A Man Lies Dreaming (30 page)

She had become unchained from time. In lucid moments she spoke haltingly in alien tongues. Her eyes were open windows allowing me a glimpse into strange other worlds: in one the very moon was carved with an image of my face, while in another the Earth lay in ruins and corpses filled the seas from shore to shore and the foam bursting on the rocks ran red with blood. My mother’s blood was black ichor. Her tears were purest crystal, like those found only on virgin sands. In the night she cried in broken syllables, but more and more she faded, with every passing day there was less of her.

My mother died that December.

Never will there be another woman like my mother.

Wolf’s Diary, 21st November 1939

‘Damn you all to hell, this food is
scheisse
!’ I said. ‘Bring me vegetables!
Vegetables
, I said! No, don’t tell me to be quiet. Get your hands off of me! I said get your dirty hands off of m— no, don’t you dare reach for that syringe! I said don’t you dare—’

Wolf’s Diary, 22nd November 1939

‘Enough!’ I yelled. My headache was gone, I was hungry, I needed to urinate, and I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. ‘I want to be discharged immediately.’

‘You have suffered serious trauma,’ the nurse said. It was a different nurse again. I was getting sick of nurses, and needles, and what passed for hospital food.

‘Then bandage me up and give me some pills,’ I said.

‘It might not be safe for you out there,’ the nurse said. ‘It’s ugly outside, there are mobs, everything is tense – it’s the elections today, isn’t it.’

‘
Today
? How long have I been in here!’

‘A few days. And I really do think you should—’

‘Don’t you worry about me,
bubeleh
,’ I said. Was I really using Yiddish? What was happening to me? ‘I have friends,’ I added, darkly. ‘I have friends in high places.’

‘I’m sure that you do. And we could use the bed. But the doctor—’

‘I don’t need a doctor! I healed my own blindness with the power of my
mind
!’

‘I … see.’

‘Look,’ I said, calmer now. Trying to reason with her was like trying to teach National Socialism to a goat. It was an enterprise doomed to failure and bound to disappoint both parties. ‘I’m leaving. I want my clothes.’

‘This is highly irregular—’

‘I’m
leaving
! Don’t you know who I
am
?’

‘I have no idea who you are.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Sir, please!’

But I was already standing, tottering on the hard floor. I regained my balance, smiled at her contemptuously. ‘It was a minor setback,’ I said. ‘It’s only a matter of time until I’m on top of things again.’

‘Sir—’

‘Get out of my way!’

I barged past her to the cheering of the other patients, found my clothes folded tidily and carried them to the bathroom where I changed. When I emerged I felt like a new man. I was myself again. ‘Goodbye!’ I said. I tapped my finger on the brim of my hat and walked away.

She didn’t follow.

Wolf emerged into a cold November day. A pale sun hid behind clouds. It was raining again, a thin, constant drizzle. The railway arches rose ahead of Wolf, obscuring the river. Men in suits flowed down Southwark Street.

It was Wednesday.

His head no longer hurt. He was rested, he was irritable and he was still on the case, whether anyone wanted him to be or not.

It was time to act.

Wolf hailed a black cab. Settled himself into the back seat. ‘Where to, mate?’ the driver said.

‘
The Grosvenor Hotel, Victoria. And step on it!
’

The driver chuckled as though Wolf had said something funny. On the other side of the window, grey clouds gathered on the horizon.

The city flowed past outside the windows of the cab. The streets deepened and the sky darkened overhead and the clouds seemed like giant ships doing battle, raising the black flags of pirates and privateers. The water of the Thames churned and Wolf imagined vast spirits underwater, entwined in a battle reflecting the heavens above, great amorphous translucent creatures of some primordial ooze, ancient beyond all imagining, things that were beyond good and evil but merely
were
, from even before the world was formed.

It was possible he was still somewhat under the influence of the hospital drugs.

The Grosvenor Hotel rose before them then like a castle. The driver stopped the cab. Wolf paid the fare.

‘Sooner or later,’ he thought groggily, ‘everyone pays the fare.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing,’ Wolf said. He exited the car. Went up the steps to the hotel entrance where liveried doormen stood like toy soldiers. He went inside and marched up to the reception desk. ‘Leni Riefenstahl,’ he said. ‘Tell her it is Wolf.’

