Flotsam (44 page)

Ruth and Kern sat listening in silence. Above their heads roared the wind of time—forty years, fifty years rushed by, in the conversation of the old woman and the old man. The ancient pair seemed to find it natural that those years had passed. But in their company crouched these two people of twenty, for whom a single year was endless and almost unimaginable, and
they felt a kind of shadowy dread: that everything passes and must pass, and that presently time would reach out for them too.…

Edith Rosenfeld got up and bent over Moritz Rosenthal. He was asleep. She looked at the old man’s large face for a while. “Come,” she said then. “We’ll let him sleep.”

She turned out the light and they went out noiselessly into the dark corridor and found their way across to their own rooms.

* * *

Just as Kern was pushing a heavy wheelbarrow of dirt from the pavilion over to Marill, he was stopped by two men. “One moment, please.” One of them turned to Marill. “You too.”

Kern ceremoniously set down the wheelbarrow. He knew what this was. The tone was familiar; anywhere in the whole world he would have leaped up out of the deepest sleep at hearing these polite, low, inexorable accents beside his bed.

“Will you be so kind as to show us your papers of identification?”

“I haven’t mine with me,” Kern replied.

“Please identify yourselves first,” Marill said.

“Certainly, with pleasure. Here, this will do, won’t it? I am from the police. The gentleman here is an inspector from the Ministry of Labor. You understand, the large number of French unemployed forces us to make a check-up.”

“I understand, sir. Unfortunately, I can only show you a residential permit; I have no permit to work; you could hardly have expected that—”

“You are quite right, sir,” the inspector said politely. “We did not expect that, but what you have is sufficient. You may go on working. In this particular case—in the construction of the
Exposition—the Government has no desire to be too strict in enforcing regulations. We beg your pardon for disturbing you.”

“Not at all. It’s your duty.”

“May I see your papers?” the inspector asked Kern.

“I have none.”

“No
récépissé?
”

“No.”

“You entered the country illegally?”

“There was no other way.”

“I am very sorry,” said the man from the police, “but you must come with us to the Prefecture.”

“That’s what I expected,” Kern replied and looked at Marill. “Tell Ruth I’ve been nabbed. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Tell her not to worry.”

He had spoken in German. “I have no objection if you want to talk to your friend for a moment more,” the inspector said obligingly.

“I’ll look out for Ruth until you get back,” Marill said in German. “Tough luck, old fellow. Get them to deport you by way of Basle. Come back again by way of Burgfelden. Telephone from the Steiff Inn to Hotel Steiff in St. Louis for a taxi to Mühlhausen and from there to Belfort. That’s the best way. If they take you to the Santé, write me as soon as you can. Klassmann will keep a lookout anyway. I’ll telephone him immediately.”

Kern nodded to Marill. “I’m ready,” he said then.

The representative of the police turned him over to a man who had been waiting near by. The inspector looked at Marill and smiled. “A nice way to say good-by,” he said in perfect German. “You seem to know our border well.”

“Unfortunately,” Marill replied.

* * *

Marill was sitting with Waser in a
bistro
. “Come on,” he said, “let’s have one more drink. Damn it, I hate to go into that hotel! This is the first time something like this has happened to me. What’ll you have, a
fine
or a Pernod?”

“A
fine
,” Waser said with dignity. “That anisette stuff is for women.”

“Not in France.” Marill summoned a waiter and ordered a cognac and a straight Pernod.

“I could tell her,” Waser proposed. “In our circles that sort of thing is an everyday affair. Every few minutes someone is picked up and then you have to tell his wife or his girl. The best thing for you is to start off with the great, common cause that always demands sacrifices.”

“What sort of common cause?”

“The Movement! The revolutionary enlightenment of the masses, of course!”

Marill regarded the Communist attentively for a while. “Waser,” he said calmly, “I don’t think we’d get far that way. That’s good for a socialist manifesto, but for nothing else. I forgot you were mixed up in politics. Let’s finish our drinks and start marching. Somehow or other I’ll get it done.”

They paid, and walked through the slushy snow to the Hotel Verdun. Waser disappeared into “the catacombs” and Marill climbed slowly up the stairs.

He knocked at Ruth’s door. She opened it as quickly as if she had been waiting behind it. The smile on her face faded a little when she saw Marill. “Marill—” she said.

