The Post Office Girl (31 page)

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Authors: Stefan Zweig

BOOK: The Post Office Girl
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On Sunday morning Ferdinand was waiting at the station. He looked at her closely. “Poor thing! You look terrible, you’re a nervous wreck. You’ve been worrying, haven’t you? I was afraid of that. It was probably a mistake to tell you beforehand. But it’ll be over soon. Today we’ll reach our decision, whether to go forward or not.”

She glanced at him. His eyes were bright, his gestures
vigorous
and free. He noticed her eyeing him.

“Yes, I’m feeling fine. It’s been ages since I felt as good as I’ve been feeling these last few days. At last I know the
pleasure
of thinking something out for myself, just for me and all on my own … Not just a tiny bit of some project I don’t care about, but something I’m building from the ground up, for me and nobody else. A castle in the air for all I know, maybe it’ll tumble down in an hour. Maybe you’ll blow it away with a word, maybe we’ll demolish it together. Even if we do, for once it was my own work and it was fun to do. I had a hell of a good time thinking through every last contingency, working out a campaign against every army, state, police force, newspaper, testing it in theory against every earthly power, and now I’m in the mood for real war. At worst we’ll lose, but when did we ever win? Well, you’ll soon see!”

They left the station. Fog shrouded the buildings in gray chill. Porters and attendants waited with lifeless faces. Everything was dank; the damp chill turned every word into a puff of
condensation
. There was no warmth in the world. He took her arm to steer her through the traffic on the street. She gave a nervous start.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just so scared. Whenever anyone speaks to me, I think I’m under observation. I have the idea that everyone knows what I’m thinking. I know it’s silly, but I feel it’s written on my forehead, I’m terrified the people in the village have gotten wind of everything. When the forest ranger’s assistant asked me on the train, ‘So what are you up to in
Vienna
?,’ I turned so red that he began to laugh, and then I was glad. Better he think that than the other thing. But tell me, Ferdinand” (she pressed close to him) “it won’t always be this way, will it, if we … if we actually do it? Because I know I’m not strong enough for that. I couldn’t stand always living in fear like that, being afraid of everyone, not being able to sleep, not sleeping because I’m afraid of a knock at the door. It won’t always be this way, will it?”

“No,” he replied, “I don’t think so. That’s only here, where you’re living your old life. Once you’re out there in different clothes, with a different name, in another world, you’ll forget the person you were. You told me yourself about how once you were someone completely different. The danger would be to go into this with a bad conscience. If you feel it’s wrong to rob that robber baron, the state, then that’s definitely not good and I’ll call it quits. As for me, I feel totally justified. I know I got shafted, and I’m risking my skin on my own account and not in a war for a dead idea, for the House of Hapsburg or
Mitteleuropa
or some other political abstraction that has nothing to do with me. But, as I said, nothing’s been decided yet, we’re just ‘playing with ideas,’ and playing is supposed to be fun. Buck up, I know you’ve got what it takes.”

She took a deep breath. “I think I can stand a certain amount, you’re right, and I also know we have nothing to lose. I’ve
endured
plenty, but this part is just so hard, the uncertainty. Once it’s done, you can count on me.”

They went on. “Where are we going?” she asked.