The hotel clerk behind the desk was severe in a beige and cream suit. His face had the faintly disapproving air of a maiden aunt. He said, ‘I’m afraid Miss Riefenstahl is no longer staying with us, sir.’

Wolf took a step back from the desk. He hovered there uncertainly for a moment, looking one way and then the other, helplessly. The hotel clerk said, ‘Are you unwell, sir?’

But Wolf recovered.

Wolf always recovered.

‘Where did Miss Riefenstahl go?’ he said.

‘The film crew left two days ago,’ the clerk said. ‘I believe they went back to America. There were issues with the production of their film that necessitated their decampment.’

His eloquence irritated Wolf. ‘She is not here?’ he said, shortly.

‘No, sir. Are you sure you are all right?’

‘I’m fine. I’m fine!’ Wolf turned from him. How could it be? He had counted on Leni. She stood for everything he had once believed in, she was Aryan womanhood incarnate. She was loving – uncomplicated – sexually compliant – she was his! And yet even she was gone now, had gone back to Hollywood, leaving him with an aching emptiness, a dull pain. He was hollow inside, and the hollowness was spreading, beginning as a tiny seed, undetectable, and growing through him over the years, replacing healthy cells and blood vessels, bone marrow and muscles and nerves, until he was entirely hollow, until he was lighter than air. He felt as though he were floating, untethered. He no longer knew who he was.

Then movement caught his eye. A man, with a face he had seen before, emerging from the lifts. For a moment Wolf stared, disbelieving, though he didn’t quite know why. He had assumed they’d all left with Leni, yet here he was.

It was the Jew, Bitker.

Wolf turned away before Bitker could see him. He observed him through the mirrors fixed above the hotel’s plush entrance. Bitker went right past Wolf, heading outside. Indecisive, Wolf stared after him, then broke into a run. ‘Herr Bitker!’ he said. ‘Herr Bitker!’

The Jew turned. A look of polite bemusement filled his face. ‘Yes …?’ he said.

Wolf stopped, disbelieving again. ‘We’ve met,’ he said.

‘Have we? I’m afraid I do not recollect, Mr …?’

‘Wolfson,’ Wolf said, thinking quickly. ‘We have not been introduced. Unwin’s party? You are working with Leni?’

‘I am part of the film crew,’ Bitker said. ‘How do you know Miss Riefenstahl?’

‘We … I am, was, an artist. I did scenery work on one of her Berlin films,’ Wolf said.

‘I see. Well, she has gone back to California, I’m afraid,’ Bitker said.

‘So I understand.’

‘I am sorry I can’t be of more help,’ Bitker said, politely.

‘Herr Bitker!’ Wolf’s voice was desperate; hungry. He put his hand on Bitker’s arm. ‘Please.’

‘What is it, Mr Wolfson?’

‘I want to help!’

‘Help? Help with the film? The production is halted. I myself only stayed behind for, well, for some other business. I shall be returning to California tonight.’

‘No, Herr Bitker!’ Wolf lowered his voice, leaned in closer to the Jew. ‘I want to help. With the cause.’

‘The cause?’ For the first time Bitker looked alarmed. ‘What cause?’

‘Herr Bitker, please! Do not play games with me!’

‘This is not the time or place—!’

‘I want to help. I am ready to do whatever it takes. Life is intolerable, here, for us Jews!’

‘I don’t disagree. But I don’t see what you think I can do—’

‘I want to do what has to be done. I want to join. I know things, Herr Bitker.’

‘I can see that. Come with me.’ Bitker grabbed Wolf roughly by the arm, half-dragged him into the empty hotel bar. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘I told you, I’m Wolfson. Moshe Wolfson. Here.’ Wolf fished out his forged passport. ‘Take it!’

Bitker took it from his hands, leafed through it. He stared at Wolf and his expression turned puzzled. ‘Have we met before?’ he said. ‘Not at Unwin’s party.’

Wolf thought of following Bitker to Threadneedle Street, of being discovered, chased and beaten. ‘No,’ he said.

