Out of Such Darkness (7 page)

The walls of the room are magnolia interrupted by framed prints set at regular intervals. The furniture is dark and European in appearance. Jay examines one of the pictures. It’s a mediaeval street scene where the upper storeys of the buildings lean over at shoulder level like aunts and uncles embracing while children scuttle around their feet.

‘Prague!’

Jays spins round guiltily.

‘The series is eighteenth century. Scenes in Prague. They’ve been in our family … a hundred years.’ He hands over a glass which clinks with the sound of ice. ‘Please, sit.’

Jay goes back to the chair says, ‘Thanks!’ and raises his glass. ‘Cheers!’

‘You British and your “Cheers!”’ Howard shakes his enormous head.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Jay says.

‘Please do.’

‘Remember at your party you asked me which temple I go to?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry about that–’

Jay raises his hand. ‘Don’t be. Since what’s happened I’ve felt the need … I don’t know … I’ve wondered whether it would help me …’

‘You’d like to try us out?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you
are
Jewish?’

‘I think so.’

‘What do you mean?’

Jay explains about his mother who had the family name Becker and how they ate only kosher food when he was young. When his father died, they became less observant until the only remaining obligation was to attend the family dinner on a Friday evening. ‘There were no candles or prayers,’ he says. ‘But, for that one meal, it felt like we were religious.’

‘Did you have a bar mitzvah?’

‘No. But I was circumcised.’ He blushes.

Did you really say that?

Howard merely nods. ‘Any schooling of a religious nature?’

‘No, I went to a state school. I joined in the Christian stuff, such as it was.’

‘So you have nothing to say you’re Jewish except what happened in childhood.’

‘Nothing.’ He’s close to tears.

Howard sticks out his lower lip. It shows a bulbous bolster of tissue. ‘I don’t think it will trouble Rabbi Zwyck. Ours is a reform temple as I explained. Would you like me to talk to the rabbi on your behalf and see what she says?’

‘I would, yes.’

Later that afternoon Jay is sitting on the azurro-blue sofa watching
Cabaret
. The MC provides a running commentary:
Can you see how my eyes light up and my grin widens so much it hurts my face? It’s so good to see my beautiful girls again. They have not grown in age at all! This makes me sehr melancholisch.
How naughty was I with those beautiful girls? You know I was having the bumsen with all of them? Yes, every one – all the ‘wurgins’: Heidi, Christina, Mausi, Helga, Inga
and
Betty.

In the film Sally is making prairie oysters for Michael when the house telephone rings. Automatically Jay hits the video’s pause button and picks up the handset. ‘Hello?’

I was watching! Such interruptions!

‘Is this Mr Halprin?’ It’s a woman’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Lesley Jacob Halprin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of Straub, DuCheyne?’

‘Yes.’

Is she ever going to get to the point?’

‘I have Mr Fothergill for you. Nathan Fothergill of Baxter, Fothergill and Fauset.’

Jay resists the urge to throw the phone at the back door only because there’s something familiar about the name Nathan Fothergill. He recalls a meeting in a mahogany-lined office in mid-town Manhattan at the beginning of his relationship with Francois DuCheyne and Glen Straub. It involved the diminutive Mr Fothergill producing contract after contract and each of them signing in turn. With jet-lag and the whirl of what was happening, he only understood a tenth of what he was signing but was reassured by Nathan Fothergill’s Canadian stolidity, his dwarfish stature and his constant reference to the fact that Jay could have his own attorney present and check through things if he wanted.

A chill presentiment sweeps through Jay’s mind like an incoming tide. Had he been naive?

Should you have been so bloody English?

Should he have had a lawyer with him?

The woman on the other end of the line was evidently waiting for the answer. ‘Mr Halprin?’

‘Yes. Put him on.’

There’s a hiatus, a few clicks and then the woman’s voice again. ‘I have Mr Fothergill for you.’

This had better be worth stopping my movie for.

‘I don’t know what to say, Jay.’

Jay thinks: don’t say anything.

