Ernst took the money, but he was puzzled.
“Come on.” Nicky felt hurt because Ernst had not thanked him for the money and yet he disliked people who were effusively grateful. “Let’s catch up with the others.”
Malcolm and Frank were waiting around the corner. “Let’s go to Peg’s party,” Malcolm asked for the tenth time.
“Look, man,” Nicky said, “if we go to Peggy’s party she’s going to want to know why I didn’t see her yesterday and the yesterday before yesterday. She bugs me, man. I want a swinging gal and she ain’t it.”
Frank suggested that they go somewhere where they could dance.
“That’s my boy,” Nicky said.
The jazzkeller had served as an air-raid shelter during the war. As the four boys descended the musty concrete steps a thick-lipped blues, washed up with the yellow smoke and laughter, slapped against the stones. They picked their way through a dark winding passage, tripping over abandoned beer bottles, before they finally made it into the crowded anteroom.
“Maybe,” Malcolm said, confronting Ernst heatedly, “you’d like to buy a round for a change?”
“This happens to be my round,” Nicky said. But Nicky was ashamed. He watched sadly as Malcolm, conscious of his spilling belly again, hitched up his trousers sullenly. Nicky punched him affectionately on the shoulder. “We’ll go to Peg’s party from here.”
“If you don’t mind my tagging along,” Malcolm said.
Nicky pushed his way through the mob and back again with four bottles of beer. Then, with the others following after, he squeezed his way under a low door into the immense cellar. The arched ceiling was visible only where cigarette clouds parted grudgingly here and there. To Nicky’s right, long wooden tables faded away into the endless gloom. Bodiless heads and hands gripping beer bottles appeared through punctures in the eye-stinging haze. The din, whenever the music let up, was deafening. A girl was shoved against Nicky – they embraced. Then she was consumed again by the mob and his beer bottle was gone with her. Another girl swiftly took her place against him as though a body alone, like an open wound, was something to be quickly bandaged. Above them, the band played badly in a blaze of five hundred watt bulbs, and all at once Nicky and the girl were flung free into a clear space. Malcolm was there, watching, rubbing his damp yellowing bandage.
“Where’s Frank?” Nicky asked.
“Gone to the can with –” Malcolm pointed at Frank and Ernst approaching. “Here they are.”
Frank’s flaming hair was damp with sweat.
“He’s been sick,” Ernst said. “I think we should go.”
Outside, Malcolm caught up with Nicky. “Frank’s lost his wallet,” he said.
Nicky wiped his head with his arm.
“Frank’s lost his wallet,” Malcolm said, “and you and I both know who swiped it.”
“Don’t be crazy. One of the whores must have lifted it.”
“Yeah, some chance.”
“He didn’t steal Frank’s wallet. He didn’t. Why can’t you be nice to him? He didn’t shoot your zeyda or – Ernst’s probably had it tougher than either you or I can imagine. Give him a break, huh?”
“Will you lemme search him?”
“Go to hell, Malcolm.”
“I’ll bet you my next month’s pay against one lousy buck that Ernst’s got his wallet.”
Ernst and Frank were coming.
“You touch him, you just put your little finger on him, and I’ll break your neck.”
“Scared he did it, huh?”
“Why should I give a damn?”
“You tell me, man, I’m listening. He packs a shiv.”
“Who?”
“The man in the goddamed moon, that’s who. Wow! Can I have the next dance, momma?”
“You remember what I said,” Nicky said as the two boys drew nearer.
“Some buddy you turned out to be. Jesus H. Christ.”
Nicky broke away and took Frank by the arm. “Feeling better?”
Frank, tall and awkward, grinned weakly. And Nicky wondered whether Frank’s brother, the one who they’d hanged, had been so tall, so gentle. He hoped not.
“I’m fine,” Frank said. “Honest I am.”
“We’re going to Peg’s party now. You’ll be able to lie down there.” Nicky hailed a taxi. “You two go ahead. We’ll follow.”
“You’re trying to get rid of us,” Malcolm said.
