhaps he will even be successful in restoring me to health.

  To do that, he says he must know the truth. On the floor below me is the music room of the hospital. The Frenchman, addicted to drugs, is playing the piano. He is still very young and this is his fifth time here. A hopeless case. He will probably die soon or become insane.

  When he was admitted. Professor Pontevivo told me,

  he was halfway through a piano concerto. Without drugs he is unable to compose. The most noted musicians have implored Professor Pontevivo to help this sick man com-plete his concerto.

  It is said that this hope and potential joy of the universal world of music receives just enough drugs to produce some immortal melody. Immortality from decay, almost insanity, almost death.

  The young man works in the morning and afternoon as I do. When I listen to his melodies I happily hear again Gershwin's "Concerto in F." Though what he is originating is obviously his own composition. He is creating something beautiful and if he should die or lose his mind something beautiful will remain. I create something ugly. If I should go insane or die here something ugly will remain: the truth.

  There is one thing we have in common: We both have to work dUigently. We must not waste precious moments of the little time we have left. We must finish. The beautiful and the ugly, the good and the bad, unfinished, can be neither joy nof doom.

  During the last few months I have transgressed all moral boundaries. A criminal could not have planned, thought, felt or done greater misdeeds than I. Nothing I did can be undone. The dead remain dead, the deeds settled. I can only teU the truth. I swear to do that in memory of Shirley, my love, my only love.

  The little golden cross is warm and alive in my hand. This little cross of gold which has accompanied me on my journey through crime, darkness and disaster.

  I think of Shirley and our lost love. And I swear by this love to tell the truth, the whole truth, not to add or conceal anything. And now I will continue in my report of the occurrences on the morning of the twenty-seventh of October, 1959, in Hamburg.

  I drank whisky, wonderful cold whisky.

  I could smell the zesty aroma. I could feel the tart, smoky taste. It burned my throat, oily and heavy it warmed my body.

  I gulped the whisky as a drowning man does water instead of air. And, like a drowning man rising to the surface of the sea with his last strength, I returned to life from my unconsciousness.

  Then I seemed to see whirling, fiery wheels and flaming stars, and heard a pitched hissing. The sea of flames turned gray and the hissing became the raging of the storm. I opened my eyes. The hds seemed weighted with lead.

  I was back in bed. A woman I had never seen before sat before me and held a glass of whisky to my lips, pouring the liquid into my mouth. It spilt down my throat and on the pillow. I choked and fought to catch my breath.

  "Well, now," said the strange woman.

  I looked around quickly. The drapes had been pulled back again. I saw the dark sky and the black, hurrying clouds. The telephone, lamp and the ashtray were back on the bedside table. The ashtray was clean now. Next to it stood an almost full bottle of Scotch.

  "Drink a little more," said the woman. Turning my head my teeth hit the glass. My robe hung on a hanger, my slippers underneath. The newspaper and magazines were folded. My glancing eyes took in headlines: us

  STANDS firm: ATTACK ON BERLIN MEANS WORLD WAR HI, SAYS EISENHOWER. NEW SOVIET SATELLITE CIRCLES EARTH.

  Who had put me to bed and cleared up the room? I

  31

  was sweating again. My heart was pounding. Something enormous, frightening was vibrating in me.

  The fist!

  I wanted to ask the woman who she was but only a hoarse whisper came from my throat. Then she spoke. Her voice was deep and melodious. She spoke very pure High German. "I am Dr. Natasha Petrovna."

  "A doctor?"

  "Yes, Mr. Jordan." She was dressed in a green, tight-fitting suit, green shoes with high heels. Her hair was blue-black, parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun. The little ears were visible.

  She bent forward to feel piy pulse. Her fingers were white and narrow and cool. Transparent nail polish covered her nails. I pulled back my hand. The sudden movement made me dizzy.

