Flotsam (30 page)

“I understand it,” Kern said.

“You know, that might be a case of inflammation of the lungs, up there.”

“Inflammation of the lungs?” Kern looked at him in terror. “Why that isn’t possible! That might be fatal.”

“Of course,” said the shepherd. “That’s why I’m arguing with you.”

“I’m sure it’s grippe.”

“She has fever, high fever. And what it really is only a doctor can say.”

“Then I’ll get a doctor.”

“Bring one here?”

“Perhaps I can get one to come. I’ll see whether there’s a Jewish doctor in the directory.”

Kern went back to the village. In a tobacco store he bought
two cigarettes and asked for the telephone book. He found the name of Dr. Rudolf Beer and went to him.

The consultation hour was over when he arrived and he had to wait for more than an hour. He occupied himself looking at papers and magazines; he stared at the pictures in them, unable to understand how there could still be tennis matches and receptions and half-naked women in Florida and happy people, while he sat there helpless and Ruth was sick.

Finally the doctor arrived. He was a young man and he listened to Kern in silence. Then he put some things in a bag and picked up his hat. “Come along. My car’s downstairs. We’ll drive out.”

Kern gulped. “Couldn’t we walk? It costs more in a car. And we have very little money.”

“Let me worry about that,” Beer replied.

They drove to the sheepfold and the doctor examined Ruth. She looked anxiously at Kern and silently shook her head. She did not want to leave.

Beer stood up. “She must go to the hospital. Congestion of the right lung. Grippe, and the danger of pneumonia. I will take her with me.”

“No, I won’t go to the hospital. We can’t pay for it either.”

“Don’t concern yourself about the money. You have to leave here. You’re seriously ill.”

Ruth looked at Kern. “We’ll talk it over,” he said. “I’ll come right away.”

“I’ll come to get you in half an hour,” the doctor announced. “Have you warm clothes and blankets?”

“We have only this.”

“I’ll bring some things with me. See you in half an hour.”

“Is it absolutely necessary?” Kern asked.

“Yes. She can’t stay here lying on the hay. And there’s no point either in putting her in a room. She belongs in a hospital—right away too.”

“All right,” Kern said. “Then I’ll have to tell you what that means for us.”

Beer listened to him. “You don’t believe, then, that you’ll be able to visit her?” he asked.

“No. In a couple of days word would get about and all the police would have to do would be to wait for me. But this way I have a chance of staying near her and of hearing from you how she is getting on and what is happening to her, and so of making my plans accordingly.”

“I understand. You can come to me to inquire at any time.”

“Thank you. Is her condition dangerous?”

“It might become dangerous. It’s absolutely necessary for her to leave here.”

The doctor drove off. Kern climbed slowly up the ladder to the loft. He had lost all power of feeling. The white face, with dark shadows where the eyes were, turned toward him out of the twilight of the low room. “I know what you’re going to say,” Ruth whispered.

Kern nodded. “There’s nothing else to do. We must be thankful that we have found this doctor. I’m sure you are going to get into the hospital for nothing.”

“Yes.” She stared straight ahead. Then she suddenly sat bolt upright in panic. “My God, where will you stay when I’m in the hospital? And how shall we meet again? You can’t come there, perhaps they’d arrest you.”

He sat down beside her and took her hot hands comfortingly in his. “Ruth,” he said. “This is a time for us to be very clear-headed and reasonable. I have thought it all over. I shall
stay here in hiding. The shepherd has told me that I may. I shall simply wait for you. It’s better for me not to go to the hospital to visit you. That would be talked about and they might grab me. But there’s something else we can do. I’ll come to the hospital every evening and look up at your window. The doctor will tell me where you are. That will be like a visit.”

“At what time?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“It’s dark then and I won’t be able to see you.”

“I can only come when it’s dark; otherwise it would be too dangerous. I mustn’t let myself be seen during the day.”

“You mustn’t come at all. Just leave me; everything will be all right.”

“I will come. I couldn’t stand it otherwise. Now you must get dressed.”