Nicky pushed the two of them into a taxi and turned to Ernst with a shy, hesitant smile. “Thanks for taking care of Frank,” he said.
Ernst reached into his pocket. “Here.” It was Frank’s wallet. “I saw one of the girls take it off him. Here.”
Nicky slipped the wallet into his pocket. “Let’s get a taxi,” he said, his voice unnaturally hoarse.
“You think I stole his wallet?”
Nicky felt as though he was going to be physically sick.
“It doesn’t make any difference.”
“Yeah,” Ernst said. “It does.”
They got into a taxi.
“If you say you didn’t steal it then I believe you,” Nicky said.
“Malcolm’s a Jew,” Ernst began. “That’s why –”
“Why you filthy –”
“Listen, my father spent most of the war in –”
“Yeah. I know. In Belsen. Everybody’s father –”
“But mine did.”
Nicky wished they’d both go away. Malcolm and Ernst. He wished they’d take their sicknesses elsewhere.
“If I had stolen Frank’s wallet I would have kept it.”
“You might have heard Malcolm suggest searching you. You were close enough.”
“You would never have allowed him to.”
“Why?”
“Because you were sure I had stolen it.”
“Look, let’s just forget it ever happened. You didn’t take it and I apologize. O.K.?”
The brownstone house on Runtgenstrasse was a Special Services B.O.Q. A house rule forbade male guests from going upstairs where the bedrooms were, but nothing had been said about the three basement rooms, which were unoccupied. There was a patio and a garden around by the back of the house. Peggy’s bedroom, overlooking the garden, had a window that could be reached from the patio roof.
Peggy seized Nicky and spun him around.
“Happy birthday, keed!”
The party was well under way. But because it was still early the homely had not yet settled for one another. The handsome and the beautiful, assured, conscious of their obligations, favoured even the most ungainly with promising little attentions. The dancing at this stage was still fairly inhibited. Jimmy Marko sat at the piano.
“Oh, my girl’s got Wrigley, Wrigley eyes.”
And upstairs, upstairs where men were forbidden, teddy-bears lolled on double beds. And, in the case of Peggy’s bed, all the ladies’ wraps and handbags were piled.
Nicky avoided Peggy. He knew that she probably had things to say to him, that she had most certainly bought him an expensive gift, and he did not feel up to either prospect. He noticed that Ernst was eating sandwich after sandwich, indifferent to the whole crowd. Nicky was confused; he felt blue. Why had Ernst lied to him? Why, now that they were together at the party, didn’t he make some show of friendship? I’ll go, Nicky thought defiantly. I’ll finish this drink and I’ll cut out. But when Malcolm approached, smiling a boyishly triumphant smile, Nicky grinned back at him gratefully. This he knew; Malcolm he understood. Malcolm wore the lipstick smudges on his chin like a medal of honour.
“Hey, those college chicks,” Malcolm said.
Nicky handed Malcolm Frank’s wallet.
“One of the girls in the jazz cellar took it off him. Ernst got it back from her.”
“You kidding?”
“Look, I was with him. We went back together. He pointed out the girl and we got it off her, see?”
Malcolm knew that Nicky was lying. He looked hurt. Cheated.
“
What in the hell’s the matter with you?” Nicky yelled.
“Nothing.”
But Nicky understood that Ernst, even if he never saw him again, had already cost him one of his best friends. More confused than before, his sense of frustration and his temper both rising sharply, he went into the kitchen and refilled his glass.
“Can’t you morons do anything but neck?”
A tall West Point man and his girl broke apart.
“You looking for a fight?” the West Point man asked.
I am, Nicky thought. I sure am.
And just about then in the parlour, the first of the beautiful, Milly Demarest, made her move. She took a likely young man by the hand and slipped down to the basement. The party pitch heightened. Pimpled boys, girls with little breasts, cast their frightened eyes about searchingly. Couples danced out on to the patio and then retreated into the garden. A soldier complained that his eyes hurt and out went the lights. Giggles, a few mock shrieks of protest, then the rustling of skirts. Those who had been left out fired frantic jokes into the dark.
