Hotel Savoy

by Joseph Roth

  ‘By now,’ said Zwonimir, ‘you’ve grown used to the idea that you will never again buy condoms in a decent shop, one of those where the shopgirls are scented like whores.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  And we talked about this war going on to all eternity and that we should never return home. Zwonimir still had a father and two small brothers.

  ‘You’ll go, too, along with the rest,’ said Zwonimir. ‘In ten years’ time no fruit will grow in any country in the world, only in America.’

  He loved America. When a billet was good he said ‘America’. When a position had been well fortified he said ‘America’. Of a ‘fine’ first lieutenant he would say ‘America’, and because I was a good shot he would say ‘America’ when I scored bullseyes.

  Everything permanent, everything continuous called for ‘Right!’ This was an order. At PT they used to shout ‘Right!’ ‘Heads bent, right?’ ‘Heads down, right?’ It went on for ever.

  When we were served dried vegetables day in day out he would say, ‘Wire entanglements, right!’ And because he thought I was a real good sort, he would say, ‘Gabriel, right!’

  We sat in the third class waiting-room, deafened by the noisy drunks, speaking quietly but understanding every word because we were listening with our hearts, not our ears.

  Someone with a loud voice has already addressed me in this waiting-room and yet I could make nothing of what he said because the roaring of the drunks was so loud.

  These were Neuner’s striking workers, drinking their strike pay.

  In the town, schnaps was forbidden, at the station alcohol was poured out of coffee cans. Working girls were sitting about, young girls who had drunk heavily but whose freshness was almost incorruptible. The schnaps fought a losing battle against the soundness of their constitutions. Young lads started quarrelling about a girl and drew knives, but did not kill each other. The mob was just lively, not angry, someone shouted a joke at the two fighters and everyone made friends again.

  All the same it was dangerous to sit here too long. One could suddenly be hit on the head or thrust in the chest, or someone would come and steal your hat or knock you down because he could not find an empty chair.

  Zwonimir and I sat at the end of the room, leaning against the wall so that we could watch the crowd and keep an eye on anyone who approached us. But nobody troubled us and all our neighbours were friendly. Now and again someone asked us for a light and once my matchbox fell to the ground and a young boy picked it up.

  ‘Do you aim to keep on travelling?’ I asked, and explained how things were with me.

  Zwonimir did not want to go any further. He wanted to stay. The strike appealed to him.

  ‘I’d like to start a revolution here,’ said Zwonimir, just as simply as, ‘I’ll write a letter here.’

  I learn that Zwonimir is an agitator, just from a love of trouble. He is a hothead, but honest, and believes in his revolution.

  ‘You can lend me a hand,’ says he.

  ‘I cannot,’ I say. I explain to Zwonimir that I am on my own and have no feeling for the community. ‘I am an egoist,’ I say, ‘a true egoist.’

  ‘An educated word,’ says Zwonimir reproachfully, ‘all educated words are shameful. In ordinary speech you couldn’t say anything so unpleasant.’

  I could not answer that.

  I am alone. My heart beats only for myself. The strikers mean nothing to me. I have nothing in common with the mob, nor with individuals. I am a cold person. In the war I did not feel I was part of my company. We all lay in the same mud and waited for the same death. But I could think only about my own life and death. I would step over corpses and it oftened saddened me that I could feel no pain.

  Now Zwonimir’s reproach gives me no peace. I must consider my coldness and my solitude.

  ‘Every person lives in some kind of community,’ says Zwonimir.

  In what community do I live?

  I live in community with the inhabitants of the Hotel Savoy.

  ‘Little Alexander’ Bohlaug comes into my mind. What would I have in common with Alexander Bohlaug? Nothing with Bohlaug, but much with the dead Santschin who died in the steam from the laundry, and with Stasia, with the many people on the fifth, sixth and seventh floors who dread Kaleguropulos’ visits of inspection, who have pawned their luggage and are immured in this Hotel Savoy, for life.

  Nor do I have a trace of kinship with Kanner and Neuner and Anselm Schwadron, nor with Frau Kupfer and my uncle Phöbus Bohlaug and his son the ‘little’ Alexander.

  Certainly I do live in a community, whose sorrow is my sorrow, whose poverty is my poverty.

