THE INVISIBLE VICTORY

to walk into trouble, neither in Berlin nor Chicago.'

'You don't rate Adolf Hitler's gangsters more dangerous than Al Capone's?'

'I don't. Capone runs a gang of crooks, Hitler's are disciplined like the Army.' With his teeth, he pulled off his leather gauntlet, a reflector of chiselled red glass on the back-the latest thing for displaying driving signals. From the pocket of his ankle-length black leather motoring coat, a trophy from Berlin, he produced a packet of Chesterfields. 'What are the newspapers saying about Hitler in England?'

'I don't know. My mother sends me the _Sunday Graphic_ every week, but it seems filled with pictures of the Royal Family.'

I lit the cigarette jutting from his full lips. Jeff was five or six years older than me, red faced and too fleshy, but still giving the impression of an athlete. He wore his brown hair _en brosse,_ his heavy eyebrows transecting his face as a single bar. He enjoyed a long-standing intimacy with money, which reduced it to a reckoning in his daily plans no more intrusive than breathing. Like many Americans, his life was a tropical sea of hedonism traversed by occasional icebergs of puritanism. His father owned chemical companies in New York State-but of course he was making a fortune from bootlegging. The Beckermans brewed beer long before dropping their final 'n' en route from Hamburg to Ellis Island, and would brew it again when American thirsts might be legally slaked.

Jeff enjoyed a simultaneous reverence and contempt for academics with First Class degrees like myself. He respected me as the only man in Wuppertal with whom he could hold an intelligent conversation. But he would have offhandedly packed me home with barely the fare in my pocket. He could be very simple or very shrewd, equally infuriatingly. He might have inhabited the America of Scott Fitzgerald, which vanished in a similar puff of misunderstanding, ridicule, nostalgia and shame as the British Empire. _The Great Gatsby_ had been on bookshelves for seven years, but I doubt if he had read it. Jeff only read books which helped him to get on.

The journey was bone-shaking, snow seeping round the celluloid side-screen. Jeff had lent me his raccoon coat, and I still wore my Trinity scarf. The road ran close to the huge pharmaceutical works at Leverkusen, a blue circle in the sky as tall as the factory chimneys which supported it proclaiming twice BAYER, the words crossed at the Y.

Kцln glittered in the diamonds of a road sign. I had not returned there since New Year's Eve, when I had changed trains at the Hauptbahnhof in the shadow of its dazzling skyscraper of a cathedral. Jeff took the Hohenzollern Bridge across the Rhine, the river which flows through the German soul.

He cursed. The far end of the bridge was blocked by another of the uniformed processions which crawled like worms over the body of Germany. This one presented 'the torchlight red on sweaty faces'. The Brown Shirts were stamping between the Cathedral and the Tankgasse, small knots of spectators in the falling snow raising arms through enthusiasm or prudence, while flankers pressed pamphlets upon them.

Jeff had to stop. The ends of the bridge, the walls everywhere, were plastered with posters. Hitler had dissolved the Reichstag, there was to be yet another election the following Sunday, March 5. As a foreigner, I found neither significance nor even identity in the dreary gallery of political faces-except Adolf Hitler's, as instantly recognizable today, with his lower middle-class, Austrian 'little man' moustache, which you still see decorating street-cleaners and tram conductors in Vienna. _Deutschland Eswache!_ cried the Nazis' posters. They had stolen the vivid red of their Communist arch-enemies, their message in Gothic type always angry, vituperative and vile, and always highly effective.

Waiting patiently, I recalled how Cologne had recently shone in the political news. The gentleman showjumper Franz von Papen had craftily made a secret rendezvous there with Hitler behind the back of Chancellor 'Artful Dodger' Kurt von Schleicher-who got wind of it, planted a spy with a camera, and had it over the next morning's newspapers. Hitler anyway regarded the gentleman showjumper as a joke. So absurd a joke that he later planned to provoke his invasion of Austria in 1938 by having Ambassador Papen in Vienna spectacularly murdered.

'There doesn't seem to be any trouble.' Jeff tapped the steering-wheel with his reflecting gauntlets. 'The Jews keep well out of sight, and the Communists choose their own time and place to trail their coat. I guess everyone else is too cold or too scared, and staying home. This sort of game is played in Berlin every night-you should have seen it when Hitler became Chancellor, the SA in thousands, parading in the Tiergarten and marching in columns through the Brandenburger Tor and along the Unter den Linden. There was nothing of a rabble about it. Everything was very military, bands playing and the marchers singing their heads off.'

