Breakfast in the Ruins

3 Kaffee Klatsch in Brunswick: 1883:

There is a big color TV in the suite.

The Nigerian walks up to it. His penis is still slightly stiff.—Do you want this on?

Karl is eight. It is 1883. Brunswick. He has a very respectable mother and father. They are kind but firm. It is very comfortable.

He shakes his head.

— Well, do you mind if I watch the news? Karl is eight. It is 1948. There is a man in pajamas in his mother's room. It is 1883...

KARL WAS EIGHT. His mother was thirty-five. His father was forty. They had a large, modem house in the best part of Brunswick. His father's business was in the centre of town. Trade was good in Germany and particularly good in Brunswick. The Glogauers were part of the best society in Brunswick. Frau Glogauer belonged to the coffee circle which once a week met, in rotation, at the house of one of the members. This week the ladies were meeting at Frau Glogauer's.

Karl, of course, was not allowed into the big drawing room where his mother entertained. His nurse watched over him while he played in the garden in the hot summer sunshine. Through the french windows, which were open, he could just see his mother and her friends. They balanced the delicate china cups so elegantly and they leaned their heads so close together when they talked. They were not bored. Karl was bored.

He swung back and forth on his swing. Up and down and back and forward and up and down and back. He was dressed in his best velvet suit and he was hot and uncomfortable. But he always dressed in this way when it was his mother's turn to entertain the Kaffee Klatsch, even though he wasn't invited to join them. Usually he was asked to come in just before the ladies left. They would ask him the same questions as, they asked every tune and they would compliment his mother on his looks and his size and his health and they would give him a little piece of gateau. He was looking forward to the gateaux.

"Karl, you must wear your hat," said Miss Henshaw. Miss Henshaw was English and her German was rather unfortunate in that she had learned it in a village. It was Low German and it made her sound like a yokel. Karl's parents and their friends spoke nothing but the more sophisticated High German. Low German sounded just like English, anyway. He didn't know why she'd bothered to learn it. "Your hat, Karl. The sun is too hot."

In her garishly striped blouse and her silly, stiff grey skirt and her own floppy white hat, Miss Henshaw looked awful. How dowdy and decrepit she was compared to Mother who, corseted and bustled and covered in pretty silk ribbons and buttons and lace and brocade, moved with the dignity of a six-masted clipper. Miss Henshaw was evidently only a servant, for all her pretense at authority.

She stretched out her freckled arm, offering him the little sun hat. He ignored her, making the swing go higher and higher.

"You will get sunstroke, Karl. Your mother will be very angry with me."

Karl shrugged and kicked his feet out straight, enjoying Miss Henshaw's helplessness.

"Karl! Karl!"

Miss Henshaw's voice was almost a screech.

Karl grinned. He saw that the ladies were looking out at him through the open window. He waved to his mother. The ladies smiled and returned to their gossip.

He knew it was gossip, about everyone in Brunswick, because once he had lain beside the window in the shrubs and listened before he had been caught by Miss Henshaw. He wished that he had understood more of the references, but at least he had got one useful tip—that Fritz Vieweg's father had been born "the wrong side of the blanket". He hadn't been sure of the meaning, but when he had confronted Fritz Vieweg with it, it had stopped Vieweg calling him a "Jew-pig" all right.

Gossip like that was worth a lot.

"Karl! Karl!"

"Oh, go away Fraulein Henshaw. I am not in need of my hat at present." He chuckled to himself. When he talked like his father, she always disapproved.

His mother appeared in the doorway of the french window.

"Karl, dear. There is someone who would like to meet you. May we have Karl in with us for a moment, Miss Henshaw?"

"Of course, Frau Glogauer." Miss Henshaw darted him a look of stern triumph. Reluctantly, he let the swing slow down and then jumped off.

Miss Henshaw took his hand and they walked across the ornamental pavement to the french windows. His mother smiled fondly and patted his head.

"Frau Spiegelberg is here and wants to meet you."

He supposed, from his mother's tone, that he should know who Frau Spiegelberg was, that she must be an important visitor, not one of Frau Glogauer's regulars. A woman dressed in purple and white silk was towering behind his mother. She gave him quite a friendly smile. He bowed twice very deeply. "Good afternoon, Frau Spiegelberg."

