Good People (11 page)

He left Carlson on the patio and went back into the hall. He noticed that light from the chandelier fell unevenly: near the dais the white shirts and the gold epaulets on the black uniforms glowed, but thick
strips of shadow stretched between the bar and the staircase. Perhaps it would be a good idea to direct the attention of the architect, king of the beasts, to this strange effect. Chains of little German and US flags were hung on either side of the stairs, while above them, as though in a different world, a gigantic poster bathed in the light of the chandeliers:

1939—YEAR OF FRIENDSHIP AND BROTHERHOOD THE MILTON COMPANY

Thomas twisted his cuffs. He felt that the nauseating odour of Carlson's hair tonic had clung to his suit, and he remembered in disgust the way he had shaken his shoulder. An attractive black-haired man in a striped jacket was leaning against one of the sculptures, and several pretty women had gathered around him.

One of them, about thirty, bared a shoulder underneath a pink fur coat with ostrich feathers on the collar. ‘Herr Fritzsche,' she wheedled, ‘it's so wonderful to hear you on the radio. Your voice simply relieves all my pains.'

‘Really, madam, I just broadcast the news and keep the German people informed,' the man with the famous voice said modestly, wiping his brow with a handkerchief exactly on his receding hairline.

‘Did I tell you I'm the understudy in a new production of Schiller?' The woman set her head at a coquettish angle. ‘You must know about it,
Intrigue and Love
.'

‘Of course, wonderful!' Fritzsche said. ‘I had the honour of accompanying the Führer and the Minister of Propaganda to the premiere. Afterwards we talked about the marvellous acting in our theatre, which isn't afraid of pathos, or of good old romanticism.'

Thomas studied Fritzsche: he could see how much he was trying to disguise the feeling that he didn't deserve to be loved. Evidence of people's admiration for him must pile up at his feet every day, and he must long to exhibit the light touch of a man used to being loved, but he didn't have it.

‘I've been reading alarming reports in the papers,' a woman said.
‘There won't be a war, will there? My two sons are in the Wehrmacht.'

A stabbing pain passed through Thomas's body, sharpening in his ribs.

‘As you know, I work very closely with the Minister of Propaganda,' Fritzsche boasted, ‘and I can guarantee that Germany is doing everything it can to avoid war.'

‘Herr Fritzsche.' Thomas approached him and bowed. ‘On behalf of Milton allow me to thank you for choosing to celebrate New Year's Eve with us. My name is Thomas Heiselberg. I am a partner in the company.'

A shadow crossed Fritzsche's face. Had Thomas addressed him impolitely? Since when had he doubted his ability to win people over? He hadn't been at his best recently. A wind was blowing that he found hard to read.

Thomas felt the familiar weakness spread through his body. It was as if dark veils were wrapped around his eyes. People became shadows. Everything blurred—the colours of the dresses, the jewellery, the intricacies of the light. With tremendous effort he turned away from Fritzsche and looked around the hall. Like a drowning man, he sought something to grasp, as Erika Gelber had taught him to do at such moments: find something that has the spark of life and concentrate on it until the malaise passes. He couldn't stand the term ‘attack', which was how she described these events. But where would he find the spark of life in this hall? Was there anything here that his imagination couldn't annihilate? The party was already over, wrapped up, stuffed into the past. This wasn't a new feeling: even in his childhood his imagination had cast a pall over holidays or birthdays, coating the people around him in a sickly, dying yellow. People like him, seeing death everywhere, would never understand how others could celebrate the passage of time.

Meanwhile he heard his voice speaking to Fritzsche, praising his talent as a broadcaster, hinting at business proposals. How proud he was that his voice remained steady.

‘Let's meet soon,' Fritzsche proposed. ‘I'd be happy if a senior
representative of Milton such as yourself honoured us with a visit to the radio station. I understand that your company and the government have been working together of late.'

Was Fritzsche referring to the secret deal? Actually, that didn't matter now! He had had a victory—to hell with all the heretical thoughts that only weakened him. Miserable souls like Bauer wouldn't like him, but Fritzsche wanted to be close to him. People like Fritzsche would always trust him. Fritzsche said something else, but Thomas didn't understand. He felt his smile become tense. There he was, standing steadily, radiating charm.

