The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (32 page)

“But how is he?”

“As well as he can be. But he is delicate and not made for the life there.”

“Yet not sick?”

“No, he’s not exactly sick.”

“Is it possible to get him away from there?”

This time the answer took still longer.

But it came.

“Dear sir, to get away, that’s always a question. No one gets away from there so easily. And the director, he’s a—well, I just prefer not to say what he is, and the guards are not much better. But the worst thing is the inmates themselves. Whatever they can do to one another in meanness and dirty tricks, they’ll do. And yet they’re dependent on one another. And what all comes together there—you can just imagine! What someone doesn’t already know, he soon learns it for sure!”

“But Gunther?”

“Yes, he has it especially hard now, just because he’s something better. When they fight—what is he to do? Once I pulled him out and he just stayed on my hands.”

His breathless listener groaned.

What else should he ask? What answers were yet to come?

He looked around helplessly. The old woman shuffled by. He ordered: something warm and something to eat.

“But you yourself, how did you get out?”

The broad chest under the sailor’s jacket rose and white teeth flashed in the young face.

“Me?” he heard the youth scornfully say, “no one can hold me for long. Certainly not them. I’ll be in Hamburg tomorrow and the day after at sea.”

“You must surely be of age soon. Since—”

“Of age? How old do you take me for then?”

“Well, surely at least twenty.”

“I’m seventeen, just turned.”

Just seventeen. But it was true—with all his manliness he still had something childlike. He liked him more and more.

But it was not about him, but about Gunther that he must and wanted to hear. More—everything there was to learn.

“Tell me,” he begged, “do tell me about him. Is he truly not sick?”

“No, I said already, he’s not sick. But so quiet, so—so indifferent, as if everything was already all the same to him. I think he would no longer leave, even if he could.”

From the fearful face, whose eyes were looking at him as if a life hung on every word, the boy saw that he must comfort him somehow.

He did it in his way.

“Just don’t take it so hard, dear sir. I don’t know, it’s true, what Gunther was to you, I don’t want to know, for it’s none of my business, but I think, if you were to see him now—”

He did not know how to continue.

Graff had laid his hands over his face: I would love him as always and as never before, he thought.

He said further, looking up and quite desperate:

“But is there nothing at all, not the least thing to be done? You do understand that I can’t just leave him there, without helping him! Can I not write? Send him something, money, or whatever he needs? Can I not visit him sometime?”

The young man moved his blond head from side to side.

Again everything he said was considered and clear:

“Sending goods or money has no point. Everything goes into the hands of the guards. And visit—do you think they would admit you? A gentleman to such a boy? They do know everything there. They know why Gunther is there. No, give up the idea. You would only have difficulties and still achieve nothing.”

“But write. I will surely at least be allowed to write?”

“Write? Yes, sure you can write. Sometimes the letters are even delivered.”

“Read first?”

“Always. But after all”—naturally nothing could be in it that was suspicious—”they wouldn’t always know where the letter came from, and then would probably deliver it.”

“Best, I suppose, to register it?”

“Anything but! Just stands out all the more. And don’t put any money in. Act as if you’re a relative or a distant friend (not
that
kind) and ask if you could send something. Then he would know that he had something to expect and would perhaps be more likely to get it. But nothing is ever sure there. Sometimes it’s this way, sometimes that.”

“And otherwise there’s nothing to do—nothing at all?”

“Wait, only wait.”

“Yes, but how long?”

“Well, until he’s of age. Sometimes, however, they let them go even earlier.”

Twenty-one! thought Graff. Five years! An eternity! If he lives so long, I won’t live that long myself, if I have to continue to endure this!

He collapsed and the other regarded him with pity.

He must speak to him again.

“Now, just try writing once. Perhaps his relatives can get something done. If you use them—”

He looked at the gloomy man staring straight ahead.

Too bad, he thought, he’s a nice man. I could like him. He could be a friend for me. I’ve lost the other man who liked me so much and did everything for me (even again yesterday) . . . and now he has another boy, because I did not stay with him. But no, nothing can develop with this one. And tomorrow I’ll be gone, far away! Too bad! And yet I’m a completely different guy from this broken-winged Chick, who won’t be able to hold out much longer in any case. Too bad!

