Blood Brothers (9 page)

The hot coffee spills down his throat like fire. Oh, that feels so good, to get something warm inside you. And now, now it’s the turn of the cake. Wonder when he last had cake? In the institution they gave you stollen on holidays. Two or three slices each. And that didn’t taste much different than bread that’s been kept next to a bag of sugar. Whereas this here! That’s what I call cake! On top there’s this soft pinkish yielding stuff. And inside there’s even a cream filling. That baker sure is a nice fellow. And all for a few pennies. Now light up, and shuffle into the day room, get a place near one of the hot stoves. Place stays open till three. He’s got almost two whole hours just to warm himself.

Willi sits down beside a boy, just a kid really, fifteen or sixteen. The kid looks longingly at Willi’s cigarette. Willi registers his look and holds the bag out to the kid. In return, the little fellow feels obliged to tell him about his wretched young
life. Even though his mother’s in Berlin, he doesn’t live with her. He’d sooner hang around the warming hall and spend the night in shelters. How come, Willi asks. The childish lips provide the answer, rough and awful: “My mum’s a whore. She’s on the game, and she’s gone and let the other room to a couple of other whores. And then they all bring men back to the flat, my mum too … And I’m supposed to lie in the alcove behind a curtain while they … I preferred to leave …” Willi asks if his mother at least supported him financially. “Oh, she drinks away whatever she makes. She’s on the sauce. She’s always tippling rum … And now she’s in hospital. She’s got siffylis.” “Where are you staying tonight then?” Willi asks. “I’ll probably be at Silesian Olga’s, she only takes forty pfennigs.” “Could I stay there as well? I’ve got nowhere.” “Sure, course you can.” “Where can we go when this place shuts?” Willi asks next. “Oh, we’ll go on to the municipal library. That stays open until half past eight, and it’s warm. Study, you know. They let you read novels and newspapers, and there’s chairs, and it’s nice and bright.” At three, when the warming hall closes, Willi heads off with his new friend, who’s also called Willi, to the library. To study.

The library in the old stables building has a newspaper-reading room annex, which is open to the general public. In winter, this reading room is so popular that people are regularly turned away. It is pleasantly warm. The tall bright room is full of light and cleanliness. There are newspapers all round the walls. An official sees to it that the character of an afternoon warming hall isn’t too painfully obvious. A few taps of a reproachful index finger make the sleeper aware of the unsuitability of his behavior. The man thus marked blushes in proportion to his sensibility, and immerses
himself with fresh enthusiasm in his reading of the serial. Little Willi knows his way around. He pulls down copies of
Simplicissimus
and
Jugend
, and the two of them fall to reading. Willi Kludas has trouble staying awake. He is yearning for the promised mattress at Silesian Olga’s.

At quarter to nine on the dot, the librarian tells everyone to hang up their newspapers. A few minutes later the readers, many of them, are standing out on the quiet Breite Strasse, and don’t know what to do with themselves. A tormenting night of wandering lies ahead of them. Until seven o’clock, when the warming hall on Ackerstrasse opens its doors to those already waiting.

Silesian Olga has a basement flat in the east of Berlin. She’s converted two back rooms into a minimal but inexpensive hostel. If you count the putting out of a few straw sacks as conversion … But what more does she need to do for forty pfennigs? Little Willi takes his older namesake into one of the typical stinking backyards that Berlin has by the thousands. The damp reek of mold engulfs them as they walk down the hollowed-out stairs. Silesian Olga is sitting by her stove, patching and sewing at a pair of man’s trousers. The trousers of a resident. When else should she mend his things if not now, when the wearer has crawled off to sleep under a filthy blanket.

If a resident can’t get together the necessary forty pfennigs, then Olga will still sometimes agree to make an exception. But only if the boy is nice looking … Olga’s no more than a rattling bag of bones herself. Her willingness to make concessions strikes terror into the hearts of the boys. It’s rare that one turns up at the hostel without money, because he knows what’s in store for him then … “Evening, boys,” Olga
welcomes the two lads, before crawling back to the ruined trousers with her weak eyes. Each of them counts out his due, and is then permitted without further ado to seek out a place for the night. A wretched oil lamp sputters. Mold thrives on a few dirty scraps of wallpaper, and where the straw mattresses are laid out, sharp eyes might make out numerous disgusting bloodstains from squashed bedbugs.

