The night in Lisbon

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "The moment became everything. Tomorrow was an eternity away. When Helen woke up, the day began, and when she slept and I felt her beside me, my thoughts hovered between hope and despair. I hatched fantastic plans based on miracles, or dreamed up a philosophy of the moment, blind to everything else. But all my fantasies were dispelled by the early light, swallowed up in the morning mists.

  "The weather turned cold. I went about with the Degas; it should have brought in the fare to America, and I would have been glad to sell it. But there was no one willing to pay a reasonable price in the small towns and villages we passed through. Here and there we worked. I learned to work in the fields. I dug and hoed; I was glad to be busy. We were not the only ones. I saw professors sawing wood and opera singers hoeing beets. The peasants behaved like—peasants; they took advantage of the cheap labor. Some paid a little; others provided food, and a place to spend the night. And some chased you away. So we made our way to Marseille. Have you been there?"

  "Who hasn't?" I said. "It was the hunting ground of the gendarmes and the Gestapo. They rounded up the refugees like rabbits outside the consulates."

  "They almost caught us," said Schwarz. "The Prefect in charge of the Service des étrangers in Marseille did everything in his power to save the refugees. I was still possessed by the idea of getting an American visa. An American visa, it seemed to me, might even arrest cancer. To get a visa—you know all that—you had to prove that you were in extreme danger or you had to be on a list of well-known artists, scientists, or intellectuals that was drawn up in America. As if the whole lot of us weren't in danger—and as if man didn't equal man! Doesn't the distinction between ordinary and valuable men smack a little of the Nazi concept of the superman as opposed to subhuman vermin?"

  "They can't take everybody," I said.

  "No?" Schwarz retorted.

  I did not answer. What answer was there? Yes and no were the same.

  "Why not the most dispossessed?" Schwarz asked. "Those without a name and fame?"

  Again I said nothing. Schwarz had two American visas— what more did he want? Didn't he know that the Americans gave anyone a visa provided someone over there made out an affidavit guaranteeing that he would not become a public charge?

  He said as much the next moment. "I don't know a soul over there. But someone gave me an address in New York; I wrote a letter. I wrote to other people, too. I described our situation. Then a friend told me that I had gone about it all wrong; invalids were not admitted to the United States. Incurables were not even considered. I would have to say that Helen was in perfect health. Helen had overheard a part of the conversation. That was inevitable; no one spoke of anything else in Marseille. It was like a swarm of bees gone mad.

  "That evening we were sitting in a restaurant off the Cane-biere. The wind swept through the streets. I was not discouraged. I hoped to find a humane doctor who would give Helen a health certificate. We were still playing the same game, pretending to believe each other, pretending that I knew nothing. I had written to the Prefect of her camp for an attestation that we were endangered. We had found a small room; I had obtained a residence permit for one week and was working nights illegally in a restaurant as a dishwasher; we had some money, and a druggist had given me ten ampoules of morphine on Dubois' prescription—so for the moment we had everything we needed.

  "We sat at a table by the window, looking out at the street —for us a rare luxury, for a whole week there was no need to hide. Suddenly Helen gave a start and grasped my hand. She was staring into the windy darkness. 'Georg!' she whispered.

  " 'Where?'

  " 'In that open car. He just drove by.'

  " 'Are you sure?'

  " She nodded.

  "It struck me as next to impossible. I made several attempts to distinguish the features of people in passing cars and found that I couldn't. But I was not reassured.

  " 'Why should he be in Marseille of all places?' I asked. But the next instant I realized that Marseille was the most natural place in the world for him to be—the last haven of all the refugees in France.

  " 'We'll have to leave Marseille,' I said.

  " 'Where can we go?'

  " 'Spain.'

  " 'Isn't that even more dangerous?'

  "There were rumors that the Gestapo had made itself at home in Spain and that refugees had been arrested by the Spanish police and turned over to the German authorities; but all sorts of rumors were going around in those days; you couldn't believe them all.

  "I had another try at the old rat race: the Spanish transit visa which was granted only if you had a Portuguese visa, which in turn was contingent on a visa for some other country. Not to mention the worst bureaucratic chicanery of all: the French exit visa.

  "One night we had a stroke of luck: a young American spoke to us. He was a little tipsy and was looking for someone to talk English to. A few minutes later he was sitting at our table, buying us drinks. He was about twenty-five and was waiting for a ship to take him back to America. 'Why don't you come along?' he asked.

  "I said nothing for a moment. The naive question seemed to open a rift in the table between us. He was living on another planet. What for him was as natural as a drink of water was for us as inaccessible as the Pleiades. 'No visas,' I said finally.

  " 'That's no obstacle. We have a consulate here in Marseille. Real nice people.'

  "I knew the nice people. They were demigods; you waited for hours in the street just to see their secretaries. Later we were allowed to wait in the cellar, because refugees were often picked up in the street by Gestapo agents.