He moistened his handkerchief with water from the tin pail and washed and dried her face. Her lips were parched and hot. She laid her face on his hand. “Ruth,” he said, “we must think things out. When you get well, if I’m not here any more, or if they deport you—make them send you to Geneva on the border. We’ll agree to write each other care of General Delivery in Geneva. In that way we can be sure of meeting again. We’ll write to each other care of General Delivery, Main Post Office, Geneva. And we’ll give the doctor our addresses too, in case I’m arrested. Then he can always see that each gets the other’s. He has promised me to do it. I’ll hear all about you through him and he’ll give you the news about me. That way we can be quite sure of not losing each other.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Don’t be worried, Ruth. I’m saying this only if worse
comes to worst. This is only in case they catch me. Or in case they don’t just let you go from the hospital. I really think they’ll let you out without telling the police anything, and then we’ll just start on together.”

“And if they do find out?”

“All they can do is send you to the border. And I’ll be waiting for you in Geneva at the Main Post Office.”

He looked at her encouragingly. “Here is some money for you. Hide it, for you may need it for the trip.”

He gave her what little money he had left. “Don’t let them know at the hospital that you have it. You must keep it for the time afterward.”

The doctor called to them from below. “Ruth,” Kern said, and took her in his arms, “will you be brave, Ruth?”

She clung to him. “I will be brave. And I’ll see you again.”

“General Delivery in Geneva, if anything goes wrong. Otherwise I’ll wait for you here. Every evening at nine o’clock I’ll be standing outside and wishing you the best.”

“I’ll come to the window.”

“You must stay in bed. Otherwise I won’t come. Laugh just once now.”

“Ready?” shouted the doctor.

She smiled through her tears. “Don’t forget me.”

“How could I? You’re all I have.”

He kissed her parched lips. The doctor’s head appeared through the opening in the floor. “All right,” he said, “but now let’s go.”

They helped Ruth down and into the car and tucked her in. “Can I come to inquire this evening?” Kern asked.

“Of course. Are you going to stay here now? Yes, it’s better. You can come to see me any time.”

The car drove off. Kern remained where he was until he
could no longer see it. He stood motionless, but he felt as though a great wind were pushing him backward.

At eight o’clock he went to Dr. Beer’s. The physician was at home and reassured him; Ruth’s temperature was high but at the moment there was no grave danger. It seemed to be an ordinary case of inflammation of the lungs.

“How long will it last?”

“If things go well, two weeks. And then a week of convalescence.”

“How about money?” Kern asked. “We haven’t any.”

Beer laughed. “For the present she’s in the hospital. Later on some charity will probably pay the expenses.”

Kern looked at him. “And your fee?”

Beer laughed again. “Keep your couple of francs. I can live without them. You can come again tomorrow to inquire about her.” He got up.

“Which room is she in?” Kern asked. “Which floor?”

Beer laid a bony index finger against his nose. “Wait a minute—Number 35, on the second floor.”

“Which window is that?”

Beer blinked. “The second from the right I think; it won’t do any good, though, she’ll be asleep.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Of course not,” Beer replied.

Kern inquired the way to the hospital. He found it easily and looked at his watch. It was quarter of nine. The second window from the right was dark. He waited. He would never have believed that nine o’clock could come so slowly, but suddenly he saw a light go on in the window. He stood, tense in every muscle, watching the luminous rectangle. Once he had
read somewhere about thought transference and now he tried to concentrate in order to send strength to Ruth. “Let her get well. Let her get well,” he thought urgently and did not know to whom he was praying. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, for he remembered that breathing played an important part in the book he had read. He clenched his fists and tensed his muscles, he rose on tiptoe as though about to spring from the ground, and he whispered again and again, up toward the square of light: “Get well! Get well! I love you!”

The light went out and he saw a shadow. She must stay in bed, he thought, suddenly filled with joy. She waved; he waved back wildly. Then he remembered that she could not see him. Desperately he looked around for a street light, for any light at all before which he could stand. There was none to be seen. Then an inspiration came. He pulled out of his pocket the package of matches he had got that morning with his two cigarettes, struck one of them and held it above his head.