He smiled. “Strange, the whole thing was so easy, it was downright fun to consider the various alternatives about the escape and where to hide out and how to stay safe, and I
really
think I’ve worked out every detail—I can confidently say: it’s right, it works. I figured everything out, it was child’s play to plan out how we’ll get by and be safe once we have money. There was just one thing I wasn’t able to do—find a place, four walls, a room where we can discuss the whole thing in peace, and once again it was clear that it’s easier to live for ten years with money than for a single day without it. Really, Christine” (he smiled at her almost proudly) “finding a place where we wouldn’t be seen or heard was more trouble than our entire scheme. I considered every option. It’s too cold to walk out into the country, in a hotel someone might overhear—and I know you’d be anxious and upset—and we need to focus. In an inn
the staff would be watching, especially if it’s empty. Outside we’d attract attention because we’d be sitting in the cold. Yes, Christine, no one would ever believe how hard it is to be really alone in a city of millions when you don’t have money. I came up with the wildest ideas, I even thought about climbing up St. Stephen’s. Nobody goes up there in fog like this—but that’s too absurd. Finally I approached the watchman at my old work site, the one that’s been shut down. He’s got a wooden shack there, a hut with a cast-iron stove, a table, and, I think, a single chair. I know the guy, and I gave him a long song and dance about a posh Polish lady I know from the war who lives with her
husband
in the Hotel Sacher and is too classy and well-known to be seen with me on the street. You can imagine how astonished the dolt was, and of course he considered it a great honor to be of service. We’ve known each other for a long time, and I’ve gotten him out of trouble twice. He’s leaving the key under the boards along with his identification so we’ll be safe even if something goes wrong, and he’s promised to light the stove in the morning. We’ll be alone there, it won’t be comfortable, but since what’s at stake is a better life, we can stand crawling into that doghouse for a couple of hours. No one will hear us there, no one will see us. We can make our decision in peace.”

 

In Floridsdorf, far outside the city center, the construction site was boarded up and deserted. The forlorn abandoned
building
was a shell, with a hundred empty windows like unseeing eyes. Tar barrels, wheelbarrows, piles of cement bags, and bricks lay in wild disorder on the sodden ground—as if some natural disaster had interrupted the bustle of construction. For a
workplace
the quiet was unnatural. The key was under the boards. The damp fog kept out prying eyes; Ferdinand unlocked the
little
wooden hut, and the stove was in fact burning, it was warm and comfortable inside, with a nice smell of wood. He closed
the door behind them and threw a few pieces of wood into the stove. “If someone comes, I’ll toss the papers in. Nothing can happen, don’t worry, and besides, nobody can come, nobody can hear, we’re alone.”

Christine stood in the room, feeling she didn’t belong there. Everything seemed unreal; the only real thing was Ferdinand. He pulled some big sheets of paper out of his pocket, unfolded them, and said, “Please sit down, Christine, and pay attention. This is the plan, I’ve worked it out precisely, written it out three times, four times, five times; I think it’s completely clear now. I want you to read it through carefully point by point. Where something seems wrong to you, I’ll pencil in your questions or objections on the right, and then we’ll discuss them all
together
when you’re done. There’s a lot at stake, nothing can be improvised. But first something else that’s not in this outline. Something concerning the two of us that has to be discussed. So. We’re doing this together, you and I. In so doing we’ll be equally culpable, although I fear that the law will regard you as the true perpetrator. You are the official in charge, they’re going to search for you and pursue you, you’ll be a criminal in your family’s eyes, in everyone’s eyes; whereas, as long as we’re at large, no one’s going to know about me as the accomplice and plotter. So you have a bigger role than I do. And you have a job which would provide you with a living and a pension to see you through to the end of your life; I have nothing. So I’m risking a lot less in the eyes of the law and before—how to put it—let’s say before God. Our roles are unequal. You’re assuming a bigger risk—it’s my duty to warn you of that.” He saw her look down.

“I had to be tough in telling you that, and I’m going to go on that way, not hiding any of the risks. First and foremost: what you are going to do, what we are going to do, will be
irrevocable
. There will be no going back. Even if we made millions with the money and repaid it five times over, you’ll never be able to come back here again and no one will pardon you. We’ll be cast
out once and for all from the ranks of upright, honorable,
trustworthy
citizens, and for as long as we live we’ll be in danger. You’ve got to be aware of that. And no matter how careful we are, some accident, something we haven’t thought of, haven’t foreseen, might snatch us out of our fine new carefree lives and throw us into prison and, as they say, disgrace. In a venture like this there’s no such thing as security. We won’t be secure when we’re over the border, we’re not secure today and won’t be
secure
tomorrow or ever. You have to look at it as a duelist looks at his opponent’s pistol. The shot might miss, it might hit him, but one way or another he’s looking down the barrel.”