‘I called Mrs DuCheyne today. I had to be careful. Timing with these things …’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘As soon as I heard what happened, about the firm –’ his pronunciation ‘aboot’ betrays Fothergill’s Canadian nationality ‘– I had to decide who to call and how soon. I was working on the basis of no survivors.’

‘I think it’s only me … who survived.’

‘Mrs DuCheyne told me about you – about your call to her. So suddenly I have somebody to talk to.’

‘Yes. But, I’m sorry, Nathan. What’s there to talk about?’

‘The firm still exists, Jay. When it’s decided in law that the victims have perished, the ownership of the firm is transferred as in the terms of your partnership agreement.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘For the present,
you
are Straub, DuCheyne, Jay. You
are
the firm.’

‘But without Francois and Glen – there’s nothing.’

‘This is what Mrs DuCheyne says and I have subsequently spoken to Mrs Straub about the same subject.’

‘Then what’s there to talk about?’

‘Winding up the firm in the most equitable manner. Being guided by the partnership agreements. I think we should meet.’

‘When?’ There’s too much to take in. ‘Where?’ he ventures.

‘The firm’s disaster recovery set-up is in Stamford – just along the road from you. We’ll have an associate working from there in a few days. Can we set something up for the end of next week?’

‘Yes. Tell me when and I’ll be there.’

In the run-off election on the Sunday after our attendance at the Nazi rally, Hindenburg won with a slightly increased vote, enough to take him over the 50% winning line. However, the National Socialists gained a further two million supporters and it was their Brownshirts who were in evidence the following week, strutting three abreast along the Kurfurstendamm so that ordinary pedestrians had to step into the road to let them pass.

For me life changed slowly. I started to give morning English lessons to a succession of young people introduced to me by Frau Guttchen, who still had connections with rich Berlin families. At the end of the lessons, during which I took every opportunity to absorb German, I would wander down to the coffee shop. Then back to the room and Dexter Parnes VC.

By now, the plot of his third adventure was falling into place. Our brave English spy was tasked with creating a formal connection between the British Secret Service and the Nazi Party in order to thwart a pan-European Communist conspiracy. Like the fictional Dexter and others of my class I was enthralled by the trappings of Nazism but I never believed that what they were doing was good for wider Europe. Even in those early drafts, I knew that Parnes would end up having to deal with Nazi betrayal as well as the more obvious Communist threat.

Within a week or so of Hindenburg’s hollow victory I had been back to the canal side. This was my way of dealing with a work problem. I would try to empty my head of it while strolling from the part of the canal by the Zoo – ‘Rosa’s Bridge’ – towards the city until I came to the new administrative building on the canal side called the Bendler Block. After walking in the sunshine sheltered from any north wind by its massive stone edifice, I would cross the Bendlerstrasse bridge and return along the other side of the canal.

I was making my way up the stairs to my room after one such foray when I heard hurrying feet behind me. It was Leo. “I’m glad I caught you, Cam.”

“Are you okay?”

“Are you ready for our trip to the Nolli?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No, it’ll be fun. What are you doing tonight?”

I had no plans, of course.

This anonymous dive beneath a building facing the church on Winterfeldtplatz could easily have been Isherwood’s
Cosy Corner
. There were steps down to a basement doorway. It was open but the entrance was blocked by a sheet of thick hide nailed to the inside of the doorjamb. It smelt as if the tanning process of the animal’s skin had been halted midway to completion. Or perhaps the scent was the musk of heated men coming at me out of the darkened room.

My heart was booming as I stepped inside. I felt Leo stumble into my back. The buzz of conversation was loud, drowning out the American jazz music that played in the background. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I was first able to make out the shapes of white singlets, some with short sleeves, most sleeveless. I immediately felt out of place in my suit and tie and I swiftly removed my hat and held it down by my groin. My hands were shaking.

I could now make out more. There were alcoves with men kissing and stroking each other’s faces. There were other men dressed more soberly like me, many of them engaged in earnest one-to-one conversations with the younger men in white tops. I searched out a bar and led the way across. I saw that each young male in a singlet, younger than me, watched me with hungry eyes. Raw sexual tension simmered everywhere. When my gaze crossed with another’s it was like duelling sabres clashing and sparking.