  "Don't move." Her forehead was high and her features were typically Slavic, slanting eyes and prominent cheekbones. The wide mouth was dark red. The brows thick. Her pupils were black and luminous behind large glasses. "I gave the busboy who brought the whisky five marks."

  "The... busboy..."

  "A tip. I sent back the breakfast. I hope that was all right with you."

  "Breakfast..." It took efifort to pull myself together.

  "I'm sure you only ordered it to have an opportunity to get the whisky."

  The tone of her voice exasperated me. She was so sure of herself and strong, healthy and superior.

  "How did you get in here?"

  "I was asked to come. Luckily I happened to be in the hotel. A lady from Ceylon became ill and—"

  "Who called you?"

  "One of the managers. When you fell you pulled down the telephone too. When the operator did not get any reply a busboy was sent up."

  "Who put me to bed?"

  "The manager, the busboy and I."

  "Go away." /

  "Excuse me?"

  "I want you to go away. I don't want to be examined."

  I was never to see Natasha Petrovna lose her composure. Not all the horror we lived through together made her lose her self-restraint. Only one gesture betrayed her effort at control. Her narrow white hands touched the broad sides of her modern black glasses and pushed them up sHghtly. That was all.

  "Mr. Jordan, be sensible."

  "Leave me alone."

  She did not answer but opened her bag to take out a stethoscope. All her movements were deliberate and sedate. The wide cheekbones and the slightly slanted glasses gave her a feline look. There was intelligence in Natasha's face. It was a desiring, passionate face, passionately desiring knowledge and truth. The attractive long-lashed eyes looked at me without anger or impatience.

  Today, here in Rome, after the catastrophe, I am able to describe Natasha, to confide in the silently moving tapes: I have never seen a more beautiful or compassionate face than Natasha's. On that morning in October I was blind to beauty, deaf to goodness.

  "You cannot examine me against my will, can you?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then, go away!"

  She looked at me silently. She was at most thirty-five years old.

  "I am a guest in this hotel. Are you leaving now or do I have to have you thrown out?"

  "Your behavior shows clearly how much you are in need of a doctor's help. I will call the manager." She reached for the telephone. I caught her hand. "Why?"

  "I need a witness. You will kindly repeat to him that you refuse to be examined."

  "Why?"

  "I am responsible in case something should happen to you. I don't know what you might do when I leave." I saw her look at the whisky bottle, the empty bottles, the black bag and the empty thermos bottle. The manager and the floor waiter had seen that too: my dirty, well-kept secret. Now she wanted to call a witness. If I did not submit to an examination more people would come. Soon the entire hotel staff would know. Who would be the one to call the newspaper? The chatty columnists had their informants everjrwhere and they paid well for such news.

  PETER JORDAN COLLAPSES: WHISKEY! PETER JORDAN

  THROWN OUT OF HOTEL. I could scc the headlines. Sweat trickled from my forehead and hands. I noticed I still had the little cross in my hands. Wrong. Wrong. Oh, Shirley, everything I did was wrong!

  "Let me make the call, Mr. J
ordan."

  "No."

  "Your behavior is childish. Then I'll just have to go downstairs."

  She was so cool, so matter-of-fact, so very prudent. And yet, I remember distinctly, even at our first meeting I had the impression that this woman had had to exert all her strength to control herself so perfectly. We very rarely are aware that the people we meet have behavior patterns that influence their conduct. We expect them to react as we would were we in their place; we cannot, in most cases, understand or comprehend them. Today I know. Natasha was carrying a heavy burden. Suffering and misfortune had taught her to think always of others; had taught her to be calm and direct.

  "Wait. . . wait..." I stammered^

  "Yes, Mr. Jordan?"

  "I... I have to explain ... I am an actor. . . ." T could not continue. The fist hit my solar plexus. The fear re-

  turned. The storm raged. Somewhere m the hotel a window slammed. I heard glass break and hit the ground. Finished. Finished. Everything was finished.

  "Paddy, I'm going to have a child . .."

