Vivian lay stiffly and alarmed beside him in the single bed for some time before he stirred. He took her in his arms half consciously at first, almost like a reflex, but little by little there came small gestures of recognition and love. Vivian embraced him with a store of passion that had been unwillingly hoarded for many years – since, in fact, that insane Italian holiday – and then, only then, did she realize that he had fallen away into a deep sleep again. She lay back, the man tangled up with her under the blankets, and waited for the dark and then for the light again with her eyes open and moist.
Norman snored.
She was getting breakfast ready in the kitchen when he came running in. “I remember, Vivian. I can tell you my address – my name – everything. I remember. I’m Norman,” he yelled, “Norman Price. My name is Norman Price. Can you beat that?” He took her in his arms and spun her round and round. “My name is Norman Price. Honest to God it is!”
They ate breakfast together excitedly, but by the time they had washed and dressed, when they next sat down with a coffee table between them, a change had taken place. Norman studied the stuff on the table critically. Back issues of Vogue and the Spectator; Mr. Balchin’s latest novel from Boots and a book of cartoons by Ronald Searle.
“I guess you’re anxious to get back to your family,” she said.
He thanked her profusely for her help, but that only seemed to double the width of the table between them.
“I work for a fashion magazine,” she said.
“Oh, how interesting.”
“What do you do?”
“This and that.”
What, she thought, if he was an airman. He might even be a worker. His hands were rough.
“I write thrillers, I’m afraid. Scenarios too. I used to be an assistant professor in the States. But I’m a Canadian, really.”
Vivian was overjoyed. Binky had tried to write thrillers; he failed. Roger Nash was mad keen to get into films. She filled the tea cups again with more spirit. “Am I keeping you?” she asked.
“Oh, no. Am I keeping you?”
“No.”
He picked up the Spectator nervously and put it down again and began to flip through Vogue.
“My cousin’s a model,” she said. “I share the flat with her. Will you have both?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
The tea was luke-warm.
“Perhaps you ought to phone your family.”
“I’m a bachelor.”
Vivian’s cheeks reddened. “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t mean to pry.” She folded the Daily Telegraph in four and tried her best to conceal Kate’s copy of the Astrologist under another magazine. The clock ticked intolerably loud. “Do you think Ike will run again?”
“It doesn’t much matter, does it?”
“Oh, I somehow thought Stevenson would make a much better president.” Her voice shrunk. “Not that I know much about it.”
Norman cleared his throat. “There’s not much to choose between them,” he said.
He’s a former professor, she thought. Perhaps he’s one of those fifth amendment people she’d heard Roger talk about. Maybe he was a communist. “The witch-hunt there is dreadful, isn’t it? I mean,” she continued guardedly, “lots of people are being persecuted.”
Norman swiftly conjured up a picture of Winkleman & Co. Horton. “Serves them right.” He regretted having said that immediately.
“Oh,” she said, “some of them are communists, I’m sure, and …”
“Don’t you think communists have as much right to their opinions as other people?” he asked sharply.
“Certainly,” she said in a small voice. “I mean of course.…”
Norman noticed the thick legs, the small breasts, he took in the parched little mouth. “I didn’t mean to jump at you,” he said.
“You didn’t jump,” she said.
Norman rose. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” he said, “but there are some people I must see now that I’m O.K. again.”
“Of course.”
But at the door she asked what she had been struggling against bitterly. The words opened like a wound. “Will I see you again?”
Norman noticed – and despised himself for noticing – that there was no ring on her finger. “Sure,” he said. “Of course.”
As he turned to go, she said, “In that case don’t you think you ought to write down my address?”
He made a note of her address and phone number.
“Look here,” she said, her voice unnaturally high, “I would have done the same for anyone. I don’t want you to think that you owe me anything.”
“I understand.”
They kissed – Norman shy; Vivian stiff, resistant – and then he was gone.
Vivian stumbled to the phone. “Kate. Come quickly, Kate. I’ve made an awful fool of myself.” Vivian dropped the receiver back into place and began to laugh. She laughed in spurts. A little bit of laughter at a time.
XII
Karp didn’t bother to knock. He came in and sat right down in the armchair. “I will come right to the point,” he said. “Norman just phoned. He is all right. He’s on his way over.” Karp looked haggard; his shirt was soiled. “He wants to see Ernst.”
“Did he say anything else?” Sally asked.
“Nothing.” Karp took a fat envelope out of his pocket. “There are two hundred pounds in here. I want you to take it and leave at once. Norman called from Chelsea. He won’t be here for another ten minutes at least.”
“I don’t understand,” Ernst said.
“Neither do I.”
“Don’t even try to understand,” Karp said. “Take the money.”
“You want us to flee?”
