The Silent Prophet (12 page)

Friedrich looked around. The war correspondent who had just returned from the front was talking with a lieutenant, a lawyer in mufti, about the excellent equipment of the troops. He wanted next to go to Belgium and describe the victory parade. A Liberal deputy, middle-aged and at that time not liable for service, was explaining to a one-year volunteer, to whom it was of no concern, that the war would constitute the final overthrow of clericalism and that non-denominational schools would come about in a matter of weeks. The ironic author was now talking to Hilde. He had left the young cavalryman sitting in silence, and although their chairs were touching the literary man was separated from the officer by a whole world, a world that abounded with French writings of the Enlightenment. The writer now wore round his mouth a smile that could be put on and taken off like a moustache-trainer, one that he used to make an impression on women. His suit, his deportment, his hairstyle, were the careful work of an entire morning. Out of sceptical protest he wore his elegant civilian suit, for which he had a special permit in his pocket. But it was as provocative as an injustice in contrast with the entire uniformed world. The painstakingness revealed by the knot of his necktie alone was a demonstration against the confusion of a whole epoch. The glance, full of gentle appraisal, with which he followed Hilde's gestures and seemed to note them behind his forehead, held the melancholy renunciation of a critical genius who had yielded to the censor and was compelled to conceal deep within himself the many witticisms that occurred to him at every communiqué from the front. Friedrich hated him even more than the painter.

He looked at Hilde. A slight flush, which darkened the brown of her cheeks, disclosed that she felt herself to be the centre of a circle of the elect who adored her and whom she herself venerated, and Friedrich asked himself if there was a causal connection between the adoration that pleased her and the veneration she rendered in return. She seemed strange and remote and almost hostile to him in the midst of these others. He would have liked to extract the immediate significance of every movement she made in order to detach her from her connection with this world, and the meaning of every word she said so that her beloved voice might continue as nothing but an innocuous sound. He loved her voice, but not her words. He loved her eyes, but hated what they recorded.

12

It was not until August that the Ukrainian P. returned from the camp. In the meantime it had become known that the Russian revolutionaries had for some time been the natural allies of the Central Powers. P.'s liberation from the camp was doubtless politically motivated. He remained in Vienna, the authorities were aware of it and even supported him. Some days after P.'s return Friedrich set out on his journey through Germany to Zurich. P. had been in contact with Zürich throughout, even during his stay in the camp, and with Comrade Tomkin in M. in Brandenburg—one of the middlemen between the comrades and the secret police. He was unchanged. Robust and carefree as he was, he seemed to regard the years up to the war, the straits in which he always lived and his sufferings in the concentration camp, as a kind of necessary gymnastic exercise, which he was able to surmount. He was unafraid, not because he was brave but because the bulk and strength of his muscles, the inexhaustible elasticity of his tendons and nerves and a healthly abundance of red blood left no room for fear. He was as little capable of being afraid as a tree. But, like every fearless man, he understood that anxiety did not always flow from cowardice but was also a quality connected with one's physical constitution and nerves.

'Your worrying was unnecessary,' said P. to Friedrich. 'If you'd been locked up, they'd soon have let you out. We are allies for the time being and under the protection of a powerful institution. Our comrades even receive passports. You'll be taken care of too. You will now go to M., here is an address. You will report to this man and he'll give you money and papers for Switzerland. Give my greetings to the comrades. I'm staying here for the moment. I might be able to cross the lines to Russia.'

He said 'cross the lines to Russia' as if it were a matter of going for a pleasant drive. He had decided to make a rendezvous with the comrades as one arranges an excursion to a well-known and popular beauty spot. He sat, powerful and calm on his old sofa which was wide and large enough for a grown man but seemed narrow, short and fragile under the weight and force of his body.

'In order to avoid any unpleasantness just now, you will travel first class,' said P. 'You'll find yourself in the good society of higher officers and war contractors and no policeman will dare to demand your identity card. But if it should happen, make a fuss and snarl at any officials who cross your path.'