Nicky drifted over to the piano and began to play Lady Be Good. Peggy smiled at him adoringly. A brown, long-legged girl, Peggy, at twenty-seven, still had the impulsive manner of a girl ten years younger, but she had already swept through most of the European capitals collecting travel posters and beer labels and theatre programmes with which she hoped, one day, to paper the walls of a dream. A dream, an apartment, which included the famous Nicky Singleton knocking out his latest hit tunes on the parlour piano between television appearances.
“Everybody says you play something divine, Nicky,” she said.
Nicky stopped playing. He got up.
“What’s wrong? Have I said something?”
“No.”
“I was talking to your German friend,” she said. “I like him.”
“Well, I don’t. I wish I hadn’t brought him here.”
“Do you want my car, Nicky? You can borrow it tomorrow, if you like.”
Nicky realized that her gesture was no less crude, no less desperate, than his having offered Ernst sixty dollars. God, he thought, searching the room for Ernst, God. He took Peggy into his arms and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks for the party,” he said. “You’re very sweet.” And then before she could spoil things with an unfortunate remark he moved away.
Jimmy Marko sang:
“You’re whispering why you’ll never leave me,
Whispering why you’ll never grieve me.…”
Having eaten his fill, Ernst collapsed into an armchair and lit a cigar that had been given to him by a visiting professor from UCLA. These wild, amazingly affluent Americans both delighted and horrified him – look at the size of those cigarette butts – but what was to be done about Nicky? Ernst had indeed taken Frank’s wallet in the toilet of the jazzkeller, but he had never meant to keep it. Because Nicky had been kind to him, Ernst had wanted to make a gesture in return. He had hoped that by giving Frank’s wallet to Nicky, and saying that he had discovered it on one of the girls, he would ingratiate himself with him. But his scheme had backfired. Ernst sucked drowsily at his cigar. A thin pretty girl loomed up before him. She had obviously had too much to drink. “Aren’t you Terry Lewis?” she asked thickly.
“No. I am not.”
“My name’s Nancy.” She swayed slightly. “Would you like to dance with me?”
Ernst got up slowly, unsure of himself.
“You don’t have to,” Nancy said.
As they danced round and round in the dark, bumping against other couples, Ernst took fright. Nancy rubbed against him; he felt her lips on his neck. If he didn’t respond she would be insulted. But if Malcolm, or another unfriendly soldier, caught him with her, he might start a fight. A fight, and the police, would mean Sandbostel again. Maybe worse. Another consideration was that he didn’t want to embarrass Nicky. Nicky was his friend.
“You’re the strong, silent type,” Nancy said. “I can tell.”
“Come into the garden with me.”
“Want to show me your etchings? Mm?”
“Come,” he said.
Nancy led Ernst out into the hall and to the foot of the stairs. “Look,” she whispered, “you can’t come up with me. It’s not allowed, you know, and Captain Hodge might see.” She squeezed Ernst’s hand. “I’ll go first. You count to ten and then follow. But for God’s sake don’t let anyone see you, and no noise. I’ll meet you at the top of the stairs.”
Before Ernst could protest, she was gone. Not that he was against her little scheme. It would be nice to have a girl, he thought.
Ernst counted to twenty-five, looked around twice, and then started softly up the stairs.
He didn’t see Malcolm, however. Malcolm, who had nobody to dance with himself, watched Ernst sneak up the stairs and then hurried off in search of Peggy.
Ernst couldn’t find Nancy anywhere.
“Here,” she whispered.
She was in the bedroom where all the coats and hats were piled. Ernst took her in his arms and kissed her expertly. Her cheeks were very hot, but her breasts, as he had feared, were small. Suddenly Nancy broke free of him. “I’m going to be sick,” she said, and she ran off, holding her hand to her mouth.
Ernst heard the toilet door slam. He sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette.
Malcolm and Peggy found each other at last.
“Malcolm,” Peggy said, “have you seen that German boy around?”
