The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood

the cigar he had refused; he made a considerable point of this, as though it were a proof of his singular strong-mindedness and integrity. Thereupon, the official, still courteous, had asked permission to smoke. This Arthur had granted.
    There had followed a discussion, crossexamination disguised as chat, about Arthur’s business activities in Berlin. Arthur was careful not to go into details here. “It wouldn’t interest you,” he told Bayer. I gathered, however, that the officials had politely succeeded in frightening him a goqd deal. They were far too well informed.
    These preliminaries over, the real questioning began. “We understand, Mr. Norris, that you have recently made a journey to Paris. Was this visit in connection with your private business?”
    Arthur had been ready for this, of course. Perhaps too ready. His explanations had been copious. The official had punctured them with a single affable enquiry. He had named a name and an address which Mr. Norris had twice visited, on the evening of his arrival and on the morning of his departure. Was this, also, a private business interview? Arthur didn’t deny that he had had a nasty shock. Nevertheless, he had been, he claimed, exceedingly discreet. “I wasn’t so silly as to deny anything, of course. I made light of the whole matter. I think I impressed them favourably. They were shaken, I could see that, distinctly shaken.”
    Arthur paused, added modestly: “I flatter myself that I know how to handle that particular kind of situation pretty well. Yes.”
    His tone appealed for a word of encouragement, of confirmation, here. But Bayer didn’t encourage, didn’t condemn, didn’t speak or move at all. His dark brown eyes continued to regard Arthur with the same brilliant attention, smiling and alert. Arthur uttered a short nervous cough.
    Anxious to interest that impersonal, hypnotic silence, he made a great deal of his narrative. He must have talked for nearly half an hour. Actually, there wasn’t much to tell. The police, having displayed the extent of their knowledge, had hastened to assure Mr. Norris that his activities did not interest them in the least, provided that these activities were confined to foreign countries. As for Germany itself, that, of course, was a different matter. The German Republic welcomes all foreign guests, but requires them to remember that certain laws of hospitality govern guest as well as host. In short, it would be a great pity if the German Republic were ever to be deprived of the pleasure of Mr. Norris’ society. The official felt sure that Mr. Norris, as a man of the world, would appreciate his point of view.
    Finally, just as Arthur was making for the door, having been helped on with his overcoat and presented with his hat, came a last question asked in a tone which suggested that it hadn’t the remotest connection with anything which had previously been said: “You have recently become a member of the Communist Party?”
    “I saw the trap at once, of course,” Arthur told us. “It was simply a trap. But I had to think quickly; any hesitation in answering would have been fatal. They’re so accustomed to notice these details. … I am not a member of the Communist Party, I said to them, nor of any other Left Wing organisation. I merely sympathise with the attitude of the K. P. D. to certain non-political problems… I think that was the right answer? I think so. Yes.”
    At last Bayer both smiled and spoke. “You have acted quite right, my dear Norris.” He seemed subtly amused.
    Arthur was as pleased as a stroked cat.
    “Comrade Bradshaw was of great assistance to me.”
    “Oh yes?”
    Bayer didn’t ask how.
    “You have interest for our movement?”
    His eyes measured me for the first time. No, he was not impressed. Equally, he did not condemn. A young bourgeois intellectual, he thought. Enthusiastic, within certain limits. Educated, within certain limits. Capable of response if appealed to in terms of his