The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Read online

  He turned and walked back through the Passage and out. He did not look around.

  “I don’t need to look,” he thought. “If he is here and near me, I will feel him.”

  He deceived himself. He was unaware that the boy he sought was sitting on a bench not twenty steps away—tired, hungry, and completely in despair.

  No feeling and voice told him, as with bowed head he strode down Unter den Linden, away from the place so abhorrent to him.

  5

  The boy was still sitting on the outer edge of the thickly occupied bench, staring across to the entrance as often as the view was free.

  A whole troop of young guys were standing there without moving from the spot the whole time, as he could see, entirely indifferent to the fact that they were blocking traffic. They were laughing and talking to one another.

  He still did not venture over.

  Then, however, as the pain in his stomach again became especially strong, he slowly got up and, eyes lowered, just as slowly walked across the road when it was clear for a moment from vehicular traffic and up to the entrance.

  At the corner where a mailbox projected, a boy was standing alone. He was bareheaded, looked down and out, and under his dirty jacket showed a lean, shirtless chest. He stood there as if waiting for someone who had made an appointment.

  The boy positioned himself beside him. He felt how his legs were trembling. Was it hunger? Or was it a sudden fear?

  Of what? For the moment no one was concerned about him. Yet it did seem again that the passersby and people coming out—and always mostly older men—looked at him peculiarly before walking on. He also believed he was being watched by the group of young people in the middle of the entrance. They turned toward him and laughed disdainfully before they continued talking. Were they talking about him? No, he would not have trusted himself now to go up to one of them and ask if they knew where he could find work. He would sooner ask the one standing next to him. But he looked as if he did not have work, not for a long time already.

  While he was thinking this over, he suddenly heard a hissing, angry voice close to his ear. It was this other boy.

  “Stupid lout! Ain’t ya got eyes in ya head? Can’t ya see that the john there is keen on ya? What ya standing here for, messing up my chance?”

  And then, still more furiously, almost threateningly: “Just go after him!”

  He became terribly frightened. What had the boy said? Whom was he talking about? What did he want from him?

  He could not stay here any longer, however.

  He walked as fast as his feet could carry him away from the entrance and down Unter den Linden. Laughter echoed after him. Were they laughing at him again?

  He did not know. He knew nothing any more. He walked and walked, first past the buildings with their shops, then across the middle promenade, and again to another bench. He could go no farther.

  Why had the strange boy been so angry? What had he wanted from him? Whom was he to follow? And why? His head was spinning. He understood not a word of it all.

  *

  Then, as he was just sitting there, still trembling from the scare and from hunger, it seemed to him that he was again being watched. By the gentleman on the bench next to his, who was leaning forward and looking over at him. He no longer dared to look over there. Then the seat next to him was free. The man got up and came to sit close beside him. He plainly felt his glance resting on him.

  But now he too got up. It was again the sudden rage that he had felt earlier that came over him. What did all these people want from him? Would he nowhere be left in peace? Was he not allowed to sit here on a bench like anybody else! He wanted to get away—no matter where—just away.

  He crossed to the other side and turned into a quiet side street. He crept along close to the buildings, tired enough to drop. I would like to just drop, he thought, drop and stay there. Then it would at least be at an end.

  He did not know how long or where he had walked when he heard a voice beside him, a quite friendly and encouraging voice.

  “Well, lad, also out for a walk? Don’t you want to come along a while with me?”

  He looked up. Was this the gentleman on the bench or another? He could not say, but he believed he had already briefly seen him. One of those from earlier who had looked at him so?

  The gentleman wore a light summer coat. He carried a briefcase under his arm and had a beardless face. He was now smiling and flushed as if from walking fast.

  When the man saw the astonishment on the face of the boy, who wordlessly stood there, he changed his tone and said pleasantly, “You really don’t need to be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. And you get ten marks.”

  He still received no answer and asked once more, “Well, are you coming with me or not?”

  In his head the boy’s thoughts were racing like crazy as he stood before the stranger and looked up at him.

  “Ten marks—what for then?—Come with you—where to?” he stammered.

  The gentleman seemed to have missed the question entirely.

  “Just come on. It’s not far. Right over there—” He was already walking on.

  Then turning back to the still hesitant boy: “But only if you want to. I won’t talk you into it.”

  These words turned the scale. For fear of losing the ten marks, the boy pulled himself together and stepped along beside the gentleman. By now he was entirely without willpower. It was all the same to where. Only the money! Only not lose the ten marks!

  They now talked no more.

  A couple hundred paces farther the gentleman quickly entered a house, waved him in, and they climbed up the stairs. At a door on the third floor the man rang short and loud.

  The boy was still standing on the top step of the stairway. Fear gripped him again. He could still turn back and run away.

  Then he followed the man through the door that opened just at that moment.

  *

  Standing on the street again a half hour later (alone, for the “gentleman” had stayed up there), with ten marks in his pocket, he felt like laughing out loud from joy. From relief and from joy.