I felt a face touch against my ear and flinched. I turned and realised it was Leo trying to get my attention. I leaned back to hear him.

“This is the only one I know. Once you’re settled in they’ll tell you about others.”

I nodded.

“Shall we have a drink?”

We ordered beers and took them to a side table.

“The guy who brought me here explained what goes on.” Leo had to place his mouth close to my ear so I could hear him. “The young ones in the white singlets – they’re for sale. Don’t worry, the exchange rate is so good they’ll be very cheap, I’m sure. They’ll do anything for you if you have the money. There are more private rooms at the back, he told me.”

“There are so many boys.”

“And this is one of many more establishments.”

“So many homos…” I was wide-eyed, shaking my head. It was a paradise, open and guilt-free. My sort of men.

Leo snorted. “They’re not queer! They prefer women. They do this for the money.”

A pair of young men, both in the shop-window uniform, sauntered to the table. One of them made a show of adjusting his cock as if being in our presence had excited him. The more restrained one said something in German.

I stood up and immediately cursed my public school manners, “Wie bitte? Sprechen sie Englisch?”

His face split open in a broad smile. He had good teeth. “A little. Have you long in Berlin?”

I smiled back and signalled to the empty chair. “A few months but my German is not good yet. You speak English very well.”

He frowned, cocking his head to one side as he slid into the chair. “Yes, it is very well. We can be friends, Ja?”

I laughed. “Yes, of course.”

The cock-shifter made to join us but Leo leapt out of his seat. He leaned on the table. “Are you happy for me to leave you now? I’m sure …” He turned to my young man, “Wie heisst du?”

“Hans.”

Leo spoke to me again. “Hans, if that’s really his name, will look after you from here.” He gave the cock-shifter a quick glance and made for the door. Hans waved his accomplice away and said something too quickly for me to understand.

Hans and I availed ourselves of the back-room facilities that evening. He was a very accommodating young man. It was most exhilarating and the money that changed hands was well within what I had budgeted for a night’s entertainment.

We did manage to have one conversation during the hiatus.

“Where do you live?” he asked me.

I waved in what I thought to be the general direction of the west. “Towards Charlottenburg.”

“But still in Berlin?”

“Yes, in the city.”

“You will know the bridge at the canal in Zoo.”

I shook my head – then realised he couldn’t see me. But as my head was on his chest, my arm around his waist and my forearm nudging his excitingly adequate penis he probably deduced my intention from the movement.

“Rosa’s Bridge. It where you meet.” He stuttered and made a tight-lipped hum. Finally another word came. “Die Schwul … Homosexuell.”

“Do you mean boys like you go there?”

“No not boys. Not boys for money. No it is men to meet other men. Die Schwul.”

“Homosexuals, like me. Do you mean men like me?”

“Ja. Men like you.” He shifted his hips and I felt the plum-sized bulb press against my arm. His palm moved down from my chest, gripped my bottom and squeezed, pulling me on top of him.

So I had been in Berlin for less than two months and my social life took off. I’m afraid I left Leo behind as I spent time at the various clubs in and around the Nolli, and it became my weekend treat. I still maintained my Protestant work ethic and Dexter Parnes VC took my undivided attention on weekdays but I saved my Friday and Saturday evenings for trips to the clubs.

The boys, and there were different ones every time, scratched my itch but they stimulated a hunger for something more permanent. In the Nolli I had a few beers, ogled a few boys, bedded one of them and moved on after the grubby exchange of notes which had attracted a soiled state merely because of the purpose I had found for them. In short, I had found what I thought I wanted but I wanted more.

It was then that I remembered the words of the first boy, Hans – about the ‘Schwuls’ who met near Rosa’s Bridge. What did I have to lose from a little cruising as night fell? I had by now learned enough German to hold my own in simple conversation and, let’s face it, how much conversation did I need? I resolved to try my hand at finding one of my own kind. I didn’t know which evening was best but it was a Wednesday when the idea came to me, so it was a Wednesday that I went that first time.