Suddenly a small smile materialised on Bitker’s face. He laughed. The sound was unexpected, startling. ‘Do you know—!’ he said. ‘If you grew a moustache, you would almost be the spitting image of—’

‘Please, Herr Bitker! Do not joke of such things!’

‘No, of course not. My apologies.’ Still, some of the man’s good humour seemed to return, as if Wolf’s superficial similarity to that long-vanished leader had put him at ease. He put a hand on Wolf’s shoulder. ‘Listen to me, Wolfson. There is nothing here for you. Nothing remains. The election will not go our way. England will become a hell for the Jews. The Americans are closing their borders to our people. Europe remains hostile to us. There is only one place remaining, Wolfson.’ He stared into Wolf’s eyes with a deep and dark intensity. ‘There is only Palestine, now.’

‘We must kill Mosley,’ Wolf blurted.

‘Don’t worry about Mosley! That scum will be taken care of.’

‘How?’ Wolf said. His hands were shaking with excitement.

‘I have said too much. Listen to me, Wolfson. There will be a ship, leaving tomorrow morning before dawn. If things go wrong for us here. Greenwich docks. The
SS Exodus
. Now go! You’re putting us both in danger.’

‘But Herr Bitker! Wait!’ Wolf tried to halt the other man but Bitker shook his head.

‘Good luck,’ he said, softly. He shook Wolf’s hand and then, with quick, hurrying steps, disappeared into the grey daylight outside the hotel. Wolf stood staring after him. His brain was awhirl. What had Bitker meant about Mosley? He had successfully caught the Jew off-guard, had extracted valuable information from him. It was obvious there was a threat to Mosley’s life, planned sometime soon, planned, perhaps, for that very evening. He had to warn Mosley.

Wolf left the hotel and saw Bitker enter an Austin Tourer. It was an ugly two-seater car with an open top. Bitker sat behind the wheel while, beside him, Wolf could make out a face he knew and loathed.

It was the little sister, Judith Rubinstein.

She was dressed inexplicably in a domestic servant’s uniform.

‘Wait!’ Wolf shouted, but neither heard him. The car’s engine came to life with a hacking cough and the Tourer slid away into the traffic. ‘Judith!’ Wolf cried. ‘Judith!’

He ran after the car but the road was clear and the car disappeared. Wolf’s lungs burned and his leg throbbed with the old wound.

He stood there with his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

He should warn Mosley, he thought dully. A weak sun momentarily shone from a break in the grey clouds. Wolf felt himself filled by the light, once again seemingly detached of space and time: he felt as if he could just float away, into the clouds, for ever; but the feeling passed and he was himself again, and after a moment he straightened up.

He found a red phone box and went in and shut the door. Reached for coins and gave the operator the number to call. The ringing seemed to fill the air, becoming a flock of dark birds against the cloudy sky.

‘Mosley residence.’

‘This is Wolf.’

‘Mr Wolf! It’s Alderman.’

‘Who?’

‘Thomas Alderman, sir. I came to visit you at the hospital.’ There was a note of reproach in the voice.

Wolf conjured up with some difficulty the image of a serious, pale-faced young man, sitting beside the bed in a high-backed chair, asking him to sign a book. Had that really happened? He thought he had dreamed the episode up – they
had
given him rather a lot of drugs at the time.

‘I must speak with Mosley. It is of the utmost urgency!’

‘I am sure. Sir …’

Wolf did not like the boy’s tone. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘Sir, I’m most awfully sorry.’

Was he too late? Was Mosley even now lying dead or dying by the side of the road or in some beer hall somewhere, or wounded from an assassin’s bullet or mutilated by an explosive device? ‘What is it?’ Wolf said. The dread rose in bubbles above his head, his speech encapsulated inside.

‘I’m afraid—’ he could hear the boy swallowing, over the phone. ‘Sir Oswald has found it necessary to terminate your employment.’

‘I … what? I beg your pardon?’

‘Your services are no longer necessary. I’m so sorry, I really am, Mr Wolf.’

‘My … my
services
? What are you – who do you think – how
dare
you! How
dare you
!’ Wolf was screaming at the receiver, his lips trembling in rage, his spit flying onto the mouthpiece of the telephone. ‘I have important
news
, urgent news for this … little … fucking no-good wannabe Fascist
imitator
!’