“Where is my son—?” said Joh Fredersen. He asked—and his voice cracked as if in suffocation:
“Where is my child?”
Slim’s head flung back against the wall. From his ashen lips came the toneless words:
“Tomorrow there will be many in Metropolis who will ask:
“ ‘Joh Fredersen, where is my child?’ ”
Joh Fredersen’s fists relaxed. His whole body twisted around. Then the man who had been the Master over Metropolis saw that another man was standing in the room. He stared at him. The sweat trickled down his face in cold, slow, burdensome drops. The face twitched in a terrible impotence.
“Where is my son—?” asked Joh Fredersen, babblingly. He stretched out his hand. The hand shot through the air, groping aimlessly. “Do you know, where my son is—?”
Josaphat did not answer. Yes, the answer shouted in his throat. But he could not form the words. There was a fist at his throat, strangling him … God—Almighty God in highest heaven, was it Joh Fredersen who was standing before him?
Joh Fredersen made an uncertain step towards him. He bent his head low to look at him the more closely. He nodded again.
“I know you,” he said tonelessly. “You are Josaphat and you were my first secretary. I sent you away. I treated you cruelly. I did you wrong and I ruined you … I beg your forgiveness … I am sorry that I was ever cruel to you or to anyone else … Forgive me … Forgive me, Josaphat, for ten hours I have not known where my son is … For ten hours, Josaphat, I have been sending all the men I could get hold of, down into that damned city to look for my son, and I know it is senseless, and I know it is quite pointless, the day is breaking, and I am talking and talking and I know that I am a fool but perhaps, perhaps you know where my son is … ?”
“Captured,” said Josaphat, and it was as though he ripped the word from his gullet, and feared to bleed to death therefrom. “Captured …”
A stupid smile hovered over Joh Fredersen’s face.
“What does that mean … captured … ?”
“The mob has captured him, Joh Fredersen!”
“Captured—?”
“Yes.”
“My son—?”
“Yes!—Freder, your son—!”
A senseless, pitiable, animal sound broke from Joh Fredersen’s mouth. His mouth stood open, distorted—his hands rose as in childish defence, to ward off a blow which had already fallen. His voice said, quite high and piteously:
“My son … ?”
“They took him prisoner,”—Josaphat tore the words out—“because they sought a victim for their despair, and for the fury of their immeasurable, inconceivable agony. When they saw the black water running towards them from the shafts of the underground railway, and when they realised that, as the result of the stopping of the pumps, the whole workmen’s town had been flooded out, then they went mad with despair. They say that some mothers, blind and deaf to all remonstrance, tried, as if possessed, to dive down through the flooded shafts, and just the terrible absoluteness of the futility of any attempt at rescue has turned them into beasts and they lust for revenge …”
“Revenge … on whom?”
“On the girl who seduced them …”
“On the girl …”
“Yes …”
“Go on …”
“They have taken captive the girl, on whom they put the blame of all this horror … Freder wanted to save her, for he loves the girl … They have taken him captive and are forcing him to look on and see how his beloved dies … They have built the bonfire before the cathedral … They are dancing round the bonfire … They are yelling: ‘We have captured the son of Joh Fredersen and his beloved’ … and I know—I know: He’ll never get away from them alive … !”
For the space of some seconds there was so deep and perfect a silence that the golden glow of the morning, breaking forth, strong and radiant had the effect of a powerful roar. Then Joh Fredersen turned around, breaking into a run. He flung himself at the door. So forceful and irresistible was this movement that it seemed as if the closed door itself were not able to withstand it.
Past the knots of human being ran Joh Fredersen—across to the staircase and down the steps. His course was as a pauseless series of leaps. He did not notice the height. With hands stretched forward he ran, in bounds, his hair rearing up like a flame above his brow. His mouth was wide open and between his parted lips there hovered—a soundless scream—the unscreamed name: “Freder!”
An infinity of stairs … clefts … rents in walls … smashed Stone blocks … twisted iron … destruction … ruin …
The street.
The day was streaming down, red, upon the street …
Howls in the air. And the gleam of flame. And smoke …
Voices … shouts—and no exultant shouting … shouts of fear, of horror, of terribly strained tension …
At last the cathedral square …
The bonfire. The mob … men, woman, immeasurable masses … but they were not gazing at the bonfire, on the smoking fireiness of which smouldered a creature of metal and glass, with the head and body of a woman.
All eyes were turned upwards, towards the heights of the cathedral, the roof of which sparkled in the morning sunshine.
Joh Fredersen stopped, as though a blow had been struck at his knees.
“What …” he stammered. He raised his eyes, he raised his hands quite slowly to the level of his head … his hands rested upon his hair.
Soundlessly, as though mown down, he fell upon his knees.
Upon the heights of the cathedral roof, entwined about each other, clawed to each other, wrestled Freder and Rotwang, gleaming in the sunlight.
They fought, breast pressed to breast, knee to knee. One did not need very sharp eyes to see that Rotwang was by far the stronger. The slender form of the boy, in white silken tatters, bent under the throttling grip of the great inventor, farther and farther backwards. In a fearfully wonderful arch the slender, white form was extended, head back, knees bent forward.