Pausing again, he tried to meet her gaze. She was looking at the ground, but her hand on the table was steady.

“So, again, I don’t want to raise any false hopes. There are no assurances I can give you, none at all. Or myself. If we go into this together, that doesn’t mean we’re going to be bound together for life. We’re doing this in order to be free, to live freely. We might want to be free of each other some day. Maybe even soon. I can’t vouch for myself—I don’t know who I am, still less who I’ll be once I’ve tasted freedom. The agitation in me today might just be something inside that wants to come out, but maybe it’ll stay there, or even grow. We still don’t know each other very well, we’ve only ever been together for a few hours. It would be madness to say we’ll be able to live together forever or that we want to. All I can promise is that I’ll be a good friend to you, in the sense that I’ll never betray you or force you to do something you don’t want to do. If you want to leave me, I won’t stop you. But I can’t promise that I’ll stay with you. I can’t promise anything—not that this will succeed, or that you’ll be happy or have no worries afterward, or even that we’ll stay together. No promises. So I’m not trying to talk you into anything—no, on the contrary, I’m warning you: because your situation is worse, you’ll be the criminal. And then you’re a woman and more dependent. You’re taking a big
chance, an awful chance, I don’t want you to think anything different. I’m not trying to persuade you. So please—read the plan. Then think about it and make up your mind, but, as I told you: you’ve got to be aware that the decision is irrevocable.”

He put the papers on the table. “Please read it with total attention and total skepticism—pretend this is a bad business deal and you don’t trust the contract. Meanwhile I’ll go outside and take a walk, check out the building. I’m not going to hang over you. I don’t want you to feel any pressure.”

He stood up and went out without looking at her. The big folded sheets of paper, covered with neat handwriting, lay in front of her. She had to wait a few minutes for her heart to stop pounding.

The creased manuscript was neatly drawn up like a document from a bygone century. The section headings were underlined in red pencil:

I. The Crime Itself

II. Avoiding Capture

III. Plans for Life Abroad, Etc.

IV. Plans in the Event of Misadventure or Discovery

V. Summary

The first section, “The Crime Itself,” was again subdivided, as were the others, with each subsection, labeled (a), (b), (c), etc., clearly set off as in a contract.

Christine picked up the document and read it from start to finish.

I. The Crime Itself

(a) Choice of Date: It is evident that the deed must take place either on a Saturday or on the day prior to a public holiday.
This will delay discovery of the theft by at least twenty-four hours and provide the head start absolutely necessary for our escape. The post office closes at six o’clock, early enough to allow for the possibility of reaching Switzerland or France on the night express train; in November early dusk will offer a
further
advantage. November is the worst month for travel. One can with virtual certainty expect to be alone in the train
compartment
during the night within Austria, so that there will be few witnesses who could provide personal descriptions once the newspapers have been notified. November 10, the day
preceding
Independence Day (a public holiday), would be particularly advantageous in that we would arrive abroad on a weekday and be able to make all initial purchases and alterations in
appearance
that much more unobtrusively. Accordingly, it would be desirable to delay the delivery of all incoming funds until this date (without attracting attention) in order to amass as large a sum as possible.

 

(b) Departure: We must of course leave separately. We will both buy tickets for short trips only: to Linz, from Linz on to Innsbruck or the border, and from the border on to Zürich. If possible you must buy your ticket to Linz some days in advance, or, better, I will buy your ticket for you so that the clerk, who undoubtedly knows you, will not be able to
provide
any information about your actual destination. See
Section
II for other measures related to false leads and covering the trail. I will board the train in Vienna, you at St. Pölten; we will not speak to each other during the entire night as long as we remain within Austria. It is important that no one know or suspect that the crime involved an accomplice; subsequent investigations will then remain focused on your name and
description
and not on the couple we will appear to be when we are abroad. Until we are well within the borders of another country, any appearance of a connection between us is to be
avoided in front of conductors and officials, other than the border guard to whom we will identify ourselves with a joint passport.

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