  If it was nothing more than that! The pastor in his village had also done that with them, only he had not been friendly, but clumsy and rough, and had only given them a couple of apples from his garden.

  So that’s how one could make money! And he had thought for a moment on the stairs he was to be murdered!

  But the hundreds of thoughts that were ready to storm over him were for the present drowned by a single one—eat, now, just eat! As soon as possible, and as much as possible! Eat! Eat and then drink!

  He dashed to Aschinger’s on Friedrichstrasse. He sat in the farthest room, in the farthest corner, where he was all alone at this early afternoon hour, and immediately shoved the ten-mark bill at the waiter.

  The waiter laughed: “You’ve got time! What will it be, then?”

  “Sausages! And bread. Right away. And then a glass of dark beer, a large—”

  The waiter laughed again pleasantly and first set a basket of bread in front of him. He soon came back with the rest.

  The first pair of sausages were devoured and then he studied the menu. But there were so many things on it that he did not know that he stayed with his sausages—a second and then a third pair—with a lot of potato salad and much more bread. Likewise, the first glass of beer was followed by a second with a small cognac. Next he bought cigarettes, no matter what price—ten all at once. And everything was paid for immediately.

  A half hour later he finally felt ready to calmly think over the unprecedented experience he had just had. He did it thoroughly.

  So that’s how one could make money. He felt well and relaxed, as never before in his life. He was also no longer tired. He had not a trace of fatigue—it had all been only hunger.

  No, he did not yet want to get up. It was so cozy in the corner, alone, with beer and cigarettes in front of him, as many as he wanted.

  So
that’s how one could make money here in Berlin!

  That’s how Max got all that money, the ring, the watch, the cane and everything! That’s what was behind Max’s talk about good-looking boys, Friedrichstrasse, and the Passage! And still he had not directly said so, the deceitful dog! Did he think he would have betrayed the secret or passed it on! How little he knew him! One just did not talk about something like that—to no one!

  He was unable, though, to become really angry at his friend. His good feeling of being filled up was too great, and he felt too relieved, released from the puzzle which had racked his brains so much these past days!

  That’s why so many boys were standing around in the Passage! That’s why the gentlemen nudged him, looked at him, and whispered to him! That’s why the other boy earlier had been so angry with him! That’s why the other guys had laughed at him, and why the nice gentleman just earlier smilingly guessed that he was new to Berlin! (Otherwise he had asked nothing and was not at all curious.)

  And he had been afraid of this! Even if it had not been any great fun for him, there had indeed been nothing special about it. God, how stupid he had been! But in the end he was no longer so stupid!

  The thought came to him—what if I went again right away? And immediately look the affair over again, but now with entirely different eyes? Right away, today?

  He indeed had enough money, more than enough for today and also for tomorrow. (He counted it: still seven whole marks and twenty pennies. Aschinger’s was really cheap. With the remaining money he could go to his hotel, pay for the night, and redeem his things.) Yet it would also really be nice if he got some more money, maybe ten marks again. He wanted to go there again. Right now.

  But first something else occurred to him.

  While he was loitering around the train station across the way, he had noticed, with the sharp eyes of a boy that see quickly and sharply everything superficially curious, that besides the toilet there were also washrooms, in which travelers could clean themselves and change clothes. He had nothing to change into, of course, but after these last two days he really needed to wash. He had really been ashamed of himself earlier, everything about him had been so dirty.

  So he got up, walked over, found what he was looking for, and after generously adding another fifty to the fifty-penny fee, received soap, a second towel, brush, and comb. He put himself in order, as well as he could. His dirty shirt he tucked under his jacket, leaving his chest bare; his pants he smoothed over his boots. He inspected himself in the mirror, he found (as Max had told him) that he was a quite good-looking boy, who could show himself. Now he would learn whether the two of them—Max and he—were right.

  Refreshed, cheered, and with no trace of fear now, he strode to Unter den Linden and sat, not on one of the benches, but instead on one of the rental chairs, not directly opposite the Passage, yet near enough to keep an eye on it and to see what took place there. To begin with, he lit another cigarette.

  Acquaintances did not take place so quickly. He would just see how things were done.

  He had no suspicion of the acquaintance he was to make this very day, within the next half hour.

  *

  People streamed by him, including some individual gentlemen. He observed them now, carefully, but none paid attention to him, sitting here with one leg carelessly crossed over the other, comfortably smoking and digesting his meal.

  He had just begun to be bored and decided to walk over to the Passage, when three young men came by, talking loudly and laughing. He could not understand what they were saying, but all three were very finely dressed, it seemed to him.

  Then he saw how one of the three, after a quick, brief glance at him, stopped, shouted something to the others, made a motion of his hand, as if they were to go on without him, and then, alone, came directly right up to him and without further ado sat down on the chair beside him. To his amazement, he heard himself addressed and a hand was extended to him.

  “Hello, Chick! Well, how’s it going with ya? Have ya not got a cigarette for me?”

  He thought at first he had not heard correctly, and stared disconcertedly at the hand extended to him.

