|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 64
"Clubfoot met his match that time," the woman cried. "The dirty dog! But
why didn't this English spy make a job of it and kill the scum? Pah!"
And she spat elegantly into the sawdust on the floor.
"I wouldn't be in that fellow's shoes for something," muttered one of
the men. "No one ever had the better of Clubfoot yet. Do you remember
Meinhardt, Franz? He tried to cheat Clubfoot, and we know what happened
to him!"
"They're raking the whole city for this Englishman," answered the other
man. "Vogel, who works for Section Seven, you know the man I mean, was
telling me. They've done every hotel in Berlin and the suburbs, but they
haven't found him. They raided Bauer's in the Favoriten-Strasse last
night. The Englishman wasn't there, but they got three or four others
they were looking for--Fritz and another deserter included. I was nearly
there myself!"
I was always hearing references of this kind to my exploit. I was never
spoken of except in terms of admiration, but the name of Clubfoot--der
Stelze--excited only execration and terror.
I lived in daily fear of a raid at Haase's. Why the place had escaped so
long, with all that riff-raff assembled there nightly, I couldn't
imagine. It was one of those defects in German organization which puzzle
the best of us at times. In the meantime, I was powerless to escape. The
first thing Haase had done was to take away my papers--to send them to
the police, as he explained--but he never gave them back, and when I
asked for them he put me off with an excuse.
I was a virtual prisoner in the place. On my feet from morning till
night, I had indeed few opportunities for going out; but once, during
a slack time in the afternoon, when I broached the subject to the
landlord, he refused harshly to let me out of his sight.
"The street is not healthy for you just now. You would be a danger to
yourself and to all of us!" he said.
My life in that foul den was a burden to me. The living conditions were
unspeakable. Otto, a pale and ill-tempered consumptive, compelled, like
me, to rise in the darkness of the dawn, never washed, and his
companionship in the stuffy hole where we slept was offensive beyond
belief. He openly jeered at my early morning journeys out to a narrow,
stinking court, where I exulted in the ice-cold water from the pump. And
the food! It was only when I saw the mean victuals--the coarse and often
tainted horseflesh, the unappetizing war-bread, the coffee substitute,
and the rest--that I realized how Germany was suffering, though only
through her poor as yet, from the British blockade. That thought used to
help to overcome the nausea with which I sat down to eat.
Domestic life at Haase's was a hell upon earth. Haase himself was a
drunken bully, who made advances to every woman he met, and whose
complicated intrigues with the feminine portion of his client�le led to
frequent scenes with the fair-haired Hebe who presided at the bar and
over his household. It was she and Otto who fared daily forth to take
their places in the long queues that waited for hours with food cards
outside the provision shops.
These trips seemed to tell upon her temper, which would flash out
wrathfully at meal-times, when Haase began his inevitable grumbling
about the food. As Otto took a malicious delight in these family scenes,
I was frequently called upon to assume the role of peace-maker. More
than once I intervened to save Madame from the violence she had called
down upon herself by the sharpness of her tongue. She was a poor, faded
creature, and the tragedy of it all was that she was in love with this
degraded bully. She was grateful to me for my good offices, I think,
for, though she hardly ever addressed me, her manner was always
friendly.
These days of dreary squalor would have been unbearable if it had not
been for my elucidation of the word Boonekamp, which was said to hold
the clue to my brother's address. On the wall in the cubby-hole where I
slept was a tattered advertisement card of this _ap�ritif_--for such is
the preparation--proclaiming it to be "Germany's Best Cordial." As I
undressed at night, I often used to stare at this placard, wondering
what connection Boonekamp could possibly have with my brother. I
determined to take the first opportunity of examining the card itself.
One morning, while Otto was out in the queue at the butcher's, I slipped
away from the cellar to our sleeping-place and, lighting my candle, took
down the card and examined it closely. It was perfectly plain, red
letters on a green background in front, white at the back.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|