“Yes.”
“But you told Norman in the first place,” Sally said. “If not for you –”
“There is little time.” Karp gave them an exasperated look. “Yes. I told him. But one – Take the money. Go.”
“Why do you want to help us?” Ernst asked.
Karp’s corpulence seemed an appalling burden for the first time. He breathed heavily; his eyes were dim with exhaustion. “You and I,” he said to Ernst, “we too, we’re survivors.”
“Sally,” Ernst said softly, “please make Mr. Karp a cup of tea.”
Sally put the kettle on the gas ring.
“Norman,” Karp said, “never really understood about people like us. The night before – before his illness struck he abused me because I – Never mind that. That, so to speak, is finished. Take the money.”
Two hundred pounds, Ernst thought. That would be a fine start.
Karp told them the story of the young girl. “Thousands,” he said, “every day thousands by gunshot and fire and gas, and in all that time only the young girl survived the crematorium.” He shook a white little finger at Ernst. “You too have been brought back from the dead, Ernst. I don’t want to see you murdered a second time like –” He turned angrily on Sally. “Make him go.”
“He won’t listen to me any more.”
“Ernst. Hor zu, Ernst. Norman wird Dich – He’ll turn him over to the police.”
“No,” Sally said. “Norman won’t –”
“He won’t inform on me,” Ernst said. “Er ist nicht die Type.”
Karp rose and confronted Ernst, his face red and swollen, his eyes bulging. “I’m a German,” he yelled, “like you.” Exhausted by his effort, he stumbled back into the chair and rocked his head in his hands. “If you love the girl,” he said, “take her and go. Get out of my house.”
Ernst rested his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder. “O.K.,” he said. “I’ll take your money.”
A taxi door slammed outside. Sally rushed to the window. “It’s Norman,” she said. “He’s come.”
Karp raised his head. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll detain him.” And he hurried out of the room and down the stairs, his steps short and quick and angry, like bites.
“We’d better hurry,” Sal
ly said.
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“Why did you take his money, then?”
“Because he wants to be a German,” Ernst said, “like me.” He flung the envelope of money against the wall. “A German,” he said. “A survivor.” Ernst laughed shortly. “I’m going downstairs,” he said, “to Norman’s room. You wait for me here.”
XIII
“Well,” Ernst said, “here we are. At last.”
Norman lit a cigarette.
“We were worried about you,” Ernst said.
“This kind of thing happens to me sometimes.”
“Can’t anything be done?”
“It’s not organic. The doctors say I suffer from – from an inability to deal with reality.” Norman smiled ruefully. “The longest it has ever lasted is three weeks. I guess I should try psychotherapy, but I don’t trust those kind of people. They have a dirty vocabulary.” Norman was aware of the sweat beginning to soak through his shirt. He poured out two drinks of whisky. “I met a nice girl,” he said. “She helped me through it.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that. But she’s nice.”
“Would you like to get married?”
“Sure I would like to get married. I want to have children.”
“I hope it works out for you.”
“Why didn’t you run away?” Norman asked.
“It didn’t seem like such a good idea.”
“Sally wouldn’t have gone with you. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“How long has she known about it?”
“Not long.”
Norman filled his glass again. “I don’t understand why you didn’t flee the day after I showed you his picture.”
“I love her.”
“Either that or you were gambling for her passport against my discovering what you had done.”
It’s not going well, Ernst thought. He’s afraid.
“Her passport had nothing to do with it.”
“What right have you got to ask me to believe anything you tell me?” Norman asked.
“None.”
“O.K. Tell me your version of what happened.”
Ernst laughed a little. “Was it necessary,” he asked, “to first establish that I am a liar?”
“Tell me how it happened.”
Ernst told Norman what he had told Sally. He explained that he had not wanted to kill Nicky. The murder had been an accident.
“Had you killed before?” Norman asked.
“Yes. Haven’t you?”
“In the war, I have.”
“But this was your brother.”
Norman nodded.
“They all have brothers.” Ernst refused another drink. “Do you believe my story?” he asked.
“Nicky meant more to me than anyone in the world.”
“I told you exactly how it happened.”
“I’m going to turn you over to the police.”
“You are?”
“That’s letting you off easy.”
“You too. That’s letting you off easy too.”
“I’ve made up my mind, I won’t change it.”
“There are many ugly things I could say.”
“About her? I’m not doing it because of her,” Norman said.
“But you love her?”
“I did.”
“I pity you,” Ernst said.
“Don’t.”
“You want her – you love her – but not only will you not have her, she will hate you for the rest of her life.”
“Look,” Norman said, “he was my brother.”
“I could have run away.”
“She would never have gone with you. And another thing,” Norman said, raising his voice for the first time, “you could have told me the story of your own accord. You needn’t have made a fool of me for so long.”