'What was the reaction?'

'Rapturous. You know how the Germans love a torchlight procession.' He flicked up another Chesterfield. 'And they say old Hindenburg looked down from his window muttering _'Du lieber Gott,_ I never knew we'd taken so many Russian prisoners'.'

We were making for a cabaret called the Sphinx, of which Jeff had heard from some fantastiche girl called Heike in Berlin. It was hardly the famous Parisian Sphinx, where I went-off limits-with the Americans after the Liberation, and where girls did strange things with cigarettes. We discovered a narrow dark doorway, a sequence of white electric bulbs writing Sphinx continually above. It was somewhere in the old town within the elbow of the Rhine between the Hohenzollern Bridge and the suspension bridge to the south, near the Gurzenich, the building where laws were made for the Holy Roman Empire. Through the unhappy propensity of Europeans for blowing up each other's cities, the whole area is now replaced by orderly pedestrian precincts providing all services from supermarkets to sex shops.

The lobby was flanked with panels of coloured glass depicting palms, pyramids and camels, symbols of greater romance and mystery to the Germans than the British, who policed them. Jeff's brow clouded. It clearly was not a patch on fantastiche Berlin. But I was excited enough, never having been inside a cabaret before.

Down a narrow staircase hung a crimson plush curtain guarded by a German in fez and tasselled uniform, suggesting an advertisement for Abdullah Turkish cigarettes. The management tired abruptly of Eastern pretence. Beyond was a long brightly-lit basement resembling a teashop, with wall mirrors and small wicker tables under white fringed cloths, each with a numbered card in a bamboo holder and an old-fashioned telephone. At the far end, the curtain was down on a small stage, and two men in tails played _How Deep is the Ocean _on piano and drums as though it were a march. Attendance was thin, the weather and political turmoil not being conducive to carefree nights out.

'In Berlin, there's men dressed as women and women dressed as men,' complained Jeff.

The waiter in a floor-sweeping apron suggested champagne. Jeff ordered beer. He sat back in his fragile- looking gilt chair, lighting another cigarette and scowling. His black and white check tweeds came from Savile Row, his silk shirt from Florence, his foulard tie from the Rue de Rivoli. He dressed his part as man of the world. 'If you want a girl, you call up her table number,' he explained, nodding towards some gaudily dressed women sitting alone or in pairs against the walls.

But my attention was diverted by waiters equipping the patrons at tables near the stage with long bibs of red rubber. I was speculating what fancy dish might be on its way, when the curtain rose to a roll on the drums, revealing a small roped boxing ring, a mirror sloping above, into which a melancholy man in a long white coat was tipping buckets of greenish mud.

Jeff stuck his thumb in his top waistcoat pocket. 'We're going to see a couple of girls wrestling in mud.'

'Why mud?' I asked in surprise. 'Girls wrestling would be unusual enough for me.'

'It has to be in mud. The Germans have a genius for the extreme.'

It was a coy, even lugubrious entertainment. One girl was fresh-faced and solidly-built, good looking in a farmyard way. The other was pale and sad, seeming in need of a square meal. Both were dressed for the beach, in white rubber bathing caps and ankle-length robes of dazzlingly patterned towelling, removed to reveal swimsuits demurely skirted across the tops of their thighs. They climbed into the ring and braced themselves against the ropes, like the prizefighters in the newsreels. The band broke into Franz von Suppй's _Light Cavalry._ They fell upon each other, standing in the mud with their breasts pressed together, slapping each other's buttocks.

'This election's going to be a walkover for Hitler.' Jeff was affecting intense tedium. 'He's got big business in his pocket-I heard in Berlin how Sacht and Gцring fixed it.'

The music stopped. The wrestlers separated, standing in their corners glistening with green mud, their heaving breasts decrying any sham in the struggle. Jeff lit another cigarette. 'Hey, have you read Hitler's book, _Mein Kampf?'_ I shook my head. 'This _fantastiche_ girl Heike translated bits for me.'

'You talk politics with whores, do you?'