  And now I have my stand on the station waiting for money and finding no work, and still I have the room to pay for and no luggage for Ignatz.

  The meeting with Zwonimir is a stroke of luck, a happy chance such as only happens in books.

  Zwonimir still has money and courage. He wants to share my room.

  XV

  We live together in my room. Zwonimir sleeps on the sofa.

  I have not offered him my bed, which I find comfortable. I have spent a long time without a bed. In my parents’ house in the Leopoldstadt there was often not much to eat, but always a soft bed. But all through Zwonimir’s life he has slept on benches, ‘on genuine oak’, he jokes. He hates the warmth of a bed and has bad dreams sleeping on anything soft.

  He has a sound constitution, goes to sleep late and wakes with the dawn wind. Peasant blood runs through his veins, he has no watch but always knows the exact time, can sense rain and sunshine on the way, can smell fires from far off and has presentiments and dreams.

  On one occasion he dreams that his father has been buried. He gets up crying and I do not know how to cope with this big weeping man. Another time he sees his cow dying and seems quite indifferent as he tells me about it.

  All day long we go from one place to another. Zwonimir finds out from Neuner’s workmen about the conditions of their work and about the leaders of the strike; he gives money to the children and grumbles with the women, telling them to fetch their menfolk out of the waiting-room. I admire Zwonimir’s capacities. He has not mastered the language of the country and speaks with his expression and his arms more than with his mouth but everyone understands him splendidly because he speaks simply, like the people, and swears away in his mother tongue. In these parts everyone understands a good oath.

  That evening we go out into the fields and Zwonimir sits down on a rock, puts his hands up to his face and cries like a boy.

  ‘Why are you crying, Zwonimir?’

  ‘Because of my cow.’

  ‘But you’ve known that all day. Why cry now?’

  ‘Because I have no time during the day.’

  Zwonimir says this perfectly seriously, cries for a good quarter of an hour, then stands up. He suddenly laughs out loud, because he discovers a milestone has been dressed up as a scarecrow.

  ‘These people are too lazy to put their scarecrows properly in the middle of the field. Milestones are no scarecrows! I’d like to see the starling who was scared by a milestone!’

  ‘Zwonimir,’ I beg him, ‘let’s travel on! Your father is still alive, but if you don’t come he may yet die and then you’ll have no more bad dreams. And I want to get away too.’

  ‘Let’s stay on for a while,’ says Zwonimir and I know that he won’t budge.

  He enjoys the Hotel Savoy. For the first time Zwonimir is living in a big hotel. He is not surprised by Ignatz the lift-boy. I tell Zwonimir that in other hotels little lads with milky complexions run the lifts. Zwonimir thinks it would surely be more sensible to leave an older, experienced man in charge of such an ‘American’ device. In any case both Ignatz and the lift seem to him eerie. He prefers to walk up.

  I point the clocks out to Zwonimir, and how they all tell different times.

  Zwonimir says that this is unpleasant but that one must have variety. I show him the seventh floor and the steam from the laundry and tell h
im about Santschin and the donkey at the graveside. He likes this story best of all. Santschin does not move him but that night, undressing, he laughs over the donkey.

  I also introduce him to Abel Glanz and Hirsch Fisch.

  Zwonimir bought three lottery tickets from Hirsch Fisch and would have bought more, promising Fisch a third of his winnings. We went with Abel Glanz into the Jewish quarter. Abel made some good deals and asked if we had German marks. Zwonimir had German marks. ‘At twelve and a quarter,’ said Abel.

  ‘Who’s buying?’ asked Zwonimir with surprising shrewdness.

  ‘Kanner!’ said Abel.

  ‘Fetch Kanner,’ says Zwonimir.

  ‘What are you thinking of,’ shouts Glanz in alarm, ‘Kanner should come to you!’

  ‘Then I won’t sell the marks!’ says Zwonimir.

  Glanz wants to make some money and runs off to Kanner.

  We wait. He comes after half an hour and makes a date with us in the bar for that evening.

  In the evening we come to the bar, Zwonimir in a Russian army blouse and hobnailed boots.