  Then he looked up. It was a slender boy, somewhat older than he—maybe seventeen or eighteen—with brown hair smoothly combed back from his forehead. He had cheerful brown eyes, a strikingly red, painted mouth, and white teeth which, as he laughingly returned the boy’s look, he showed as much as possible.

  The boy was still so taken aback at being spoken to that he could only bring out the words, “Do we know one another then?”

  The other laughed out loud.

  Then, withdrawing his hand, he said in an almost reproachful tone, “Are you really not going to give me a cigarette?”

  Again completely disconcerted he could only bring out the package and offer it to him.

  “Thanks! One’s enough. For the moment.” He handed the package back. “Light?”

  What a fresh guy!

  Then he saw how he was being examined from head to foot, critically at first, then more approvingly, and he heard him say, “Now tell me, Chick, how long have you been here in Berlin now?”

  And when he again received no answer:

  “And just what is your name? First name only, of course!”

  This time he had to answer and he did.

  “My name is Gunther—” He even found the courage to add, “And what is your name, sir?”

  The other only laughed again.

  “’Sir’ is good!”

  But then again, with well-acted astonishment and again not without a slight reproach:

  “What is my name? Mine? Mine? Man, where do you come from, that you don’t know me? I’m Atze, the refined Atze!”

  Now Gunther had to laugh too.

  Atze! He had never before heard such a funny name.

  The ice was broken.

  “What does it stand for, Atze’?”

  “Atze—well, it just stands for Atze. Or Arthur.”

  Leaning over in his chair and now all at once speaking like a Berliner, Atze continued. “Man, you don’t know from nothing! I’ll just have to take the Chick under my wing as quickly as possible, or else he’ll fly wrong. Well, we’ll just take care of that. So, who am I?”

  “Atze—the refined Atze,” said Gunther, laughing and taken with a sudden liking for the other boy.

  Arm in arm they then walked along the promenade to Friedrichstrasse. His new friend did not seem to be the least concerned about how much they clashed with one another in their clothing.

  When they went by the Passage and Gunther unconsciously looked over, his new friend said scornfully, “Passage? A boy who thinks highly of himself just doesn’t go to the Passage!”

  Gunther was again astonished.

  He was not to come out of his astonishment the whole evening.

  First they went to a cafe, not one of the best because of Gunther’s clothes, but still a quite decent one, where they ate pastry and drank a couple of fine liqueurs. Then to a large cinema, and after that finally to a cellar restaurant in a side street, simple but good, where the portions were gigantic. Everywhere, the refined Atze was known, met acquaintances, was spoken to, and was greeted by name. And everywhere, always when Gunther made an attempt to pay, Atze rejected it.

  “Just never mind, it will be all right,” and he took care of the whole check.

  In the cellar restaurant, at a scrubbed white table, when they were alone, sated and smoking, after a half hour Gunther had told Atze everything—everything that he had to tell—and the other listened quietly and attentively, without interrupting him. He told of his earlier life in the village, Max’s visit, his flight to Berlin, the misery of these last days, and finally also his first experience—that of today.

  Atze pricked up his ears at this. He inquired about details, made Gunther describe the appearance of the gentleman as exactly as possible, and finally asked what he had received.

  Then he gave his opinion thoughtfu
lly, again as a Berliner:

  “Ten marks is not exactly plenty. But in those duds—”

  When Gunther finally indicated, about midnight, that he must go to his hotel to sleep, Atze said curtly:

  “Sleep? You can sleep at my place,” and he packed him outside into a real automobile. The trip in the taxi was the high point of the evening. Gunther was blissful.

  This was a friend! Gunther had no fear of him. With Atze he would go to the end of the world! Atze listened when one talked to him, and he held nothing back like underhanded Max, the ape! Gunther wanted to learn much more from Atze—everything he did not know. Everything.

  *

  At Atze’s dwelling, in an entirely respectable-appearing house, only far up in the north, they did not even have to ring. Already standing at the door was an enormously fat woman, with a rosy, good-natured face, wearing a dazzling white nightgown covering huge breasts. She held a burning lamp in her hand, as if she had expected the late guests, and she greeted them with the words:

  “Well, Atze, what kind of a shady little bird have you brought with you again, you shameless rascal, you!”

  But Atze, already by her in the room, took the lamp from her hand, grasped her around the hips, and whirled the reluctant woman around a couple of times.

  “Little Mama,” he cried, “Little Mama, just think, he lost his virginity only today! Astonishing, eh?”

  During this night, as they lay side by side in Atze’s bed in his room, with Little Mama nearby audibly snoring, the boy learned much more: what a hustler was, and what a john was; which gentlemen one should go with, and which not; what one should do, and what not, and what to ask for. Also, what a cop was, and what an auntie was. An auntie—well, that was just: “Oooh nooo! an auntie—like girls when they’re young and then just like old maids.” Cops however—the police were called that—were the criminal officers who were always after them, and were the only ones against whom you really had to be on your guard. Then there were also those over twenty—smart guys, hot heads, toughs—precisely those who were so dangerous to every auntie.