“You mean the one who swiped Frank’s wallet?”
“The one who what?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, Nicky’ll drive me nuts yet. He’s always picking up people and things and five minutes later he can’t stand them.”
“Nicky told you that?”
“He told me himself that he couldn’t stand the German boy.”
“Look, I just saw the little bastard sneak upstairs. I’m sure he’s after the coats and stuff. You go phone the M.P.s, Peg, and meanwhile I’ll keep my eyes open for him. Hurry.”
Nicky passed from room to room, but he couldn’t find Ernst, so he refilled his glass and went down to the basement. He found Milly sitting there, alone.
Frank, who had passed out on the sofa, was snoring loudly.
“I’m clobbered.” Milly giggled and drank from Nicky’s glass. “Happy birthday,” she said as Nicky took her in his arms. “Happy – Oh, no, Nicky, I’ve got the curse.”
When Nicky came upstairs again Peggy was waiting for him.
“Wipe the lipstick off your mouth,” she said. “You could do that. At least that.”
And then Peggy ran off.
Turning away Nicky caught sight of a girl sprawled out on an easy chair with her legs dangling over one arm and her head resting on the other. Her partner had just left her, maybe to get another drink, and so she was alone in the dark. The girl brushed back her brown hair with a white little hand and then absently did up one or two buttons of her blouse. Next she lit a cigarette very slowly and without concern, as though time and headlines and coarse boys could never strike at her. There were beads of sweat on her forehead, a little golden slipper dangled from one foot. Bright eyes, a pretty polished face, a tiny waist. Nicky was afraid to stir lest he distract her attention. The absolutely unselfconscious poise with which she smoothed down her skirt made him almost unbearably happy. Then, as the girl smiled a full satiated smile, Nicky hoped that she would fall asleep and that her soldier, whoever he was, would not return and make more demands or talk obscene about her in the barracks the next morning. The pretty girl rubbed her lips where they had been bruised a little. Nicky, watching, suddenly wished that this stuffy room could be transformed into a wood and that all the girls, full of sun and pain and laughter, could go dancing round the trees. The soldier returned. “Hell,” he said to the pretty girl, “Peggy’s locked herself in the can. She’s crying her goddam heart out.”
Nicky heard the police sirens in the distance. He turned away and began to impr
ovise at the piano. That’s when Malcolm showed up, obviously drunken.
“You were never my friend,” Malcolm said. “You with all your big words and big talk and big books. You yeah you. A college kid. Money? Stinking with money. You were pretending to talk like us and feel like us when all the time you were laughing at us behind our backs. Well, I’ll tell you something you Nazi-loving son-of-a –”
“Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. Don’t think –”
“Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children all alone.”
“And I’ll tell you –”
“Go away, Malcolm. Breeze.”
“Your little friend is upstairs going through the coats and purses.”
Nicky stopped playing. The police sirens sounded closer.
“Peggy sent for the M.P.s,” Malcolm said.
“She sent for what? Oh, you fools!”
And Nicky, seized by a sudden and uncontrollable anger, anger against Ernst’s betrayal, anger against Malcolm and the pretty girl’s soldier, anger against all things unbeautiful, pushed past Malcolm and, smashing a beer bottle against the wall and gripping the stub tightly in his fist, started up the stairs.
Jimmy Marko took Nicky’s place at the piano and sang:
“Ain’t misbehavin’
Doodle-de-dum,
Ain‘t misbehavin’
Dada-da-dum.”
When the West Point man and his girl heard the thud above them, they broke apart, briefly thoughtful. But as no other sound followed immediately they embraced again.
Malcolm had stepped outside to wait for the M.P.s, so he heard nothing.
Harvey Jones, a slight corporal with rimless glasses who suffered from acne, cornered the professor. Harvey was a preacher. “Yes,” he said, “this is my last week here. Next Tuesday I’m being sent back to the Land of the Big P.X.’s. But I want you to know that it’s been a real joy to work here and that when I go stateside I’ll continue to work as a vital witness for Jesus.”