  Zwonimir pinched Frau Jetti Kupfer’s arm and she let out a loud squeak. It had been a long time since she had had that sort of guest. Zwonimir had schnaps prepared, gave Ignatz a clap on the shoulder which brought the old lift-boy down to his knees, laughed at the girls, called Neuner the industrialist by his name, omitting the ‘Herr’, and asked Glanz, ‘Where’s your damned Kanner hiding?’

  The gentlemen made wry mouths but kept silent, while Neuner did not move and allowed himself to look pleased at everything which was said to him, in spite of having served in the Prussian guards for a year, and having duelling scars.

  Anselm Schwadron and Siegmund Fink conversed quietly and when Kanner belatedly arrived he was not given the big hello which he expected and merited. He looked round and spotted Zwonimir; since Glanz beckoned to him he came across and asked majestically, ‘Herr Pansin?’

  ‘At your service, Mister Kanner!’ roared Zwonimir in such an ominous voice that Kanner took half a pace backwards.

  ‘Twelve and three quarters,’ roared Zwonimir again.

  ‘Not so loud!’ whispered Glanz.

  But Zwonimir took his money out of his wallet while everyone looked across at our table. He even had Danish kroner, God knows where from.

  Kanner pocketed the money, reckoned rapidly so as to get the deal over quickly, and paid twelve and three quarters.

  ‘My commission?’ said Glanz.

  ‘In schnaps!’ said Zwonimir and had five schnaps brought for Glanz. Abel Glanz drank, because he was frightened, until he was drunk.

  It was an amusing evening. Zwonimir had spoiled the mood of the regulars. Ignatz was angry. His beer-yellow eyes glowed. Zwonimir, however, behaved as if Ignatz were his best friend, called him by name. ‘My dear Ignatz!’ said Zwonimir and Ignatz came on silent shoes, an old cat.

  Neuner the industrialist lost his taste for Tonka and the naked girls came confidingly to our table and nibbled crumbs from Zwonimir’s hand. He fed them with pastry and cake crumbs and let them sip several glasses of schnaps.

  They stood there, white and naked like young swans.

  Alexander Bohlaug came late. He looked at the same time tidy and depressed, as if he wanted to drown some sorrows. Zwonimir helped him.

  Zwonimir had drunk a lot, but he was sober and sardonic and it was a pleasure to watch him tease Alexander.

  ‘You have pointed shoes!’ said Zwonimir. ‘Let’s see if they’re sharp. Where do you have your shoes polished? This is the newest weapon. Attack with French shoes! Your tie is prettier than my grandmother’s headscarf, as true as I’m Nikita’s son, as true as my name is Zwonimir, who never slept with your wife.’

  Alexander pretended not to hear. Sorrow was gnawing at his vitals and he was sad.

  ‘In your place I wouldn’t find much use for your cousin!’ said Zwonimir.

  ‘One doesn’t choose one’s cousins,’ said I.

  ‘No offence meant, Alexander!’ roared Zwonimir and stood up. He was huge and stood like a wall in the little dark red bar.

  Next morning Zwonimir wakes up early and also wakes me up. He is dressed. He throws my blanket on the floor and makes me get up and go out walking with him.

  The larks are singing wonderfully.

  XVI

  On this day they were expecting Kaleguropulos. Zwonimir threw the chairs about, untidied our room. He decided to ambush Kaleguropulos and wanted to wait for him in our room. I waited for Kaleguropulos down below in the afternoon lounge, and Zwonimir stayed upstairs.

  This time I saw no excitement. Everyone had left the hotel, the three top floors stood empty and one could see pathetic domestic details.

  Below, it was quiet. Ignatz went up and down. After an hour Zwonimir came and told me that the manager had come along the corridor, Zwonimir had stood in the doorway, the manager had greeted him but no Kaleguropulos was anywhere to be seen.

  Zwonimir easily forgot such things, but the mystery of Kaleguropulos gave me no rest.

  Zwonimir makes independent excursions inside the hotel, goes into empty rooms, leaves notes with greetings and knows everyone within three days.

  He knows Taddeus Montag, the caricaturist, who paints signs and does not find much work because he makes a mess of his commissions.

  He knows the bookkeeper Katz, the actor Nawarski, the naked girls, two sisters named Mongol, Helene and Irene, both of them elderly maiden ladies. Zwonimir greets everyone loudly and heartily.