He was asked, and answered, many more things. But basically it was always the same.

“No, not sick, only so quiet. And he talks with hardly anyone any more!”

The old woman came through the narrow room with its three tables to go to the back.

“Who is the woman?”

“That’s Mother. She’s good to us and helps us get by.”

He called her in.

“True, Mother, you won’t sell us out?”

She laid her old head on his young one and caressed his cheek with her scrawny hand.

“No, my boy, I won’t sell out any of you. But what do I get out of it? You come and go, and tomorrow you, too, will already be gone again.”

“Don’t worry, Mother, I’ll come again and also bring you something pretty from overseas.”

But she only shook her head and walked out.

Graff got up. Standing was difficult for him, as if he himself were now quite old and tired.

He gave the boy his hand and pressed into the large and hard hand the same thing that Pipel had received. He laid another bill on the table for the bill.

The young man hesitated.

“But will this not be too much for you, dear sir? When you have already just now—”

On the point of leaving, Graff had just enough strength to dismiss the question and say, “And you, how will you get on?”

Again his chest rose and his teeth showed.

They shook hands with a firm clasp.

“I thank you! I thank you with all my heart!”

At the door Graff had to turn back again.

It occurred to him that he still did not know Gunther’s surname. (And he must write to him!) He asked for it.

The answer came with astonishment:

“But his name is Nielsen. Gunther Nielsen. Didn’t you know that?”

Graff left.

Alone with himself, the boy left behind thought again:

“Too bad! I would have liked to be friends with him!”

But he had known for a long time that not everything in life is or can be the way one thinks and wishes.

7

Hermann Graff rode home.

The letter must be written. It must be sent off today.

He shoved everything aside.

“My dearest boy,” he began.

And then, drawn along by these first words, he wrote and wrote. Wrote what his heart dictated and without reflecting on what he was writing.

He wrote about everything: about his longing, his despair, his anxiety over him in these last terrible weeks.

He wrote and his pen flew.

He wrote that now all was well. He was not to despair, but rather take heart. He would wait for him. He would rescue him. He only had to tell him how this could best be done.

Everything was well: he knew now where he was and soon they would be together again, never again to part.

He wrote and wrote. Sheet after sheet was covered with his steep and clear script.

He still did not know what he was writing. He only felt, with each new page, how it eased him to write, to be allowed at least to write.

He
had
to unburden his heart—to put into words everything unsaid and locked up, and to speak to his heart, to comfort, console, heal it.

He wrote and wrote.

It was late in the night when he stopped writing and gathered the sheets together.

And then all at once it was quite clear that he could never send this letter. He knew now that he had written it only for himself. He took the bundle of sheets, slowly tore them into small pieces, and then felt so tired that he was dizzy.

Without another thought, without another feeling more for today, he sank onto his bed.

*

The next morning in his office between tasks he wrote a new letter. Quite short and to the point. Every word was carefully considered: He asked how it was going for him; whether he had still not forgotten him; whether he might write and what he might send to him; and he said that he should remember that he always had a friend in him, who wanted to do everything to help him—he only had to say how and what he could do.

He signed with his full name and included a stamped envelope with his exact address, as well as a blank sheet in case Gunther had no paper handy there (he would surely be able to obtain a pencil stub).

During the noon break he dropped the letter in the post box. Yes, it was better not to register it. He must get it like this (or it would come back as undeliverable, for on the back of the letter was also his name and full address).

He was calmer. It was certainly good this way. No one would find anything suspicious or striking in this letter of a friend (he thought).

*

The letter was on its way, and from that day on his life was again only a waiting.

Today was Wednesday. Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the latest, the letter must be in Gunther’s hands. If on Friday or Saturday he had no opportunity or time for a reply, he would surely find it on Sunday. Then he would have it Monday or Tuesday at the latest.

He waited. But neither on Tuesday nor on any of the next days of the week did a reply come.

He was peculiarly calm. Only at times, when he was alone in the evening, did he groan out loud, as if in unbearable bodily pain.

