Nightmare in Berlin
For quite a while there was a young girl walking ahead of Doll, who had none of the charm that youth confers on even the most unprepossessing; she walked with difficulty on bloody, festering, dirty legs, as if barely dragging herself along. Her dress appeared to have been made from a couple of flour sacks. When the wearer made it, she still retained a little bit of hope, despite her wretched circumstances; she had added some crudely embroidered decorative trims and a little white collar, as if to say: ‘I’m young, you can still look at me, even if I am only wearing a dress made from old sacking!’
But all these additions were now looking battered and crumpled, and so dirty that the white collar looked almost black, or at any rate no lighter than the sacking. In the course of her long travels she had lost all hope, given up on herself a long time ago. These people I see walking the streets with me can be divided into two groups, thought Doll: the ones who cannot hope, and the ones who dare not hope.
But all of them, whichever group they belonged to, were carting something around with them: a few wretched twigs snapped off the trees; burst suitcases, whose contents one would really rather not know; handbags stuffed full; and mysterious briefcases whose locks had long since broken because they had been overfilled too often, and which were now held together with a piece of string.
We’re all going to perish anyway, thinks one group. But first, let us eat our fill again! Eat until we are replete with good things, and contentment flows through our veins along with the bright blood, which has at last received some decent nutrients!
Meanwhile the expressions on the faces of the other group are saying: We have to gather our strength for our daily toil, so that we can survive these times in one piece. But all of them were scarred by the war, and all of them shared a tendency to caution, a lingering doubt: Maybe something terrible will suddenly happen to us, too — so it’s good to have had our hopes, at least! Doll himself was moderately pessimistic: he didn’t believe that he or his family would perish, but he thought it entirely possible that the future could get extremely unpleasant.
He now turned off from a main thoroughfare into a quiet, green side street lined with villas. But his access to this street was blocked by a red-and-white barrier pole, with a sentry box next to it painted in diagonal red-and-white stripes, where a Russian sentry and a German policeman were standing guard to ensure that no unauthorised persons entered this area, where only officers of the occupying power were allowed to live. Doll had the necessary identification papers on him, and was let through without difficulty, but he still didn’t like going through this barrier. Anything that reminded him too much of the war and the military was unwelcome. The sense of impatience he felt at the sight of this red-and-white sentry box could be more or less summed up thus: It’s time to be done with this kind of business — not just here, but across the whole world!
At the same time, he knew very well that such feelings were foolish. All of this was still necessary: the world, and his fellow countrymen in particular, were not yet ready for a life without constant supervision, without the threat of force. For too long had reason been cast down from its throne. Especially as his dear fellow countrymen would doubtless smash each other’s heads in if they were left unsupervised …
By now, Doll was only twenty paces away from a pretty, yellow-painted villa, which looked very well maintained, with its flowerbeds out front (though they had potatoes growing in them now), and its windows all intact and fitted with blinds. This villa was not his final destination today — that lay three or four minutes further on — but he had made up his mind to call in briefly while he was passing. In it lived a man who had helped him a great deal during the previous, difficult year, a man whom he had repeatedly disappointed, and yet who remained unfailingly kindly and helpful. A good, true friend, and quite selfless — one of life’s rare gifts even in normal times, and how much more so today!
Doll had neglected this man criminally in recent months, acting as if this man, who continued to worry about him, no longer existed. Doll had made absolutely no effort to contact him. Now it was high time to go and show his face again.
Even so, Doll was sorely tempted to walk on to the next street corner, and the one after that, to see if the truck and trailer had arrived yet from the small town. And if the truck was there, then he would have to help unload the things and set them up indoors. In which case, he would have to skip this visit.
He stood there hesitating for a moment, and then told himself to get a grip: Never mind the truck and trailer — you’ve put it off for long enough! He pressed the bell button, and a moment later the garden gate buzzed. He pushed it open, walked through the front garden, and said to the maid: ‘Is Mr. Granzow at home?’ And as it had been a long time since he was last there, he added by way of explanation: ‘Doll.’
‘Yes, I know!’ said the maid, sounding slightly offended, and disappeared inside the house.
