by B. TRAVEN
“You may have a cigar if you like. We don’t smoke cigarettes around here. We are men, and mean to stay men. But if you wish, we’ll buy you a package of cigarettes on our way to the station.”
“All right with me. Shoot the cigar.”
I smoke the cigar, which is rather good, while I wash and dress. The two cops sit close by the door and follow everything I do like dogs.
I am in no hurry. Anyway, regardless of how much time I take to get ready, there is finally nothing else to do but shove off.
Upon coming to the police-station I was searched. This was done with all the cunning they had. Tearing open even seams. Still thinking of spies, I thought. But later it dawned upon me that they were looking, whenever they caught a sailor, for Bolshevik ideas rather than for photographs of fortresses or warships.
They had more luck than their brethren in Antwerp. They found some twenty-eight cents in Dutch money, with which I wanted to buy a hurried breakfast.
“Is that all the money you have?”
“As you haven’t found any more in my pockets, it must be all.”
“What money did you live on while here in Rotterdam?”
“On the money I no longer have.”
“Then you did have money when you came here?”
“Yep.”
“How much?”
“I don’t remember right now how much, but it must have been in the neighborhood of a couple of thousand dollars or so.”
“Where did you spend it?”
“With the dames. Where else could I?”
“Where did you get the money you had when you came here?”
“I had taken it out of my savings-account.”
The whole outfit roared with laughter. Somehow, they took good care to watch the high priest before they started to laugh. When they saw that he was laughing, they also laughed. As soon as he became serious again, they did exactly the same. It couldn’t have been any better done if it had been commanded by a movie-director in Hollywood.
“How did you come into Holland? I mean without a passport? How did you pass the immigration and so?”
“Oh, that? Oh, well, I just came in, that’s all there is to it.”
“Exactly. That is what we want to know. How did you come in?”
“How can a fellow come in? I came on a ship.”
“What ship?”
“Oh, you mean the ship? Well, she was it was — sure, it was the — the — yes, it was the ,George Washington.”
“So? On the George Washington?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure? You are sure of that?”
“Bless my grandmother’s soul.”
“When?”
“Oh, you mean when? Well, I don’t quite remember the exact day. Musta been six or nine weeks ago or so.”
“And you came on the George Washington?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A rather mysterious ship, your George Washington. As far as I know, the George Washington has never yet come to Rotterdam.”
“That’s not my fault, officer. I am not responsible for the ship.”
“That’s all right. And so you have no passport? No sailor’s card? No sort of paper to show who you are? Nothing to identify you? Absolutely and definitely nothing? Nothing at all to show that you are an American?”
“Evidently not, sir. What can I do about it? Certainly, my consul —”
“As you have no papers and no proof, what do you expect your consul to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s his business, not mine. I have never been a consul, to know what a consul’s duty is in a case like mine. Sure, he will furnish me with papers.”
“Your consul? The American consul? An American consul? To a sailor? To, maybe, a communist? Not in this century, my boy. And most likely not during the next either. Not without papers. Not unless you are, let us say, a member of the New York stock-exchange or the first president of the Missouri Railroad. Never to a bum like you.”
If I had a million dollars, I would give half of it well, one tenth of it to know where this chief of police got such a fine understanding of God’s great country. He cannot have collected his wisdom in Rotterdam.
“But I am American.”
“Why not? Fine. You see, it’s like this. Suppose we take you to your consul. As you have no papers he will not recognize you. So he will, officially, hand you over to us. Then we have no way ever to get rid of you. I hope you understand? Do you?”
“I think so, sir.”
“So what could we do with you? The law is that anybody picked up without papers must be imprisoned for six months. When he comes out, he is deported to his native country. Your native country cannot be determined, since your consul does not accept you as a citizen. Then we have to keep you here with us, whether we like it or not. We cannot shoot you like a dog with a disease, or drown you in the sea, although I am not so sure but that sooner or later such a law will be passed in every country, above all in every civilized country. Why should we, having two hundred thousand unemployed, feed an alien who has no money? Now, listen, do you want to go to Germany?”
“I do not like the Germans.”
“Neither do I. All right, then, Germany is out. Well, my man, this will be all for the morning.”
What a man! He was a thinker. I wonder where the Dutch get people like that for their cops. Back home he would have the capacity of solving problems of national economy, or be dean of Princeton. That’s the difference between those European countries and ours.
He called a cop to his desk and said: “Take him to his cell. Fetch him breakfast. Buy him a few English magazines and newspapers and get him cigarettes. Make him feel at home.”