  He also knows Stasia and informs me, That canaille is in love with you.’

  I am put out. It is not ill-intentioned but the expression annoys me.

  I say, ‘Stasia is a good girl.’

  Zwonimir does not believe in good girls and says he will go ahead and sleep with Stasia to show me how bad she is.

  Zwonimir has already been in the hotel’s basement, underground, where the kitchen is. He knows the cook, a Swiss, whose name is only Meyer but who makes good puddings. Zwonimir is given free tastings.

  Zwonimir knocks Ignatz about. These are friendly cuffs and Ignatz can do nothing about them. I see that Ignatz draws himself together when Zwonimir appraoches. It is a reflex, not anxiety. Zwonimir is the biggest and strongest man in the Hotel Savoy, he could easily tuck Ignatz under one arm. He seems frightening and violent, he loves having a row, and in his vicinity everything becomes discreetly quiet.

  The old army doctor takes to Zwonimir. The doctor is glad to buy him a couple of schnaps in the afternoon.

  ‘I know your kind of doctor from the army,’ says Zwonimir, ‘you can kill the living and for that they pay you a big salary. You can amputate people out of this earth, you’re a great surgeon. I wouldn’t even trust you with a dose of the clap!’

  But the doctor laughs and is not offended.

  ‘I’d like to hang you,’ Zwonimir says at one moment and pats the doctor on the shoulder.

  No one has ever patted the doctor’s shoulder.

  ‘A splendid hotel,’ says Zwonimir, and cannot sense the mystery of this house in which stangers live, eat and starve alongside one another, only separated by paper-thin walls and ceilings. He finds it natural that the girls should pawn their trunks and end up naked in the clutches of Frau Jetti Kupfer.

  He is a healthy person. I envy him. In our part of the world, in the Leopoldstadt, there were no such healthy fellows. He enjoys the vulgar things of life. He has no respect for women. He knows no books, reads no newspaper. He does not know what goes on in the world. But he is my loyal friend. He shares his money with me and would share his life with me.

  And I would do as much for him.

  He has a good memory and not only does he know people’s names, but also their room numbers. And when the floor waiter says, ‘403 has been with 41,’ he knows that the actor Nawarski has spent the night with Frau Goldenberg. He also knows a lot about Frau Goldenberg. She is the lady whom I met on my first day.

  ‘Do you have enough m
oney?’ I ask.

  But Zwonimir is not paying. He has fallen prey to the Hotel Savoy.

  I remember a phrase of the late Santschin. He said to me on the day before his death that everyone living here had fallen prey to the Hotel Savoy. No one escaped the Hotel Savoy.

  I warned Zwonimir, but he did not believe me. He was healthy to the point of heathendom and he acknowledged no power but his own.

  ‘The Hotel Savoy has fallen prey to me, brother,’ he said.

  It was now five days since his arrival. On the sixth he decided to find work.

  ‘One should not live this way,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no work to be had here,’ I said, ‘let us be on our way.’ But Zwonimir wanted to find work for us both right here.

  He really did find work.

  By the station, at the goods station, there were heavy sacks of hops. These had to be transhipped and there were no labourers for the station. There were a few lazy drunken fellows there and the foreman realised perfectly well that it would take months to work with employees like these. Less than ten of Neuner’s strikers came forward, two Jewish fugitives from the Ukraine appeared, and then Zwonimir and I. We were fed in the station kitchen and had to be on the spot at seven in the morning. Ignatz looked puzzled when he saw me setting off wearing my old army shirt and carrying my mess tin, and coming home dirty from coal dust and my work.

  Zwonimir took over command of us workers.

  We work hard and are given sharp bailing hooks which we plunge into the hopsacks before rolling them on little handcarts. When we have plunged the hooks in, Zwonimir orders, ‘Up!’ and then we heave – ‘Up!’ and we rest awhile. ‘Up!’ and then the fat grey sacks were lying below. They looked like great whales and we are the men with the harpoons. Round about us locomotives whistle, green and red lights shine out, but we pay them no attention. We work. ‘Up, up!’ drones Zwonimir’s voice. The men are sweating, the two Ukranian Jews cannot last the course; they are thin, weakly business men.