He withdrew but not before he heard Fritzsche complete his conquest of the actress with a story about his beloved mother, who had passed away last year. With tentative steps, he headed for the bar. His body gradually began to obey him again.

Thomas glanced at his watch. He had arranged to meet the head of the Paris office along with Fiske and Carlson at the bar at 11.30 p.m. to drink a toast to the New Year. Thomas was sorry that Federico Tofano, who ran the Italian operation, had to stay in Rome. He would have been proud to introduce the warm and confident Federico to the American bosses. The head of the Polish branch, Mieczyslaw Buszkowsky—they called him Bizha in Berlin—had sent a message that ‘in consequence of recent events, I will find it very difficult to travel to Germany, and the continued existence of the branch is in doubt'.

Thomas, whose opinion of Bizha and his accomplishments was limited, wired him back: ‘The differences between Germany and Poland should not influence Milton, which has kept its distance from politics since its establishment.'

Bizha had not answered. Carlson was sympathetic: ‘Bizha knows—just as you do, by the way—that sometimes politics swallows up everything, including business.'

He decided that Carlson had abandoned the Polish branch as a lost cause. But Thomas—who had established the office himself, located it on the corner of Zgoda and Szpitalna in Warsaw, in a building
that housed big companies from all over the world, supervised the renovations, and even cut the ribbon at its opening—did not intend to give up.

A group of women sat beneath the painting of an ochre rhinoceros. A stick was glued to its lips. Thomas gaped at its red eyes. ‘An ugly rumour has reached my ears that Göring's baby daughter isn't his,' he heard one say, a woman wearing a white blouse buttoned to the top and a grease-stained black tie. He remembered her name was Scholtz-Klink. She had accosted him at an earlier event to ask whether Milton could advise how their organisation, the Nazi Women's League, could increase its influence.

Then he heard, ‘And eternal gratitude to the adjutant,' followed by a chorus of soft laughter.

‘In my opinion, it's a scandal for us to mention such crude gossip. Hermann Göring is a splendid man,' said a young, innocent voice. ‘He's so romantic. No man ever loved a woman the way he loved his first wife.'

‘Did you hear that Elena von Brink committed suicide last week?' the lady from the Nazi Women's League said in a stage whisper.

‘It's all because her despicable Jewish therapist disappeared,' an angry voice rejoined.

‘But she was in love with him,' the sweet young voice trilled, ‘and, when true love disappears, we die.'

Thomas wanted to turn around and look at the woman with the pure voice, but he was reluctant to make his eavesdropping obvious.

‘I advised her to stop such unnecessary treatment,' complained a voice with a faint tremolo. ‘That Jew only made her sink deeper into morbid fantasies!'

How the devil had it not occurred to him? That is to say, from time to time the idea had flashed through his mind, but hadn't solidified into real understanding. Only fear can make clear something so simple: Erika Gelber's time in Berlin was growing shorter.

Immediately after that night in November she had been evicted from her clinic. Apparently the people who had been protecting her
and delayed the cancellation of her licence were no longer able to help. A few days later she had received a letter forbidding her to treat Germans, and she was required to pay a tax for the damage done to her office. She didn't tell Thomas about the tax. She never confided in him about her troubles. Even when the Berlin Psychoanalytic Institute underwent Aryanisation, and she had to sever all connections with it, he only learned the facts from his own sources.

That week he called her to find out whether she was safe and to tell her that his mother had died. She expressed condolences, of course, but a week later she told him that to her regret she could no longer treat him. He begged her to take him for a final session, and at that meeting explained to her that she needed money. He offered to double her fee, in cash, and to hold their sessions in his house. ‘After all, I just lost my mother,' he added.

He also convinced Paul Blum, a friend who worked at one of the Jewish banks, to try psychoanalysis. The therapist had to be Jewish, of course, and Erika Gelber was the best. ‘Things are happening to you that a person can't bear, Blum. It's horrible the way the world you knew has suddenly ceased to exist. You have to analyse the experience, or else you'll go crazy. You know what a tragedy I had. Without Erika, I would have jumped off some tower.'