The shadow waved. He waved back cautiously with the match. Then he tore out two more and held them so they lighted his face. Ruth waved eagerly. He signaled her to go back to bed. She shook her head. He held the light near his face and nodded emphatically. She did not understand him. He saw that he would have to go away to make her return to bed. He took a few steps to show her he was going. Then he threw all the burning matches high in the air. They fell flickering to the ground and went out. Kern went to the next corner and then turned around. The light continued to burn for an instant, then went out. And the window seemed darker than all the others.

* * *

“Congratulations, Goldbach,” Steiner said. “For the first time today you were really good. Calm and confident and no mistakes.
It was first-rate, the way you gave me the tip about the watch hidden in that woman’s brassière. That was really hard.”

Goldbach looked at him gratefully. “I don’t know myself how it happened. It came suddenly like a revelation between yesterday and today. You just watch, I’m going to become a good assistant. I’ll start tomorrow to think up new tricks.”

Steiner laughed. “Come on, we’ll have a drink to this happy occasion.” He got out a bottle of apricot brandy and poured drinks. “
Prosit
, Goldbach!”

“
Prosit!
” Goldbach choked over his drink and put the glass down. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m not used to it any more. If you don’t mind I’d like to go now.”

“Sure. We’re through for the day. But aren’t you going to finish your drink?”

“Yes, thank you.” Goldbach drank obediently.

Steiner shook hands with him. “And don’t practise too many tricks. Otherwise I’ll get lost among your subtleties.”

“No, no.”

Goldbach strode quickly down the boulevard to the city. He felt as light as though a heavy burden had fallen from his shoulders. But it was a lightness without joy—as though his bones were full of air and his will was a vapor which he could not control and which was at the mercy of every passing breeze.

“Is my wife in?” he asked the maid at the door.

“No,” she replied and laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Why shouldn’t I laugh? Is there a law against laughing?”

Goldbach looked at her abstractedly. “I didn’t mean that,” he muttered. “Go ahead and laugh.”

He walked along the narrow corridor to his room and listened through the partition. He heard nothing. Carefully he
brushed his hair and his suit; then he knocked at the communicating door, despite the fact that the maid had said his wife was not there. Perhaps she’s come in meanwhile, he thought. Perhaps the maid didn’t see her. He knocked again. There was no reply. Cautiously he raised the latch and went in. The light on the dressing table was burning. He stared at it like a sailor watching a beacon. She’ll be back right away, he told himself, otherwise the light wouldn’t be on.

He already knew, somewhere in the emptiness of his bones, in the gray, scattered ashes in his veins, that she would not come back. He knew it below the level of his thought, but with the obstinacy of fear his mind held fast, as though to a projecting timber that would save him from the flood, to the meaningless words: She will certainly come back—otherwise the light would not be burning…

Then he discovered the emptiness of the room. The brushes and jars of cold cream were gone from in front of the mirror; the door of the closet was half-open, revealing that the rose and pastel-colored dresses were missing; the closet yawned black and abandoned. Only her scent was still in the room, a breath of life, but already fainter—memory and pain lying in wait. Then he found the letter and wondered dully why he had missed it for so long—it was lying in the middle of the table.

It was some time before he opened it. He knew everything anyway—why should he open it? Finally he slit the envelope with a forgotten hairpin that he found lying beside him on the chair. He read the letter but the words could not penetrate the sheath of ice around his brain; they remained dead, words out of a newspaper or book, accidental words that had no connection with him. The hairpin in his hand had more life.

He sat there quietly waiting for the pain and surprised that
it did not come. There was only a dead feeling, an immense let-down, like the anxious moment before falling asleep when he had taken too much bromide.

He sat thus for a long time, staring at his hands which lay on his knees like dead white animals, like pale insentient sea-monsters with five flaccid tentacles. They were no longer his. No part of him was any longer his; he was a strange body with eyes turned inward, scrutinizing a paralysis that showed no sign of life but an occasional quiver.