“Yes. I’m not the one you were expecting, am I?”

“I thought it was Ludwig. He’ll be here any minute now.”

“Yes.”

Marill walked into the room. He saw a plate on the table, an alcohol stove over which water was boiling, bread and sliced meat and a few flowers in a vase. He saw all this, he saw Ruth standing expectantly in front of him, and irresolutely, just for something to do, he picked up the vase. “Flowers,” he murmured. “Even flowers—”

“Flowers are cheap in Paris,” Ruth said.

“Yes. That’s not what I meant. Only—” Marill replaced the vase as cautiously as though it were not made of cheap thick glass but of eggshell porcelain. “It’s just that it makes it so damnably hard, all this—”

“What?”

Marill made no reply.

“I know,” Ruth said suddenly. “The police have picked up Ludwig.”

Marill swung round to face her. “Yes, Ruth.”

“Where is he?”

“At the Prefecture.”

Ruth silently picked up her coat. She put it on, stuffed a few things into the pockets, and tried to go past Marill and out the door. He stopped her. “It’s silly,” he declared. “It won’t help him or you at all. We have someone at the Prefecture who will keep us informed. You stay here!”

“How can I? I could see him again! Let them lock us both up. Then we could go across the border together.”

Marill kept hold of her. She was like a compressed steel spring. Her face was pale and seemed to have grown smaller with anxiety. Then she suddenly gave up. “Marill,” she said helplessly, “what shall I do?”

“Stay here. Klassmann is at the Prefecture. He’ll tell us
what happens. All they can do is deport him. Then in a couple of days he’ll be back again. I promised him you would wait here. He knows you’ll be reasonable.”

“Yes, I will be.” Her eyes were full of tears. She took off her coat and let it drop to the floor. “Marill,” she said, “why do people do all this to us? After all, we’ve not harmed anybody.”

Marill looked at her thoughtfully. “I believe it’s for that very reason,” he said. “Actually, I think that’s it.”

“Will they put him in jail?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll find out from Klassmann. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Ruth nodded and slowly picked up her coat from the floor. “Didn’t Klassmann tell you anything more?”

“No, I only spoke to him for a moment. Then he went straight to the Prefecture.”

“I was there with him this morning. They ordered me to come.” She took a paper out of her coat pocket, smoothed it out and gave it to Marill. “For this.”

It was a residential permit for Ruth, good for four weeks.

“The Refugees’ Committee arranged it. I had an expired passport, you know. Klassmann brought me the news today. He’s been working on it for months. I wanted to show it to Ludwig. That’s why I got those flowers too.”

“So that’s the reason!” Marill held the permit in his hand. “It’s marvelous luck and a damned shame at the same time,” he said. “But mostly luck. This is a kind of miracle. It doesn’t happen often. But Kern will come back. Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” Ruth said. “The one’s no good without the other. He must come back!”

“Fine. And now you’re coming out with me. We’ll have dinner somewhere. And we’ll have something to drink—to the
permit, and to Kern. He’s an old soldier. We’re all soldiers. You too. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Kern would let himself be deported fifty times with howls of joy to get you what you have there in your hand. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. But I would a hundred times rather not—”

“I know,” Marill interrupted. “We’ll talk about that when he’s here again. That’s one of the first rules of a soldier.”

“Has he money to get back with?”

“I assume so. All of us old campaigners always have some with us for that emergency. If he hasn’t enough, Klassmann will smuggle in the rest. He’s our advance post and patrol. Now come along! Sometimes it’s a damned good thing that there’s drink in the world! Especially in these times!”

* * *

Steiner was awake and alert when the train stopped at the border. The French customs men went through it quickly and perfunctorily. They asked for his passport, stamped it and left the compartment. The train started and rolled slowly on. Steiner knew that at this moment his fate was sealed; now he could not go back.

After a time two German officials came in and bowed. “Your passport, please.”

Steiner took out the booklet and gave it to the younger of the two.

“For what purpose are you going to Germany?” the other asked.

“I’m going to visit relatives.”

“Do you live in Paris?”

“No, in Graz. I was visiting a relative in Paris.”

“How long do you intend to stay in Germany?”

“About two weeks. Then I shall return to Graz.”

“Have you funds with you?”