*

He seldom, almost never, received letters. Who was there to write to him? Did the mail carrier even know that he lived in the house? He fixed his card outside on the door. And—something that cost him a greater effort than he was willing to admit—he asked his landlady at an accidental meeting on the stairs (the first in weeks), in case a letter should come for him, to bring it to him immediately.

“Of course!” was her answer, and she walked on by without looking at him.

*

When the week came to an end with no reply having come, he made a firm decision.

He knew now where he was. The bridge to him had been built. He must rescue him. For the guilt was his; it must be expiated.

His was the guilt!

He should long ago have rescued him from the life he was leading—from the life and from the people. He should have done it from the day that he had been here with him for the first time. That and nothing else.

He had not done it. He had let things go on as they were, in the cowardly fear of losing him.

Gunther was without thought and will, like all of these boys.

Thus he should have thought and willed for two. By the strength of his will he should have lifted him out of that accursed life, and by the strength of his love he should have succeeded. He should have placed himself firmly and irresistibly between him and that life.

He had not done it. His was the guilt and his the remorse.

Now, when it was still not too late—when he knew where he was—he must rescue him. And then, when he was rescued: stand like a wall beside him, before him . . . in front of the life on the other side of the wall!

Ten more—no, only eight more days—was he willing to wait. Not one more. If still no reply had arrived, he would give up his position, withdraw the rest of his money, and travel to the city where the institution was.

There, in the immediate vicinity—oh, everything was now only a question of being sly . . . and how sly he would be!—there nothing could be done with force, of course, but everything with cunning, planning—and money. There in his vicinity he would, under some kind of pretense (a traveler on business, a researcher interested in the local history of the area), take up residence, first to reconnoiter the terrain inconspicuously and then gradually, very gradually find the possibilities and paths for flight. After all, the institution was not a penitentiary. The boys were occasionally led out. He would (how his heart beat at the thought!) see him, if only from a distance. Then he would establish some kind of underground contact with him. He would receive a reply from him. They would reach an agreement. And finally it would all succeed.

It would—But everything else would follow, once he was there in his vicinity.

He was determined. His guilt would be expiated by rescuing him.

No reply came.

At the end of the next week, he would leave.

8

At the end of the next week he was arrested.

Not at his office.

On returning home he found on his usually empty desk a summons for the next morning: “for a hearing.”

His shock was almost a joyful one: it could only concern
him.
He would hear about him. A connection was established.

He did not think about himself. What indeed could happen to him?

He went there.

He answered the first questions of the examining magistrate, even though he was astonished at the tone in which they were asked.

His letter was shown to him.

Did it come from him?

Certainly it was from him.

Did he know the one to whom it was addressed?

Of course he knew him.

For a long time?

Yes, a long time.

Completely?

Yes, completely.

How did it come about that he knew such a boy completely? Had anything taken place between them? Indecent acts? Graff stood up, roughly shoving the chair away from him.

He would have liked to laugh out loud.

He wanted to say, “I loved him!”

But when he looked into the face of the man opposite, he kept silent.

He kept silent during all the following questions.

When they were asked more insistently and always anew, he declared that he did not wish to answer.

He was finally let go with the remark that probably a charge of violating paragraph so-and-so of the legal code would be raised. However, since no suspicion of flight was present, he might leave for now.

*

He still did not think about himself.

He even worked in his office the next morning without suspecting that it was to be the last time.

But he went home earlier than usual.

When he arrived two police officers were already waiting for him in his room.

They allowed him an hour in which to pack his things and—as they said—to put his affairs in order.

He did it calmly and orderly, as he was accustomed to doing everything.

While he was occupied with closing his large suitcase, there was a knock. A gentleman entered and, without concerning himself about the two officers, who were smoking and softly talking to each other in the window bay, went up to him.

Graff knew who it was. It was a colleague from his office, whom he knew only slightly, however, since he worked in another department. It had always struck him how intentionally this man sought his acquaintance. Where possible, he did him favors and sought to enter into a conversation with him, always with an undertone of a secret intimacy, which he did not understand and did not like. Nor did he like this colleague. He had something (not exactly slimy, but clinging), something specifically effeminate in his whole conduct, which he could not endure for the life of him.