They walked slowly through the streets. P. had the solemn deliberation of a burgomaster. 'If one has my kind of appearance,' he said, 'no one in Central Europe will be the least bit suspicious. The Germans, and the smaller races within the German cultural sphere, have an indestructible trust in broad shoulders. Compare, for instance, the popularity of Hindenburg with the anonymity of Hötzendorf, who is small and elegant. The Russians command respect, although they are enemies. But the Russian generals have broad epaulettes, like the Germans. Striplings like yourself evoke mistrust.'

In order to see Friedrich safely on his way, P. accompanied him to the station. And with the joviality that sprang from his nature, he delivered Friedrich into the care of the conductor. 'My dear fellow,' he said, 'my friend is ill and must have agreeable neighbours.' 'Thank you, Excellency,' said Friedrich, so loudly that the policeman who was due to accompany the train must have heard. 'Take care of yourself,' said P. and bade him farewell. The conductor and the policeman saluted as P. left the platform with great strides.

Friedrich was not left alone in the compartment. A German colonel and an Austrian major climbed in. They exchanged greetings. It was wartime and one could be sure that no common travellers sat in the first class. Nowadays, whoever got on the train and wore civilian clothes was even mightier than a uniform. Clever officers, therefore, had gradually accustomed themselves to regard civilians they encountered in the first class as superiors.

They were the more resentful when, just before the train departed, the conductor squeezed in one more passenger who would have made a more suitable first-class passenger in peacetime. Both officers exchanged a quick glance. While the eyebrows of each were raised in astonishment, their moustaches were already smiling. Both moved nearer each other as if they now had to join in mutual defence. The passenger so suspiciously received did not seem to notice anything for the moment. He sat very free and comfortable because the others had made themselves so small. He was shortsighted, as was betrayed by the thick lenses of his pince-nez, the way his head was permanently poked forwards, and his uncertain searching movements. He had evidently been in a hurry not to miss the train, his panting was clearly audible. His short legs dangled slightly above the floor, continually sought by the tips of his toes. His plump white hands lay on his knees and his fingers drummed inaudibly on the soft material of his trousers.

A black goatee in which the first grey hairs sprouted gave the gentleman the appearance of a high banking official. 'A pimp!' Friedrich heard the German colonel whisper. 'Army rabbi!' whispered the Austrian major.

The man whose vocation was not yet definitely established was meanwhile gazing affably and cordially at his fellow-passengers. His panting had gradually stopped. It was clear that he was satisfied with his present situation.

Finally he stood up, bowed slightly, first to the colonel, then to the major, and lastly—but only with a slight nod—to Friedrich. 'Doctor Süsskind,' he said out loud. His voice conveyed more assurance than his body.

'You're probably enlisting as an army chaplain, your reverence?' said the Austrian major, while a shadow fell over the face of the silent colonel. 'No!' said the man, who had sat down again in the corner with feet dangling. 'I am a war correspondent.' And he gave the name of a Liberal newspaper. 'Ah—war correspondent?' said the major.

'I was recently in your country, touring the Austro-Hungarian monarchy,' replied the correspondent authoritatively.

'Well, I hope everything turned out to your liking,' said the major lightly and indifferently.

'Not everything, unfortunately!' began the journalist. 'I had the opportunity of talking with several important personalities and with clever men not in office. It seemed to me, in Austria'—he corrected himself, with an emphatic bow in the direction of the German colonel—'with our allies, that a stronger central driving force was needed. The organization leaves much to be desired. The Austrian is sanguine and the nations he rules are still uncivilized. It would also be as well to impose a little silence on the different national demands as long as we are fighting. Yes, gentlemen!'

What countries had he seen? asked the major.

'The Poles, among others,' replied the correspondent. In Cracow he had eaten well but slept badly from fear of vermin. And in Budapest he had seen two bugs in one night. The Hungarians refused to speak German to him. Yet they understood everything. A lieutenant of hussars had been very charming but had had no idea of the importance of the artillery on the Western Front. Yes!