Doll didn’t have to wait long. He didn’t have to follow the maid through into the writer’s study, feeling anxious as he crossed the threshold and trying to read his host’s expression. As so often, it was made easy for him, easier than he probably deserved …
Granzow appeared at the door of his house, dressed in dark trousers and a pristine white shirt, evidently having come straight from his desk, with a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other. And just like before, he cried: ‘Doll! How wonderful to see you here again! Are you well again now? Are you living over there now? So you’re waiting for Alma, who’s coming with the truck that’s bringing your things? I say again: wonderful to see you! Now you’re starting to get somewhere, and it’s all happening for you! But come on in, don’t stand out there in the blazing heat. You do smoke, don’t you? Here, take one! And here’s a light. Now sit yourself down and tell me how you are! What are you all up to?’
And so the conversation began to flow — no word of reproach, not so much as a passing thought. Nothing but kindliness, interest, and an eagerness to help. And then, of course, the moment came when Granzow leaned forward and cautiously inquired in a soft voice (as though he didn’t want to damage something fragile): ‘And how’s the work going? Have you started to write again? Are you making good progress?’
‘Oh well, Granzow …’ replied Doll, slightly embarrassed. ‘Yes, I’ve started to write again. I’m doing my stint every day, but that’s just it: I’m just going through the motions. Like a schoolboy doing his homework. But I don’t have the spark or the drive, the inspiration that is really the best part of all. And as for my day job, writing short stories for newspapers just to bring some money in … Well, yes, sometimes I do actually enjoy it again. But I’m not really getting anywhere. We’re saddled with debt from the time when we were struggling. We can just get by each day, but there’s nothing left over. And now there’s the hire of the truck to fetch our things from the country, and that’s going to cost thousands!’ He looked quizzically at Granzow.
He had been listening to this litany of sorrows with his customary attentive concern. ‘Ah yes, your debts!’ he interjected. ‘I’ve heard about them. I’m also told that you’ve started to sell off your books. You shouldn’t do that, Doll! You’ve sold enough already. Far too much, in fact. It’s time to stop!’
‘But what am I supposed to do?’ cried Doll in despair. ‘It’s all very well to say “Stop selling off your things!” I’d like nothing more. You know how I love my books. It’s taken me fifteen years to amass my collection. Every spare mark I had went on buying more books. But now I simply have to sell them. These debts are starting to make life very difficult!’
‘I understand, I understand!’ said Granzow soothingly. ‘But I still wouldn’t sell the books. Why don’t you have a frank talk with a publisher?’
‘But I’m already in debt to Mertens!’
‘I’m sure that won’t matter, Doll’, said Granzow. ‘Mertens is a reasonable man. Talk to him — he can only say no, and even i
f he does, you won’t be any worse off than you are now. But he won’t say no. Most likely he’s only waiting for you to ask. Do you want me to have a word with Mertens?’
‘Absolutely not!’ cried Doll, appalled. ‘I can’t let you do all my dirty work for me, Granzow! If anyone is going to talk to Mertens, it’ll be me!’
‘So you will speak to Mertens?’
‘Probably. Very likely. Don’t give me that sceptical smile! I expect I’ll do it, really I will.’
‘And if you don’t do it, then I’ll do it for you. Anyway: no more selling off books and other things, Doll! Forgive me for interfering like this. But the other way really is better.’
‘Fine’, said Doll, his mind now made up. ‘I’ll speak to Mertens. You can’t imagine what it would be like, Granzow, to be free from all these worries at a stroke! I never had debts before — it’s just awful!’
‘And then you’ll be able to write freely again’, Granzow went on. ‘You’ll see, one day you’ll write the book that everyone is waiting for! I’m absolutely sure of it, and you’ll do a great job!’
And he wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise, despite Doll’s sceptical head-shaking. Then they talked about Granzow’s trip down to the south of Germany. They told each other stories, they chatted, they were still the same old new friends from before, even if there had been disappointments. They didn’t have a lot in common, but there was one thing that united them every time: the belief that they had to work, for themselves and for their nation. And they loved their work — for them, everything revolved around this work, which never became just a day job for them.
Doll found himself out on the street again, still smoking one of Granzow’s ‘proper’ cigarettes. He turned a couple of corners and stood at the entrance to the little street of villas where he now lived. There was no truck and trailer parked outside his house. So it was good that he had called in to see Granzow without checking first, good that he had made the effort — otherwise he would be feeling ashamed now that he had ducked out of it.
He walked slowly up to the house, unlocked the door, and went in. The children were living here alone now, looked after by an elderly housekeeper, but at the moment they were at school. The whole place was deserted and empty. Worse than that: it all looked untidy and squalid, covered in dirt and dust. Nobody was lavishing any care or attention on this house, which could have been a proper home. In the little girl’s room the bed had not yet been made, even though it was now getti