Blum was pleased, and Thomas looked for other Jews in distress whom he could send to Erika. She needed money. For what? To clear out. At last he understood that a few Jewish patients wouldn't be enough to keep her in Berlin.

Thomas looked around: the manager of the Paris office was nowhere to be seen. Now Rudolf Schumacher was approaching the bar. He had put on more weight. The seams of his white waistcoat were bursting, and a pin in the shape of two horseshoes was inserted between the buttons. How could anyone dare to dress so badly in public? After Thomas's mother died, Schumacher began annoying him with gestures of sympathy. Thomas couldn't recall that he had ever been close to the fat man, even at university, but Schumacher, who worked in the Ministry of Economics, possessed useful information,
so Thomas found subtle ways to keep him at bay.

Now he went to look for the toilet to evade Schumacher. He had to wash his face and freshen up. Attendants in dark blue suits, holding white towels, stood in the hallway.

‘Thomas!' It was Frau Tschammer. How she loved the moment when he had to stop and turn back to her and obey the imperative of her voice! The light in the corridor was dim, and Frau Tschammer's shadow towered up behind her. She suddenly looked tall. ‘Thomas,' she said again and came close. ‘Herr Fiske asked if you could join us this week at the meeting in the offices of the Ministry of Aviation.'

‘Have we gone into aeroplane manufacture, Frau Tschammer?'

‘Helmut Wohlthat will chair the meeting,' said Frau Tschammer, delighted that she'd managed to surprise him. ‘Do you know him?'

‘You know that we've met.'

‘In that case, you know that in his official capacity in the Four Year Plan he is managing the sale of Jewish assets and their removal from the economy.'

‘And the point is, Frau Tschammer?' Thomas snorted. Now it was clear that the matter had nothing to do with Göring's post as Minister of Aviation but with one of the many other hats that he wore: administering the Four Year Plan.

‘Maybe you haven't noticed, but things are happening in the office. We are now advising the Dresdener Bank in connection with their acquisition of the Jewish Bamberburg Bank,' Frau Tschammer proclaimed brightly. ‘The Deutsche Bank also made an offer.'

‘Those are serious competitors,' said Thomas. He had always regretted that Milton worked with the Dresdener Bank and not with the Deutsche Bank, the one he admired. ‘The people from the Deutsche Bank are good friends. They have connections—'

‘The decision will be made by the Bamberburg Bank,' Frau Tschammer interrupted. ‘The government requires the immediate transfer of the bank to German ownership. The Dresdener Bank, thanks to us, has an advantage shared by no competitor.'

Thomas understood: thanks to Fiske's connections, we can obtain
US visas for all the Jewish directors of the Bamberburg Bank and their relatives. Now he understood what Mailer had meant when he said that politics devours everything. He was full of anger: how did they—Fiske, Mailer and Frau Tschammer—dare to risk the reputation of Milton in Europe, a name built out of his own hard work, just to satisfy the greed of Dresdener? His eyes drilled into Frau Tschammer's pink forehead: he had a well-founded suspicion that this cherry face was what had got Milton mixed up in the deal.

‘Frau Tschammer, despite your limited knowledge of what's going on in the world, you did know that the Dresdener Bank started managing the great bank merger in Austria after the Anschluss, and now it's active in Czechoslovakia, too. So the Jewish bank is small change for them.'

‘But I also know firsthand that the deal does interest them,' Tschammer replied. ‘At first the Dresdener Bank wanted us to do market research on the Jewish bank and calculate the chances of resurrecting its good name. To our surprise we learned that, despite the restrictions, the bank was profitable this year: possibly because the Bamberburg Bank charged Jewish businesses fat fees to transfer their assets abroad. At the Dresdener Bank they understood that, in order to beat out a serious rival like the Deutsche Bank, it was wise to have access to the techniques of the Milton company.'

‘I once knew a director of the Bamberburg,' said Thomas.

‘A
Mischling
named Blum.' Frau Tschammer had surprised him again. ‘We received that information.'

‘And guess what, I was invited to the meeting,' Thomas laughed. ‘Take heart, Frau Tschammer, we'll make sure you stay in the picture. There's no one like you for taking care of the little details.'