“Yes. Five hundred francs.”

“We must make a note of that on your passport. Did you bring the money with you from Austria?”

“No. My cousin in Paris gave it to me.”

The official scrutinized the passport, wrote something on it and stamped it. “Have you anything to declare?” the other man asked.

“No, nothing.” Steiner took down his bag.

“Have you a trunk as well?”

“No, this is all.”

The official hastily inspected the bag. “Have you newspapers, printed matter or books with you?”

“No, nothing.”

“Thank you.” The younger official gave the passport back to Steiner. Both bowed and went out. Steiner sighed with relief. He noticed suddenly that the palms of his hands were drenched with sweat.

The train began to run faster. Steiner leaned back in his seat and looked through the window. Outside it was night. Low clouds raced across the sky and between them the stars shone. Little, half-lighted stations flew past, red and green signal lights dashed by, and the rails gleamed. Steiner lowered the window and put his head out. The damp wind of passage tore at his face and hair. He took a deep breath; it seemed a different air. It was a different wind, it was a different horizon, it was a different light, the poplars along the road swayed in a different and more familiar rhythm, the roads themselves
somehow led into his heart. Feverishly he drew the air into his lungs; his blood pounded, the landscape rose and faced him, enigmatic but somehow no longer strange—Damn it, he thought, what’s this? I’m getting sentimental.

He sat down again and tried to sleep—but he could not. The dark landscape outside beckoned and enticed, it was transformed into faces and memories, the heavy years of the war rose up again as the train thundered across the bridge over the Rhine; the flashing water, flowing by with a sullen murmur, threw a hundred names at him, names whose echoes had died in the past, dead names, almost forgotten names—names of regiments and comrades, of towns and camps, names out of the night of the years. It was like a physical impact and Steiner was suddenly caught in the whirlwind of the past. He tried to defend himself and could not.

He was alone in the compartment. He lighted one cigarette after another and walked up and down in the narrow space. He would never have thought all this could have such power over him. With a violent effort he forced himself to think of the next day, of how he would have to try to enter the hospital without arousing suspicion, of his own situation and which of his friends he could look up and consult.

But for the moment all that appeared strangely misty and unreal; it eluded him when he tried to lay hold of it. Even the danger that surrounded him and toward which he was rushing paled to an abstract idea with no power to calm his feverish blood or force him to reflect. On the contrary, it seemed to lash his blood into a whirlpool, in which his life revolved in a mysterious dance with mystic repetition. Then he gave up. He knew it was the last night; tomorrow all this would be over—shadowed by something else—it was the last night he would spend in pure uncertainty, in the whirlwind of his feelings, the
last night without grim knowledge and the certainty of destruction. He stopped trying to think. He surrendered himself.

The immense night unfolded before the windows of the rushing train. It was without end; it arched over forty years of a man’s life, a man for whom forty years was all the time there was. The villages, which slid by with their sparse lights and the occasional barking of dogs, were the villages of his childhood—he had played in all of them, over all of them had swept his summers and winters, and the bells ringing in their churches had rung everywhere for him. The black and sleeping forests that swept by were all the forests of his youth—their golden-green twilight had shadowed his first wanderings, their smooth ponds had mirrored his breathless face as he watched the speckled, red-bellied salamanders, and the wind that sighed in the beech trees and sang in the pines had been the age-old wind of adventure. The palely glimmering roads, spreading like a net across the night fields, had all been the roads of his restlessness—he had walked them all, had hesitated at their crossings, he knew their places of departure, their promise and return from horizon to horizon, he knew their milestones and the farms that lay along them. And the houses under whose low roofs the light was caught, redly gleaming through the windows like a promise of warmth and home—he had lived in each of their rooms, he knew the soft pressure of their door latches; and he knew who was waiting in the circle of lamplight with head a little bowed and the light striking sparks from her fiery golden hair—she whose face had waited for him everywhere, at the end of all roads and at all corners of the world, sometimes in shadow, often almost invisible, flooded by yearning and a desire for forgetfulness, the face of his life towards which he was traveling, the face that now covered the night sky, the eyes that gleamed behind
the clouds, the mouth that whispered soundless words from the horizon, the arms that he could feel in the wind and the swaying of the trees, and the smile in which the landscape and his heart sank in a wild rush of emotion.