"Good afternoon, Karl," said Frau Spiegelberg.

"Frau Spiegelberg is from Berlin, Karl," said his mother. "She has met the great Chancellor Bismarck himself!"

Again Karl bowed.

The ladies laughed. Frau Spiegelberg said with charming, almost coquettish modesty, "I must emphasize I am not on intimate terms with Prinz Bismarck!" and she gave a trilling laugh. Karl knew that all the ladies would be practicing that laugh after she had gone back to Berlin.

"I would like to go to Berlin," said Karl.

"It is a very fine city," said Frau Spiegelberg complacently. "But your Brunswick is very pretty."

Karl was at a loss for something to say. He frowned and then brightened. "Frau Spiegelberg -" he gave another little bow—"have you met Chancellor Bismarck's son?"

"I have met both. Do you mean Herbert or William or -" Frau Spiegelberg glanced modestly at her companions again—"Bill as he likes to be called."

"Bill," said Karl.

"I have attended several balls at which he has been present, yes."

"So you—have touched him, Frau Spiegelberg?"

And again the trilling laugh. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, Father met him once I believe when on business in Berlin..."

"So your Father and I have an acquaintance in common. That is splendid, Karl." Frau Spiegelberg made to turn away. "A handsome boy, Frau -"

"And Father shook hands with him," said Karl.

"Really? Well..."

"And Father said he drank so much beer that his hands were always wet and clammy and he could not possibly live for long if he continued to drink that much. Father is, himself, not averse to a few tots of beer or glasses of punch, but he swears he has never seen anyone drink so much in all his life. Is Bill Bismarck dead yet, Frau Spiegelberg?"

His mother had been listening to him in cold horror, her mouth open. Frau Spiegelberg raised her eyebrows. The other ladies glanced at each other. Miss Henshaw took his hand and began to pull him away, apologizing to his mother.

Karl bowed again. "I am honored to have met you, Frau Spiegelberg," he said in his father's voice. "I am afraid I have embarrassed you and so I will take my leave now." Miss Henshaw's tugging became more insistent. "I hope we shall meet again before you return to Berlin, Frau Spiegelberg..."

"It is time I left," icily said Frau Spiegelberg to his mother.

His mother came out for a moment and hissed: "You disgusting child. You will be punished for this. Your father shall do it."

"But, Mother...".

"In the meantime, Miss Henshaw," said Frau Glogauer in a terrible murmur, "you have my permission to beat the boy."

Karl shuddered as he caught a glint of hidden malice in Miss Henshaw's pale, grey eyes.

"Very well, madam," said Miss Henshaw. As she led him away he heard her sigh a deep sigh of pleasure.

Already, he was plotting his own revenge.

— You'll like it better when you get used to it. It's a question of your frame of mind. Karl sighs.—Maybe.

— It's a matter of time, that's all.

— I believe you.

— You've got to let yourself go.

They sip the dry, chilled champagne the black man has ordered. Outside, people are going into the theatres.

— After all, says the black man—we are many people. There are a lot of different sides to one's personality. You mustn't feel that you've lost something. You have gained something. Another aspect is flowering.

— I feel terrible.

— It won't last. Your moment will come. Karl smiles. The black man's English is not always perfect.

— There, you see, you are feeling more relaxed already. The black man reaches out and touches his arm.—How smooth your flesh is. What are you thinking?

— I was remembering the time I found the air-raid warden in bed with my mother. I remember her explaining it to my father. My father was a patient man.

— Is your father still alive?

— I don't know.

— You have a great deal to learn, yet.

You are returning from the theatre after a pleasant evening with your sweetheart. You are in the centre of the city and you want a taxi. You decide to go to the main railway station and find a taxi there. As you come into a side-entrance and approach a flight of steps you see an old man trying to ascend. He is evidently incapably drunk. Normally you would help him up the steps, but in this case there is a problem. His trousers have fallen down to his ankles, revealing his filthy legs. From his bottom protrude several pieces of newspaper covered in excrement. To help him would be a messy task, to say the least, and you are reluctant to spoil the previously pleasant mood of the evening. There is a second or two before you pass him and continue on your journey.