  " 'I'll take you there tomorrow,' said the American.

  " 'Fine,' I said, not believing him for one moment.

  "'Let's drink on it.'

  "We drank. His fresh, guileless face was almost more than I could bear. He told us about the sea of lights on Broadway. Fairy tales in a dark city. I watched Helen's face as he dropped the names of actors, plays, night clubs, as he evoked the innocent hubbub of a city that had never known a war; I was wretched and at the same time glad to see that she was listening, because up until then she had received every mention of America with a strange silent lethargy. Her face lit up; she smiled through the cigarette smoke and promised to let the man take her to see his favorite play. We drank and knew that the whole thing would be forgotten next day.

  "We were mistaken. The young American called for us at ten o'clock sharp. I had a hangover, and Helen refused to go along. It was raining. The usual knot of refugees had formed outside the consulate. It was like a dream. The crowd parted before us as the Red Sea parted before the Jews fleeing from Pharaoh. The American's green passport was the Golden Key that opened all doors.

  "The incredible happened. When the situation was explained to the young man, he announced very nonchalantly that he would vouch for us. It sounded preposterous; he was so young. It seemed to me that to vouch for me he'd have had to be older than I. We spent about an hour at the consulate. Some weeks before, I had filed a statement explaining why we were in danger. Through intermediaries in Switzerland—it had cost me no end of trouble—I had obtained letters proving that I had been in a German concentration camp. I had also presented proof that Georg was looking for both of us to take us back to Germany. I was told to come back in a week. Outside, the American shook hands with me. 'It's been swell meeting you. Here—' he produced a visiting card— 'call me up when you get there.'

  "He waved his hand and was about to leave. 'But what if something goes wrong? What if I need you?' I asked.

  " 'What can go wrong? It's all settled.' He laughed. 'My father's pretty well known. I've heard there's a boat going to Oran tomorrow; I think I'll shoot over there before I go back. Who knows when I'll be here again? Better see as much as I can right now.'

  "He vanished. Half a dozen refugees surrounded me, asking for his name and address; they guessed what had happened and wanted to get in on it. When I told them I didn't know where he was staying in Marseille, they ca
lled me some very unflattering names. I actually didn't know. I showed them the card with his American address. They wrote it down. I told them it would do no good, the man was going to Oran. They said they'd wait for him on the dock, before his boat left. I started home with mixed feelings. Maybe I had ruined everything by showing his card; but bewilderment had destroyed my presence of mind. And anyway, as I became more convinced at every step, the whole situation was hopeless.

  "I told Helen all about it. She smiled. She was very gentle that evening. We had sublet our little room from a subtenant —you know about those addresses that pass from mouth to mouth. The green canary we had promised to take care of was singing like mad in his wire cage; he never stopped. Now and then a cat would step in from the nearby roofs and sit in the window devouring the bird with its yellow eyes. It was cold, but Helen wanted the windows open. She always did when she was in pain.

  "The house didn't quiet down until very late. 'Do you remember the little château?' Helen asked.

  " 'I remember as if someone had told me about it,' I said. 'As if it weren't myself but someone else who had been there.'

  "She looked at me. 'Maybe that's how it is,' she said. 'Everyone has several people inside him. All different. And sometimes one of them becomes independent and takes over for a while. Then you become somebody else, somebody you'd never known. But we come back.' She turned to me with an air of urgency: 'Don't we?'

  " 'I never had different people inside me,' I said. 'I've always been monotonously the same.'

  "She shook her head violently. 'You're wrong. Some day you'll find out.'

  " 'What do you mean?'

  " 'Forget it. Look at that cat in the window. And that silly bird. So unsuspecting. The jubilant victim!'

  " 'The cat will never get him. He's safe in his cage.'

  "Helen burst out laughing. 'Safe in his cage,' she repeated. 'Who wants to be safe in a cage?'

  "We awoke toward morning. The concierge was screaming and cursing. Fully dressed and ready to run for it, I opened the door, but there was no sign of police. 'The blood!' the woman screamed. 'Couldn't she do it some other way? What a mess! And now we'll have the police. That's what comes of having a kind heart. People take advantage. And the five weeks' rent she owes me!'

  "The other tenants had gathered in the gray light of the hallway and were staring into the room next to ours. A woman of sixty had committed suicide by cutting the veins of one wrist. The blood had run down the side of her bed. 'Get a doctor,' said Lachmann, a refugee from Frankfurt, who made his living in Marseille selling rosaries and pictures of saints.

  " 'A doctor!" fumed the concierge. 'She's been dead for hours. Can't you see that? That's what comes of taking you people in. Now we'll have the police. They can arrest the lot of you, for all I care. And the bed—how will I ever get it clean?'

  " 'We'll clean it up,' said Lachmann. 'But don't bring the police into it.'

  " 'And her rent? What about her rent?'

  " 'We'll take up a collection,' said an old woman in a red kimono. 'Where else can we go? Take pity on us.'