Boys, men and oldsters lie higgledy-piggledy on the floor, sleeping away the wretchedness of their existence. Boys, in whose sleeping mouths milk teeth still shine. Men, whose strong arms would be capable of earning a better billet. Oldsters, whose pathetic weakness would have earned a better billet. Look at the winter garments of that seventy year old! His bare feet are in tattered old shoes that are far too big for them. Olga may have declined to patch his trousers. They would be a waste of thread, those rags secured with safety pins and string. Instead of a shirt, the old man wears a disintegrating sweater. On the chest, in racy lettering, is the legend “Mifa,” a make of bicycle. Perhaps a compassionate cyclist gave it to him? He has nothing by way of a jacket, only a coat of ill-defined color and shape. His long scrawny chicken-neck pokes out of his sweater. His crumpled bird’s face looks like it might already have known the grave.

New guests arrive, and flop down silently on straw sacks. Silesian Olga finishes her sewing, lays the items on the sleeper’s blanket, and blows out the lights in both rooms. No one will come now. She counts her takings, and puts the money in a saucepan, in a carefully secured hiding place. Slowly Olga starts to take the pins out of her thin chartreuse-colored hair, and bundles what’s left of it into a thin plait. She stuffs a hot-water bottle into the bed beside the basin, the boys all paid
up tonight … There follows a fantastic production of gaudy petticoats. The bed doesn’t even groan as it receives the bony load. Olga remembers something, and starts up again. The lid of the washing cauldron. If one of her sleepers happens to be taken by lust for the money in the saucepan, and sneaks into her kitchen, the lid, balanced on the door, will fall off with an almighty clang and awaken Silesian Olga from her sleep.

10

TWO DAYS HAVE PASSED
since Ludwig’s sentence. The guard in the remand prison shakes the bell. A brutal noise shatters the silence of the sleeping prison. Then the official runs down the corridors: “Get up! Get up!” He lets the trusties out first, and then he opens cell after cell so that they can give the inmates fresh water. It’s the beginning of a new day.

Ludwig is just taking receipt of his can of water when an official comes along and tells him: “You, make ready. At nine o’clock you’re out of here.” “Where to?” “To H., the young offenders’ institution.” Then Ludwig’s on his own again. So it’s back to H., is it? Even this grim news gives Ludwig a bit of encouragement. At last he can leave prison. A ten-hour train ride, away from Berlin, of course, but a change in the weary routine of the last months. Let the chips fall where they may. He won’t stay in H., he’s sure of that. He quickly dresses, fossicks around with his shoes, brushes and gussies himself up till the trusties come along with their dodgy coffee and a slice of rye bread. The growing boy’s constant hunger makes short shrift of the bread, the big strong teeth aren’t detained for long. Ludwig sits on the wobbly stool, ready for the off, listening out, like a dog waiting for a walk. He is excited, his cheeks are pink and his eyes bright, as they haven’t been in a long
while. To think that he’ll be outside in half an hour … on Alexanderplatz. With the escort, of course. He’ll catch a glimpse of Münzstrasse, maybe even the odd acquaintance. Then, suddenly, something crosses his mind: is the escort going to keep him chained up until they’re on the train? Because he’s not going to stand for that. No way. The key turns in Ludwig’s cell door. “All set?” In the reception area, Ludwig is given back what he had in his pockets when he was admitted. His pencil, his pocket knife, his matches and little notebook. Then he has to sign that everything was properly returned to him. In the pen, he has to stand and wait till the transporter comes for him.

Through an air vent Ludwig hears the surging noise of the Alexanderplatz, the clattering of heels, the oaths of irate drivers, the giggling of gossipy secretaries, and the repeated incomprehensible cries of the newspaper sellers. He can feel his heart beating at his throat, his hands are trembling and slick with sweat. He’s almost there, almost. He casts a look at the officials across the partition from him. Calm decent men, sitting at their desks, working through files, files, files. Prison is their career, locking people away is their vocation. They get as much pleasure out of shutting someone up as letting them go again. In or out, what’s it to them, they only do what the files tell them.