“We were going to tell you.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“What makes you angrier, Norman, the fact that I killed your brother, or your injured vanity?”
Norman poured himself another drink.
“I’ll leave her,” said Ernst quietly. “I won’t see her again.”
“No. I told you. It’s not because of her.”
“Listen – don’t be a fool – what good will it do you to turn me in?”
“None.”
“What if it had been the other way round?”
“Please, Ernst, I’ve been over it a hundred times myself.”
“If it was the other way around you would hide Nicky. You would protect him. You would make excuses for him. Right?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You would call that loyalty.”
“Yes,” Norman said wearily, “I guess I would.”
“I pity you.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“I will say it again. I pity you.”
“Don’t over-dramatize it, Ernst. You’ll probably get off with five years.”
“More likely twenty.”
“I hope not.”
“If I get twenty years you would have murdered me, just like I killed your brother. But at least I was being attacked. I had no choice, but you –”
“I have no choice, either.”
Ernst laughed. “You mean you are doing this because of a principle?”
Norman nodded. “A principle,” he said.
Ernst laughed again. His gloomy blue eyes began to shine wetly. “During the last days of the war some people – me and my mother too – listened to an enemy broadcast describing the entry of the allied armies into Auschwitz. Everybody put the story down to propaganda. So my mother took me aside to tell me what had happened. My uncle, Heinrich Walther, had used to be a communist deputy. He disappeared in the camps. ‘If the Americans get here first,’ she said, ‘don’t say a word about it. But if the Russians come remember that you are the nephew of Heinrich Walther.’ That,” Ernst said, “you would call unprincipled, I suppose.”
“I suppose.”
“Opportunist?”
“All right,” Norman said. “Opportunist. Get on with it, damn you.”
“Me,” Ernst said, “I had principles. Then one day an American soldier gave me a Babe Ruth chocolate bar and told me that Hitler was dead. Kaput! Finished principles. Two weeks later I earned two packs of Lucky Strikes for spending the night with an American army colonel. O.K. Bravo. Beginning of a new principle. Truth equals Lucky Strikes.” He eyed Norman coldly. “Don’t speak to me about principles.”
“There are such things, you know, as dignity, honour, and love.”
“Yeah. I have heard them mentioned on the radio on Sunday mornings.”
“Would you like another drink?”
“Your kind, your generation, you killed for ideals, principles, and a better world.”
Norman poured himself another drink.
“Hitler burned the Jews,” Ernst shouted, “and Stalin murdered the kulaks, all so that there should be a better world for me.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ernst rose shakily. “I would like to speak to Sally. I would like to see her before –”
“I’ll wait for you here,” Norman said.
Ernst paused at the door. “What is my unintentional crime,” he asked, “compared to all those crimes your kind committed with the best of intentions?”
Ernst returned to his room just as Sally had finished sweeping up. Karp sat on the bed.
“What did he say?” Karp asked.
“He’s turning me over to the police. It’s a matter of principle.”
“Principle.” Sally laughed noiselessly. “Are you pleased now? Are you satisfied now that you’ll go to prison? You should have come away with me while –”
Ernst turned to go.
“Where are you going?” Sally asked.
“To the toilet,” he said. “I’
ll be right back.”
Ernst walked down the stairs, out of the house, and up Belsize Avenue. He turned right on Haverstock Hill and crossed the street. In the tube station he bought a ticket to Liverpool Street Station.
XIV
A half hour later Norman went upstairs. “Where is he?” he asked.
“He’s gone,” Sally said.
There was a pile of money on the bed. “It’s mine,” Karp said. “He wouldn’t take it. I’m not a German, like him.”
Norman rushed to the window. “He asked if he could speak to you first,” he said. “I said O.K. ”
“He’s gone,” Sally said.
“Where’s he gone to?”
“How would I know?”
“Karp?”
“Beat me,” Karp said. “I’m a conniving Jew. Remember?”
Norman approached Karp menacingly.
“Leave him alone,” Sally said. “We don’t know where he’s gone.” She looked up at Norman and laughed. “A man of principle,” she said, “that’s what you are.”
“He left his guitar,” Karp said.
Norman banged the guitar against the floor and rammed his foot through it. “I’ll find him,” he said. “I don’t care where he goes.”
“Now Norman has something to live for,” Sally said. “Hate. Now he has somebody to hate again.”
Norman shook Sally gently. “Did you know that he was going to run out in the end?” he asked. “Did you plan it between you?”
“She didn’t know,” Karp said.
“Take your hands off me,” Sally yelled.
“King David,” Karp said, “sent Uriah to die in battle, so that he could make Bathsheba his wife.”