  In retrospect this seems symptomatic of those hours: My emotions were ranging between rebellion and self-sacrifice, courage and hopelessness. "No one ... must ... know . . . I. . . am . . . ill. . ."

  Natasha took her hand from the receiver. Her voice was friendly and calm, "No one will hear anything from me. A doctor is pledged to silence."

  I had not thought of that.

  Yes. Oh, certainly. Naturally.

  Pledged to silence.

  My spirits rose. I wanted to smile, say something. It turned out a grimace, a babble. She took the bottle and filled the glass once more as if it were perfectly normal to drink at nine in the morning. She held the glass to my lips and said, "Here, Mr. Jordan."

  9

  "If each person in the world would make only one other person happy, the whole world would be happy."

  At this point in my report I remember this sentence. She said it to me after the worst had happened, when she understood what I had done. The look on her face told me that she did not condemn me, there was nothing she could not understand. The same look was on her face on this October morning, her voice was the same calm voice when she said, "Here, Mr. Jordan."

  I held the glass with both hands and emptied it in one draught. She filled the glass again. I felt the whisky give new strength to my body. Suddenly I could see clearly, hear clearly. I did not feel the fist any more. Here I was,

  sitting before Natasha in my crumpled pajamas, very much relieved. Very quietly I said, "Thank you."

  She went to the door and switched on the light. The chandelier sparkled.

  "And now you are going to allow me to examine you?" I nodded. That she had given me the whisky seemed to me the most important thing anyone had ever done for me. "When I was a httle girl I saw all your movies, Mr. Jordan." A moment ago I had hated her. Now I thought her wonderful. I felt even better now. I took another little drink. "You are scheduled to make another movie here in Germany. You are afraid that the news of your collapse will become known. This is perfectly understandable."

  How clever she was, and how likable!

  "Are you Russian?"

  "My parents were Russian. I was born in Germany. And you, Mr. Jordan? How is it you speak German so well?"

  "My mother came from Berlin."

  "Tell me what happened before you passed out."

  "I had an attack."

  "Can you describe it?"

  I described it, drinking the whisky while talking. "The worst was the fear," I heard myself say; the whisky quickly went to my head. "Terrible fear. Horrible fear. I thought it was a coronary."

  "Did you hear voices?"

  "No." I had completely forgotten Shirley's voice.

  "Did you see anything? Animals?"

  "Do you think that I have the d.t.'s?"

  "Please, answer me."

  "No. Or rather, yes, I saw a dead seagull. But it is real. You can see it too."

  "Where?"

  "On the balcony." She went to the drawing room, switched on the light there and T could not see her. I called out, "Pretty, awful sight, isn't it?"

  "I see no gull," her voice replied. I jumped out of bed and ran to her. The hght from the room shone into the darkness and the pouring rain outside. The flooded balcony was bare, the bird gone.

  "But..." I was very shaken. I smiled crookedly. "Delirium tremens, after all?"

  She looked at me without speaking. The fist. For seconds I felt it again.

  "I swear to you, the gull was there. The rain must have washed it away."

  "Probably."

  My hands closed tightly around Shirley's cross. The little cross suddenly seemed to be all the protection and support I had left in the world.

  10

  Dr. Petrovna's finger described a circle in front of my eyes and she told me to follow it. I sat on my bed again. "Watch the tip of my finger, please, Mr. Jordan."

  Her finger had moved sideways and I was hard put to see it. My pupils felt as if they were impaled on rough little sticks. My spirits rose again after having a few more gulps of whisky. Natasha permitted me to drink. The rain flooded the windowpanes, the storm rattled them. I was happy to be examined by such an understanding human being.

  "Do you take stimulants, Mr. Jordan?"

  "No."

  "Drugs?"

  "No."

  "Never?"

  "No. Only whisky." The finger circled.

  "Watch the tip of-my finger, Mr. Jordan."