'There are lice at the front,' said the Austrian major, as if he intended to tell quite another story. But he said no more.

In Pressburg, related the journalist, he had heard how soldiers in a tavern had spoken a Slav dialect. 'It must have been Slovak,' he stated, 'with a German word now and again.'

'Perhaps it was Czech,' said the major.

'Could be,' replied the reporter, 'but isn't it all the same?' Even Czech wasn't so very different.

'A Bavarian can't understand a Prussian,' remarked the major.

'You're mistaken!' said the newsman excitedly. 'They are only dialects.' And he began to praise the unity of all German strains, not taking his eyes off the German colonel the while. The latter looked out of the window.

Suddenly the colonel turned round and said: 'Talking of dialects, you are from Frankfurt, aren't you?'

'No! From Breslau!' retorted the correspondent in a firm, almost military, voice.

'Not bad either,' said the colonel and regarded the landscape anew.

'So you are from the press,' began the Austrian major, as if he had only just realized that the reporter had something to do with a newspaper. 'The seventh great power, eh?' he enquired amiably.

The journalist smiled. 'Now,' continued the major, 'you know better than we do when it will end. What's your opinion?'

'Who can tell! ' replied the journalist. 'Our armies are deep in enemy territory. The nation is united as never before. The Social Democrats are fighting like everyone else. Who would have thought this miracle possible! You are on your way to Germany, aren't you? Well, you'll see how all our distinctions of class and creed have vanished. The old dispute between Catholicism and Protestantism is over.'

'Really,' said the major. 'Well, and how about the Israelites?'

The journalist was silent and the colonel smiled at the landscape.

'A dwindling number!' said the bearded one, as if he would have liked to say: 'There aren't any at all.'

'Our Israelites are very brave,' continued the major perseveringly.

'Excuse me,' said the journalist and left the compartment. They saw him through the glass of the door. He went right and then left.

'Occupied!' intimated the colonel. And, as if the occupied W.C. were a matter of geography, he said: 'He's from Breslau.'

When the correspondent sat down in his place again he began to talk about Paris at the outbreak of war, where he had been working for several years for his newspaper. He spoke at length about the measures the Parisians had taken against the Germans, who were destined to be sent off to camps. Often and again he mentioned the names of the German ambassador, some military attachés and embassy counsellors. He seemed to wish to attribute a special significance to the fact that he had left the country in the same train in which the staff of the German embassy had travelled. And some ten times in his narrative he returned to the phrase: 'We, a dozen German gentlemen'. The colonel continued to look out at the landscape.

A German delegation which had left the enemy country at the same time as Dr Süsskind meant less to him than the troop kitchen of a foreign regiment. It was easy for the reporter to talk of military attachés. The Austrian major paid no more attention. He drew out a notebook and asked: 'Do you know any Jewish jokes, Doctor?' And as the correspondent did not reply the major began reading out jokes from his notebook, which all began with the words: 'Two Jews were sitting in a train.' The colonel regarded the major with a despairing and reproachful seriousness. The journalist had assumed a fixed smile to oblige, which became neither more nor less marked but remained the same at the point of the jokes as at their beginning. And only Friedrich laughed. Once, when the major used one of those Yiddish expressions that had already become part of the German vocabulary of wags and tailors, which he could reasonably assume everyone present would understand, the interested journalist asked what it meant. 'What, you don't know what it means?' asked the major. 'No.' The correspondent claimed not to know. Only gradually did he recall that once, on a journey through Egypt, he had heard a similar sounding Turkish word. And he mentioned Egypt as if that country had never played an important part in the history of his race. The colonel redoubled his attentions to the window-pane, as if the landscape had become even more interesting.

They were nearing the German frontier. The major had finished his jokes. He was turning the pages in his little book in the hope of finding a hidden anecdote. But he found no more.

The journalist became restless, got up, and lifted his case from the luggage-rack with a visible effort.

'Are you getting out?' asked the colonel, without looking up and in a tone that he might have used to say: 'Have we got rid of you?'