‘They will shoot him, Ricky,’ she says. I am sympathetic. She is about to lose a powerful protector and is in no position to find another quickly. I cannot pity Mueller. Indeed I feel only satisfaction he has at last been caught. ‘Caroline,’ I say. ‘If I can help you, I shall. I am not entirely certain at present how much money I have. But I shall do everything in my power to save you from embarrassment.’ I have always liked her. ‘Mueller is to be shot,’ she says, as if we have not absorbed the enormity and then, realising we are unmoved, rushes from the room, presumably to seek help elsewhere. Herr Schmesser looks at me. ‘If she goes out after curfew, she, too, will be arrested. But not,’ he adds with a small smile, ‘shot. You know of Mueller’s activities?’
‘I can assume he was spying.’
‘And you can be sure that Fraulein Vacarescu was helping him. Together with Budenya-Graetz, who discovered an opportunity to reinstate himself, of course, and is probably already in Vienna with every detail of our defences. It is a disgusting business. The treachery, my dear sir! I cannot tell you how much there has been. My faith in human nature has been ruined in the space of a few days. And this bombardment! Can Holzhammer justify it? His own countrymen. His own city!’ He sighs and lifts a glass of champagne to his lips. ‘I am very sad.’ I pat him on the arm. ‘You will cheer up here. After all, there are no disappointments at Frau Schmetterling’s, eh?’ He nods seriously: ‘I hope you are right.’ I make a good meal of the buffet. The evening begins. The salon fills. The girls become elegant and alert to the conversation of their guests. The phonograph plays a waltz and everything is as normal. At length, I return to Clara’s. Alexandra has by now had some cocaine. Lotte, a plump dimpled blonde, all thighs and bust, is using the dildo on herself while they watch her. I take off most of my clothes and, wearing a dressing gown supplied by Clara, sink down into a chair and become part of the audience. Alexandra will later play the part which Clara played earlier, but somehow without Clara’s delicate assurance, and I will continue to watch until I am aroused enough to couple naturally and cheerfully with Clara for a few minutes before falling soundly asleep until morning. At about ten o’clock, after a good breakfast in Clara’s rooms, we return through the chilly October sunshine to the Liverpool. The shells are directed more towards the East of the city this morning and our journey seems safe enough until the cab turns the corner into the square and we see that the building next to The Liverpool has sustained a good deal of superficial damage. I look towards our apartment. Servants are nailing boards across shattered windows. We hurry upstairs. There is glass everywhere in the room. The manager is there. He is deeply apologetic and tells us that we can move to ‘safer’ rooms at the back of the hotel. Without a word to him or to Alexandra I go downstairs and telephone Frau Schmetterling. She has one of the few private telephones in Mirenburg. ‘I would like to take you up on your offer,’ I tell her, ‘if it is still possible.’
‘Of course,’ she says. Til have the rooms prepared at once. When will you arrive.’
‘Probably in an hour or two.’
She hesitates. Her voice becomes faint as the line fades. ‘You are bringing your friend?’
‘I am afraid that I have no choice.’
‘I will see you at lunch-time,’ she says.
While Alexandra sees to the packing, I make enquiries after Caroline Vacarescu. She has not returned to the hotel, says the manager. I pay my bill with one of his blank cheques. He continues to apologise so much I feel sorry for him and am able to smile cheerfully enough. ‘Please don’t worry. I will be back here, I am sure, within a couple of weeks.’ I do not inform him of my destination. Alexandra and I are about to disappear. If we should be discovered, when the War is over I can always make her father an offer. I can marry her and save the scandal. But for some reason I do not tell Alexandra of my plan as, with boxes and trunks in three cabs, we flee the ruined Liverpool to the sanctuary of Rosenstrasse.
3
The Siege
The atmosphere at Rosenstrasse had become increasingly convivial during that first week of bombardment and, even though the shelling has stopped and the Siege proper has begun (the city now has an air of desperate calm) this mood remains with us. It is Friday, October 29th 1897. Seven of us who are permanent residents have taken to eating together, rather like passengers on a small ship or guests at a provincial boarding house. Frau Schmetterling presides: our landlady, our captain. Alexandra continues to be my secret and grows resentful of her exile from the public rooms. She is beginning to exhaust me. Clara has developed a habit of keeping her company, largely I suspect to relieve me. ‘The child is bored. I’ll take her for a stroll,’ she says, or, ‘I’ve invented a new game for our little girl.’ At night Alexandra and I sleep together as usual, reserving our evenings for ‘adventures’. We go out rarely. Mirenburg has become depressing. I cannot stand to see the boarded windows and doors, the sandbags, the rubble. We have now enjoyed, singly or in combination, almost all Frau Schmetterling’s whores. The only other residents who hardly ever make an appearance at the table together are Princess Poliakoff and Lady Cromach. The Englishwoman is frequently out, presumably gathering material for her articles. I lunch Alexandra goes with Clara to Falfnersallee ‘to look for bargains’. I enjoy a good bortsch and a veal cutlet. ‘Mister’ and Trudi wait on us. Frau Schmetterling is kind to both of them. Occasionally ‘Mister’ will be asked to join us, but usually he smiles and refuses, preferring the company of Chagani, the brooding ex-acrobat, who sometimes assists him. His gentleness can be disconcerting, even sinister. His drunkard’s face, so youthful and open, and at the same time so cruelly ruptured, expresses a peculiar eagerness. The ruined veins, the rough, red flesh, the set of his soft mouth and the watery innocence of his eyes give immediate notice of his despair, his determination to remain in some way unprotected against the terrors of the world and so, surely by an effort of will alone, retain the untroubled perceptions of boyhood. Elvira, Frau Schmetterling’s daughter, sometimes dines with us. When she and ‘Mister’ are together she seems the more mature; a self-possessed, tiny version of her mother. ‘Mister’s’ expression becomes softer, more attractive, in her company. Madame’s chow dogs, black and unpredictable, complete the menage, panting around our feet as if they are waiting for one of us to drop dead. The Dutch banker, Leopold van Geest, sallow and animated, wearing a sort of invalid’s blanket-jacket, cuts enthusiastically at his meat. He has decided that it will be at least a month before Berlin sends help. ‘The Prince should have made a Treaty with one or another of the Powers. Then Holzhammer could not have acted at all. Badehoff-Krasny was too confident. He thought he stood on a platform balanced over the torrent. But it was a tightrope, yes? He leaned back to relax and—Pouf!’ He gestures dramatically with his fork. ‘Now the Germans will let him drown a little before fishing him out. They want the best terms, after all.’ He shrugs. He has a wife and thirteen children in the Hague and is in no hurry to return home.