A little man comes running into the office. Short stout legs in falling-down puttees, his rotund belly in a warm tunic. The jolly red face with the never-still pince-nez looks just about as unpolice-like as it’s possible to be. He presents his papers, which identify him as the transporter of the young offender Ludwig N. Everything is in order, he is presented with the large file, and then he has to sign for it and
the associated offender. So far as Berlin is concerned, Ludwig has been dealt with. He is released from the pen, and handed over to the transporter. The fat man gives the boy the onceover. “Well, let’s get going, then, shall we. Morning, gents.” He stops down in the yard of the HQ. “Now, listen to me, Ludwig. My name’s Hackelberg, it’s my job to take you to the institution at H. We’re going to take the underground to Potsdamer Platz, and then we’ll walk to Anhalter Bahnhof. I’m supposed to have you on a lead while we’re in Berlin” — he shows Ludwig a chain — “but that’s not a nice thing for either of us, is it. So be a sensible lad, and don’t get any ideas. If you try and make a break for it at any point, I’ll have no option but to have you cuffed. Are we agreed then?” Ludwig answers “Yes, sir” like a good boy, and looks longingly at the cigar Herr Hackelberg is about to light. “Fancy a smoke, do you? Well, let’s see if we can’t buy a couple of cigarettes somewhere,” is the transporter’s reaction to Ludwig’s sheep’s eyes.

And now they are walking through the crowds. Herr Hackelberg, seemingly without a care in the world, is drawing on his cigar and giving Ludwig instructions as to his behavior once they are on the train. Ludwig feels the paving stones under his feet, he feels light-headed like an invalid who’s been bedridden for months. All those people, those shops, Tietz’s over there, the girls … my God, the girls. They’ve made it to the underground stop in no time, now they go downstairs. Herr Hackelberg buys ten cigarettes at the kiosk. “There you go, Ludwig, now you can puff away to your heart’s content …” Ludwig barely manages to blurt out his “Thank’ee.” Someone being kind to him, giving him cigarettes? It defies belief. Hackelberg is offering him a light before he’s dared to open the pack. Then he bursts out with it: “Thank you … oh, thank you so much,
Herr Hackelberg. No one’s shown me any kindness for such a long time …” How long is it since he last smoked? The last cigarettes he had were the ones Jonny sent. He gulps, swallows the smoke and blows it out in dense clouds.

Now here’s their train. In spite of the crowd, Herr Hackelberg is adept at keeping Ludwig at his side at all times. He’s also given him his file and his little suitcase to carry. The boy would have to fling those away if he made a dash for it, and by the time he does I’ll have got him again, he thinks. They have to change at Friedrichstadt. The crowds in these underground-transfer stations are something to behold. Everyone walking, running, jogging into each other and past each other. Your Berliner hates to miss a train. That would mean having to wait two minutes till the next one! Even a jobless man will leap aboard a moving train. It must be an old instinct, dating back to the time he was still gainfully employed …

Ludwig, with case and file, twists his way through the crowds. By his side is the alert Hackelberg. They have to go down a long passage called Consumption Corridor. Two young men are barging their way through the other passengers, to catch the train pulling in at the far end of the passage. “For Chrissakes, get a move on, won’t you! Get on with it,” calls one, then they disappear into the mass. “For Chrissakes get a move on.” The words echo in Ludwig, bring him to life: git on wiv it! He can feel it whispering to him, exhorting him: run, break, do one! He’s forgotten his earlier gratitude for the ten cigarettes. A new feeling, his hunger for freedom, swills away all that.

Crash! The case and file are down at Herr Hackelberg’s feet, impeding him. Ludwig clears a path for himself with
fists and elbows, races down the steps into the tunnel. Parts the human seas with both arms, squeezes, twists, forces himself through every little gap, hugs the wall, where there’s liable to be the most space. No one is surprised at the boy’s hurry, they’re just furious at the way he’s knocked them aside and trodden on their shoes. Ludwig can hear a roaring inside him: For Chrissakes, get a move on … run … or else he’ll catch you! At the same time, he’s thinking urgently: where to? If there’s a train at the platform, jump on board. Otherwise, up to street level and onto a passing bus. The platform. A train is just pulling out, it’s already putting on speed. Pull at the door, run alongside … jump! Helping hands pull him into the carriage. Panting hard, he stands among the passengers. The train races west. If a ticket inspector happens by, Ludwig, you’re out of luck.

What about Herr Hackelberg? He did his best. Left everything lying there, set off in pursuit and yelled his “Stop! Stop!” It was his bad luck that a train was just leaving. The stationmaster assumed his “Stop!” was for the train, and thought Herr Hackelberg meant to jump onto it. As duty obliged him, he held him back. Held on to him. And before Herr Hackelberg, distressed as one may imagine, was able to explain the situation to him, Ludwig was gone. Only the case and file could still be retrieved. So back to HQ. He wasn’t to blame for any of it. It said expressly on the transport papers:
Cuffing not essential.