International: INTERMEZZO

TIME’S Berlin Bureau Chief Emmet Hughes last week went to a gay party at the headquarters of the Polish mission in Berlin. Hughes cabled:

In dark Berlin, the lights blazed bright and late at a white sandstone building at 42 Schlüterstrasse. From the second-floor balcony windows, the sound of scores of stamping feet and the melody of a rousing polka carried into the silent street. Beyond the curtained windows, in one of eleven rooms brilliant under crystal chandeliers, the hundreds of Berlin’s international set were being greeted by a short, thin man in uniform. His perfectly bald head with a wiggly scar on one side distracted their gaze from his soft brown eyes. He was Major General Jacob Prawin, chief of the Polish military mission. The occasion for celebration in this very unfestive city was Poland’s Liberation Day, a new national holiday.

End of a Chat. Here, for a few remarkable hours, the hunger of Berlin and the fears of the world seem as remote as the banished darkness. The divided world unites in the extravagant exchange of buffet-and-cocktail banalities—perhaps the only true international language. Bright Scottish kilts swish past the dull tan of Soviet uniforms; a U.S. admiral’s navy blue is lightly brushed by the pastel veils of an Indian sari. Vodka, French wines and odd Eastern European cocktails spill on the oriental rugs from glasses negligently tilted or moved in too hasty gesticulation. There are lavish loads on two great buffet tables: platters of sliced veal and chicken, salads in splendid variety, tidy piles of caviar. In the center of one table is a roast pig (with a tomato in its mouth) which is gradually dissected by Soviet officers as the gay evening advances.

Yet, even as the orchestra alternates Russian dances and American foxtrots with admirable impartiality, not even common convention can dispel the uneasiness, like a chill draught from an unseen window, that stirs through the perspiring crowd. Three young men try hard: a bright-eyed British captain, a young American diplomat and a blond, slightly bewildered-looking Russian lieutenant who apparently speaks some English. The American has his hands in his pockets as the other two systematically spoon up their mixed salad. Says the British captain: “I’ve only been here two months but I really do like it . . . We certainly don’t get food like this at home.” To this the young Russian nods understandingly and vigorously and says simply: “Me too.” All seems to be going splendidly for a pleasant three-power chat till a dark, curly-haired Soviet major taps the lieutenant on the shoulder and murmurs something briefly. The chat ends abruptly, as the lieutenant looks back regretfully at his unfinished plate. The American shrugs.

Sweet & Sour. Many months and many diplomatic notes have passed since East and West have met socially in Berlin on any such scale. It is thus only natural that even the sickly sweet flavor of cocktail conversation be sharpened with a little acid. An American official points to a Soviet officer and says to me: “That s.o.b. looked straight through me—and we used to go boating together.” A British lady, laboring under the delusion that she possesses a gift for repartee, is asked by a friend why she requires such a preposterously large pin to hold a single rose in place on her ample bosom, and replies: “The better to gouge out Russian eyes, my dear! Ha ha, oh dear me!” An American lady stares across the room and says sweetly: “Look at those Russian women. No necks at all. Just chins, shoulders and breasts. No necks!”

The objects of this comment stick close to their husbands and their husbands stick close to one another. Russian officers and political advisers cluster tightly in two corners of the main room, tense little groups conversing as if the buffet were a conference table to which they had to return in five minutes with a major policy decision.

The party swings past midnight. Slowly departing guests murmur to General Prawin: “Delighted . . . dziekuje . . . enchanté . . . ya voskhishchen priemom.”

No Cure for Hunger. In the dark street outside, brightened only by the headlights of the dignitaries’ cars, a score or so of Germans watch curiously. A woman mutters savagely: “The Russian women have dresses on now. but you can see they still aren’t used to them.” The other women murmur appreciatively at the swishing skirts, bright prints and daring necklines that flash quickly from the door to the cars, but one husband says angrily: “Come along home. This is no cure for being hungry.” In the dark street, hate blazes furiously—but not too noisily.

Overhead, another American plane roars past. Through the balcony windows come the strains of a popular American song. It is: To Each His Own.

Everyone goes back to the business of the siege.