The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay

lounge, at a still early hour, he made the acquaintance of a “refined gentleman,” who sat with him, treated him, and asked few questions, but also did not leave his side until he finally took him home with him. To a house like Gunther had never seen before. In the morning, he received twenty marks, took a taxi, and rode back to Atze, who on the evening before, when they separated, had left without even saying goodbye.
    As a matter of course he handed over his money, which Atze calmly pocketed as an installment.
    And so it went, day by day. Sometimes, when no suitor who found favor in their eyes approached, they came home together to Little Mama, who was always awake. But most of the time Gunther was taken away—to a hotel, to a strange house, to a quiet corner of another lounge. They never returned without any money, even if it was only what Atze called “table money,” money a gentleman shoved into his pocket, while paying the bill for their carousing, for having had his company. There was enough to eat and drink every evening. More than enough. Especially to drink. (On the third evening the “Chick”—that became and remained his name—who was not yet used to all this drinking and could not tolerate it, became so drunk that he had to be driven home.)
    Atze paid careful attention to the men with whom his protege went. If he approved the acquaintance, he left him alone with the man and disappeared. If he was opposed, he did not budge from the table or his side, finding evasions and excuses. Once it would have come to an argument, since the john absolutely did not want to let the boy go, if an argument were at all possible with Atze.
    Alone and questioned why he had not let him go with the man, he said:
    “He’s got lice!”
    When Gunther stared as if he had gone crazy, he added:
    “Of course he hasn’t got them. But he spanks. Do ya want to get spanked?”
    No, Gunther certainly did not want that. Gunther learned about those who spanked, just as he learned, little by little, everything else that he wanted to know (as far as Atze thought it good).
    Thus he quickly became used to his new, loud, and colorful life, as well as to his nickname. He soon lost all bashfulness and—above all—every fear. He learned to answer when he was questioned; never to tell the truth (which was neither expected nor wanted); and to look the gentlemen over, to see if they had “dough” and how much.
    He was flattered to be the sought-after “new face.”
    Disgust? No, he felt no disgust really, but also no pleasure—he simply went along. In the end, the main thing in all this was only the money.
    Atze saw to it that he did not receive too little, nor throw himself away, nor “fall into bad hands.” Usually, before the boy went out with a new gentleman, Atze and the man would stop together a moment, whispering and squinting over at him. Sometimes it seemed to him that something was slipped to Atze before he returned to him, let him go, or suddenly left himself. But he might also have been mistaken, since Atze never mentioned anything about it.
    Yes, those were splendid days, those early ones. Everything lay behind him—his village and his escape; behind him, those last days of need, of loneliness, and of hunger—forgotten like the cardboard box of belongings in the hotel up by the Stettin Train Station, where he no longer went. He had Atze now. Atze was his sworn friend, and he was happy each time he could show him his gratitude by handing over what he “earned.”
    Little Mama, too, seemed satisfied.
    Whenever the two boys wanted to eat at home, there was always something good there. However late they returned, Little Mama was always standing above, in her snow-white nightgown, lamp in hand. She let herself be grasped around the waist, while she boxed their ears painlessly. She gossiped and laughed with them, often until morning.
    Atze himself was priceless.
    His good humor and even temper in all situations were