Klaus Read Free Page B

picture editor concluded that no one in the capital had ever heard of Gustaf Gründgens, which was then admittedly the case, cut him out, leaving Klaus there framed by Erika and Pamela.
    When he discovered the embarrassment, which to his tender self-esteem was a cruel insult, he sat silent, lips closed, but an expression of agonised anger and resentment on his face. And Klaus made the mistake, the cruel mistake, of trying to turn it into a joke, inviting laughter rather than expressing sympathy or, better, indignation on behalf of his insulted lover. Later he concluded that Gustaf had never forgiven him for this.
    In those days Gustaf proclaimed himself a Communist, though he had never read any Marxist literature, and talked of launching a “Revolutionary Theatre” in Hamburg. He inveighed against the rich and the bourgeoisie, even at the family dinner table in Munich.
    “But it is natural you should feel like that, my dear son-in-law,” the Magician said, and Gustaf, whose antennae were so acute, read contempt in the apparently friendly words. That was the trouble. He quivered with sensitivity, but like many who are abnormally thin-skinned, alert to any appearance of a slight, would speak harshly and cruelly in complete disregard of his listeners’ feelings. The world existed for him and him alone; the globe spun round him.
    Another whisky? Why not? If he got a little drunk, he might not need another dose of the drug that evening.
    “Hey there, Klaus,” a voice called, and, looking up, he saw Miki, the boy from the Zanzi Bar, with his arm round his girl. He leaned over and kissed Klaus, and insisted his girl did so too.
    “This is Annie,” he said. “Annie, meet my mate Klaus.”
    Annie was pretty with dyed blonde hair. She looked about sixteen.
    “Buy us a drink, Klaus. I’ve had a hard day. Annie, you won’t believe how much this guy knows, it’s sensational. Have you been writing, Klaus? If it’s a story, tell it us, Annie loves stories.”
    “I’m sorry,” Klaus said, “it’s only an essay. Very boring.”
    “We’re going to the boxing. Why not come with us? It’s an amateur show. One of my mates is fighting and, believe me, he’ll need all the support he can get.”
    The waiter brought them drinks: another whisky for Klaus, a pastis for Miki and a lemonade for Annie, who put her arm round her boy and whispered in his ear.
    “That’s all right,” Miki said, “Klaus is a good guy, I tell you.”
    What had she said? What doubts or disagreement aired?
    Miki laughed and hugged her. Klaus, warmed by his presence, envying, however absurdly, Annie, thought, the boxing. Why not? It would fill an hour or two.
    “Let’s go then,” Miki said.

IV
    Sleep evading him, he turned as so often to that afternoon in the Carlton Tea Rooms in Munich, springtime 1932. He had gone there only because the Café Luitpold across the street, which he preferred, was full of SA men, and so it was surprising to find Hitler in the tea room with some of his – what could you call them? – not colleagues, surely – henchmen, disciples? Strange to find that the Nazi leader had seemingly chosen not to be surrounded by his Brownshirt thugs.
    For a moment Klaus had come close to walking out. Then he thought: no, this is interesting, a chance to observe the man from close quarters.
    The Führer was eating strawberry tarts, stuffing them into his mouth one after the other. (Klaus too was fond of these tarts – the pastries at the Carlton were exceptionally good – but it would be years before he could enjoy one again.)
    What struck him was not only Hitler’s greed, but his insignificance. He was right about the greed – the man looked, as he later wrote, like “a gluttonous rat” – and that greed would be satisfied by nothing – it was all-consuming. But as for the insignificance which led Klaus to write that this flabby and foul little man with no marks of greatness would never come to power, well, that alas was a