  " 'I took pity on her and she took advantage. If at least she had any valuables!'

  "The concierge rummaged about. The one naked bulb gave off a pale yellow light. Under the bed there was a cheap fiber suitcase. The concierge knelt down at the end of the iron bed, the end with no blood on it, and pulled it out. Under her striped house dress she presented the posterior of a great obscene insect pouncing on its prey. She opened the suitcase. 'Nothing! Rags. Old shoes.'

  " 'Look here!' said the old woman in the red kimono, pointing at a little box. Her name was Lucie Löwe; she sold discard stockings on the black market and mended broken china.

  "The concierge opened the box. On a bed of pink cotton lay a small chain and a ring with a little stone in it.

  " 'Gold?' asked the concierge. 'Must be plated.'

  " 'Gold,' said Lachmann.

  " 'If it were gold,' said the concierge, 'she'd have sold it before doing what she did.'

  " 'It's not always hunger that makes you do those things,' said Lachmann calmly. 'It's gold, all right. And the little stone is a ruby. Worth at least seven or eight hundred francs.'

  " 'Don't make me laugh.'

  " 'I can sell it for you if you like.'

  " 'And swindle me, eh? Oh no, my friend, you've come to the wrong address.'

  "She had to call the police. There was no getting around it. Meanwhile, the refugee tenants disappeared. Most of them started on their daily activities—waiting at the consulates or trying to sell something or looking for work. The rest of us went to the nearest church. We posted a lookout on the corner to tell us when the coast was clear. Churches were safe.

  "Mass was being said. In the aisles sat women in black dresses, stooped over like dark hillocks. The candles burned impassively, the organ played, and the light glittered on the upraised golden chalice which contained the blood of Christ, who with it had redeemed the world. What had it led to? To bloody crusades, religious fanaticism, the tortures of the Inquisition, witch hunts and the burning of heretics—all in the name of charity.

  " 'Why don't we go to the railroad station?' I asked Helen. 'It's warmer.'

  " 'All right, but wait just a moment.'

  "She went to a pew below the pulpit and knelt down. I don't know whether she prayed and to whom, but I thought of the day when I had waited for her in the cathedral in Osnabrück. I had found a woman whom I had not known, and who from day to day had grown stranger to me, yet closer. Now she seemed to be slipping away from me again, into a realm where all names are forgotten, where there is only darkness and perhaps certain unknown laws of darkness. She rejected that dark realm; she came back, but she no longer belonged to me as I had tried to believe. Perhaps she had never belonged to me; who, after all, belongs to whom, and what is it to belong to someone, to belong to one another? Isn't it a forlorn illusion, a convention? I'llme and again she turned back, as she called it, for an hour, for the duration of a glance, for a night. And always I felt like a bookkeeper who is not allowed to audit. I could only accept without question whatever this unaccountable, unhappy, damned, and beloved creature chose to be and to tell me. I know there are other names for it, cheap, easy, disparaging names—but they are for other circumstances and for people who mistake their selfish desires for votive tablets. Loneliness demands a companion and does not ask who it is. If you don't know that, you may have been alone, but you were never lonely.

  " 'What did you pray for?' I asked, and was sorry I had asked.

  "She gave me a strange look. 'For an American visa,' she answered, and I knew she was lying. Maybe the exact opposite. I thought for a moment—I had often been struck by her passive resistance to my American projects. 'America?' she had said one night. 'What will you do in America? Why run so far? When you get there, there will be some other America to run to, and then another, don't you see that?' She wanted no more changes. She had abandoned all belief in a future. The death that was consuming her had no wish to run away. It governed her like a vivisectionist who looks on to see what will happen when one organ and then another, one cell and then another, is modified and destroyed. It played a cruel game of masks with her, not so very different from our innocent masquerade at the castle. From one minute to the next this woman, looking at me out of tremulous eyes, could be all hatred for me or all devotion; at times she was a gambler, losing with heartbreaking courage, and at times she was all hunger and desperation. But always she was a human being who had nothing but me to return to from out of the darkness, and who was grateful for that in her last, brave, frightened tremor.

  "Our lookout came in to announce that the police had gone. 'We should have gone to the museum,' said Lachmann. 'It's heated.'

  " 'Is there one here?' asked a hunchbacked young woman, whose husband had been taken away by the police and who had been waiting for him for six weeks.

  " 'Of course.'

  "I couldn't help thinking of old Schwarz. 'Would
you like to go?' I asked Helen.

  " 'Not now. Let's go back.'

  "I didn't want her to see the dead woman again; but she insisted. The concierge had calmed down when we got back. Perhaps she had had the chain and the ring appraised. 'Poor woman,' she said. 'Now she hasn't even got a name.'

  " 'Had she no papers?'

  " 'She had a sauf-conduit. The others drew lots for it before the police came. The little redhead won.'

  " 'That's good. She had no papers at all. I'm sure the dead woman wouldn't have minded.'