A Small Death in Lisbon

‘Olga Kasarov,’ said the man.

‘What about her?’

‘You know her.’

‘I went to bed with an Olga . . . once.’

‘She’s a Bolshevik.’

‘She’s a Russian, I do know that,’ said Felsen, ‘and anyway, I didn’t know you could catch communism from fucking.’

That seemed to snap something inside the man who stood up and tucked the file under his arm.

‘I don’t think you understand your situation very well, Herr Felsen.’

‘You’re right, I don’t. Perhaps you would be good enough . . .’

‘Some rehabilitation is, perhaps, in order.’

Felsen suddenly felt the runaway vehicle he was on lurch down a steeper slope.

‘Your investigation . . .’ he started, but the man was moving towards the door. ‘Herr . . . Herr . . . wait.’

The man opened the door. Two soldiers came in and heaved Felsen to his feet and took him out.

‘We’re sending you back to school, Herr Felsen,’ said the dark-suited man.

They took him back down to his cell where they kept him for three days. Nobody spoke to him. They gave him a bowl of soup once a day. His bucket wasn’t emptied. He sat on his pallet surrounded by his piss and faeces. Screams would occasionally penetrate his darkness, sometimes faint, other times horrifically close and loud. Terrible beatings took place in the corridor outside his cell. More than one man called for his mother under the crack of his door.

He spent the hours and days preparing himself. He tutored his brain into a state of excessive politeness and his demeanour into one of submissive timidity. On the fourth day they came for him again. He was stinking and feeble with fear. They didn’t take him to the horror room and they didn’t take him upstairs for another meeting with the man in the dark suit. They handcuffed him and took him straight out into the courtyard, the snow falling in soft large flakes but packed hard underfoot by boots and tyres. They loaded him into an empty van with a large and still tacky stain on the floor. The doors shut.

‘Where’s this going?’ he asked the darkness.

‘Sachsenhausen,’ said the guard outside.

‘What about the law?’ said Felsen. ‘What about the process of law?’ The guard hammered on the side of the van. The driver slammed it into gear and sent Felsen cannoning against the doors.

Eva Brücke sat in her office in Die Rote Katze smoking cigarette after cigarette and trickling more brandy into her coffee cup until it was all brandy, no coffee. The swelling on her face had gone down with the daily application of a little snow and she was left with a blue and yellow mark which disappeared under foundation and the white powder she used.

The door to her office was open and she had a clear view of the empty kitchens. She heard a light tapping on the back door and stood to answer it. At that moment the telephone went off louder than a stack of china hitting the floor. She jumped and steadied herself. She didn’t want to pick it up, but the noise was shattering and she snatched it to her ear.

‘Eva?’ asked the voice.

‘Yes,’ she said, recognizing it. ‘This is Die Rote Katze.’

‘You sound tired.’

‘It’s a job with long hours and not much opportunity for rest.’

‘You should take some time off.’

‘Some “Strength through Joy” perhaps,’ she said, and the caller laughed.

‘Do you have anybody else with a sense of humour?’

‘It does depend on who’s telling the jokes.’

‘No, well, I mean . . . someone who appreciates fun. Unusual fun.’

‘I know people who can still laugh out loud.’

‘Like me,’ he said, laughing out loud to prove it.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, not laughing with him.

‘Could they come and see me for an evening of amusement and wonder?’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, I think three is a merry number. Would three be all right?’

‘Could you drop by and give me a better idea of what . . .?’

‘It’s rather inconvenient at the moment.’

‘You know, I worry after . . .’

‘Oh, no, no, no, don’t be concerned. The theme is food. What could be more joyous than food in this day and age.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Eva. Your service is appreciated.’

She hung up and went to the back door. The small, enclosed man she’d been expecting was there in the snow-packed alley. She let him in. He shook the snow off his hat and stamped his boots clean. They went to the office. She pulled the telephone plug out of the wall.

‘Do you drink, Herr Kaufman?’

‘Only tea.’

‘I have some coffee.’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was wondering if you’d have room for two visitors?’

‘I told you . . .’