  "That has something to do with my head, hasn't it? Am I crazy?"

  The finger circled.

  "Doctor!"

  "Yes, Mr. Jordan."

  "I asked you something."

  "Your nerves seem to be on edge. I'm sure you are very excited about your movie." This woman was terrific! How she cakned me down! How she questioned me to distract me!

  "When was the last time you stood in front of a camera?"

  "Twenty years ago. Nineteen thirty-nine. Can you imagine? I had to wait twenty years. And now .. ."

  She took a httle flashlight and shone it in my eyes. Her face was very close. Natasha's breath was as pure and clean as fresh milk.

  "You drink a lot, don't you?"

  "No one has ever seen me drink."

  "That is something else again. How long have you been drinking?"

  "For quite a long time."

  "How long?"

  "Well..."

  "You must tell me the truth if I am to make a diagnosis."

  "For twenty years."

  "And how much daily?"

  "That depends. Just lately ..."

  "More than one bottle?"

  "No."

  "Much less than one bottle?"

  "Not . . . much less." Rather more would have been true. I said proudly: "But I never had any problems. I could work and sleep and I could always eat."

  "Do you drink in the morning too?"

  "You know..."

  "I'm asking you as your doctor."

  "Yes. I guess all day, a little. But secretly, no one has any idea."

  "You must have a drink, mustn't you?"

  "Yes. Well, you see if I don't I am very nervous. Jumpy. Unsure. I'm always afraid—"

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "Well, it probably sounds ridiculous ... but I am talking to a doctor. Anyway, I just can't seem to take care of my business unless I have had a drink. It just gets too much for me; do you understand me? And just lately I have had more worries and excitement. Why are you looking at me like that? Don't you beheve me?"

  "I believe every word. But perhaps it is the other way around."

  "The other way around?"

  "You say you can't take care of your business unless you have a drink. Today you are nervous and agitated without whisky."

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps that is not the result of years of drinking but the cause. Perhaps you were always an overly sensitive and nervous man and that is why you began to drink twenty y
ears ago. It happens. Especially among artists. Possibly you would never have become an actor without this instability." This impressed me very much and I looked at her admiringly. Natasha pushed her glasses into place. "When were you bom?"

  "January eleventh, 1922." She was so sympathetic. I respected her knowledge. A sudden urge for communication overcame me. Naturally, it was also the whisky. "My parents were actors, you know. They traveled all over the country. They played everything. Shakespeare and slapstick comedy. Operettas and schmaltz and Abie's Irish Rose ..."

  "Please lie back. Relax." She felt my glands, looked at my throat, my arms, and I babbled on.

  "Apropos acting . . . they never gave me a chance to show what I could do! This last movie I played in 1939 stank to high heaven! Stupid Western. Actually my career was finished three years before that. You know when?"

  "Turn over, please. When?"

  "When I was five feet four. When I was only five feet three I was still Prince Charming, America's Little Sunshine Boy. Even another half-inch. After that, finished. All over."

  "Hold out your hands, please."

  "Do you understand? I was too tall for a child star. The studio canceled the contract." Natasha placed a sheet of paper on my stretched-out hands. It wobbled and fell off. She wound the blood-pressure cuff around my arm and inflated it. "I remember even now the studio doctor adjusting the little piece of wood on the height scale and shaking his head. Five feet four inches. That was that. That was the twentieth of December, 1935. My poor mother had a nervous breakdown. I was not even fourteen years old. I had various businesses and oil wells and stocks and bonds. But I was five feet four and finished. Isn't that comical? Now I have to be quiet, right?"

  "Yes. Breathe deeply, please." She hooked the stethoscope into her ears and listened to my heart. "Don't breathe. Breathe." The flat disc of the instrument slid across my naked chest. T heard the rain outside. "Sit up, please." She examined my back. "How tanned you are!"

  "Two weeks ago I was still lying in the sun in California. Tell me that you would never have thought I was drinking!"