Feel at home with this sort of curtain at the window! All right, let’s have breakfast first and do the thinking later.
8
Early in the evening I was taken in again to the chief of police. He ordered me to go with two plain-clothes men, who would take care of me.
We went to the depot, boarded a train, and left for the country. We came to a small town where I was taken to the police-station.
It was about ten o’clock when the two men in charge of my future said: “It’s time now. Let’s get going.”
Across plowed fields and swampy meadows we went, or, rather, staggered. I was not sure that this was not another road to execution. I should have inquired, while I was still a free man, if in Holland the noose is in vogue, or the hatchet, or the guillotine, or the chair, or just choking a man to death with bare hands. Now it worried me not to know how the Dutch would do it. Then again I thought that maybe the Dutch have the same system of doing away with sailors without passports that the Belgians have.
They have.
We came suddenly to a halt and one of the two cops said in a low voice: “You go right on in that direction there. You won’t meet anybody now. It’s not their time. If, however, you see somebody coming, get out of the way or lie down until he has passed. After a mile or less of walking you will come to a railroad track. Follow this track in that direction, the one I am indicating here, look. You will come to the depot. Wait until morning. Be careful you’re not seen by anybody, or it will be too bad for you. As soon as you see a train ready to leave, you step up to the window where they sell tickets, and you say: ‘Line troisième à Anvers.’ You can remember those words, can’t you?”
“Easy as pie. I know it’s Spanish.”
“It isn’t Spanish at all. But never mind. It’s good French.”
“Doesn’t sound like the language we have in New Orleans.”
“Quiet, now. You will do what I tell you or land in jail for six months. Don’t answer any questions anybody might ask you. Just play deaf. You will get your ticket all right, and after a certain time you will come to Antwerp. Antwerp is a great port. Hundreds of ships there all the time. They are always badly in need of sailors. You will get a ship before you even have time to ask for it. Here is a mouthful to eat, and also cigarettes.
Do not buy anything before you are safe in Antwerp. Understand. Here, take thirty Belgian francs. It will do for all you need.”
He handed me three packages of cigarettes, a few sandwiches wrapped up, and a box of matches.
“Don’t you ever dare return to Holland. You surely will get six months of hard labor, and then afterwards the workhouse for vagrancy. I will see to it that you won’t miss it. Well, shove off, and good luck.”
Good luck! There I was in the middle of the night, left alone in a foreign country. The two cops disappeared.
I strolled along. After a while I stopped to think it over.
Belgium? In Belgium, I had been told by their police, I would get life if they caught me again. On the other hand, in Holland the worst that awaited me was six months, and after that the workhouse for sailors without identification cards. It may be that the workhouse in Holland would be for life. There is no reason why Holland should make it cheaper than her neighbor Belgium does.
After long thinking I made up my mind that, all circumstances considered, Holland was cheaper. Besides, the food was better. Above all, the Dutch speak a human language, most of which I can understand almost as well as the lingo on the road in Pennsylvania. So I went, first, off the direction, and then I turned back into clean Holland. Everything went fine.
So I was on my way to Rotterdam again. I couldn’t go to the depot to take a train. The two cops who had brought me to the border might take the same train back.
I tried hitch-hiking. I don’t know if any American stranded in Europe ever tried the game there. It is different from what it is on the Golden Highway or the Lincoln Highway.
The first idea I got about how it is done was when I met a milk-wagon going to town. It was drawn by two mighty horses of the kind the breweries of St. Louis used to have in the good old days.
“Hop on,” the driver said. “So, you are a sailor? I have an uncle over in America: If you meet him, just tell him that four years ago we lost a cow; she fell in the canal and was drowned. He will remember the cow; she was sort of checkered. Welcome. I hope you have a pleasant trip home.”
Then I met another peasant who had hogs on his wagon.
He gave me a lift and was friendly. It took me all day long to reach Rotterdam, but I saw quite a bit of the country. I told everybody who gave me a ride all about myself and all that had happened. None of them minded. No one said: “What are you doing here in our country? Why haven’t you got any papers? Out with all aliens.”
It was the other way round. I was invited here and I was invited there, to have a bite or a cup of coffee or a shot of gin. I got from this man two cents, from that woman three cents, and from another man one cent to help me along. They were not rich, but plain peasants. But they had a heart, every one of them. They all hated the police, and they cursed whenever I told what they had done to me.
I would give a second tenth of my million to find out who it is, in reality, that makes the laws about passports and immigration. I have not so far found an ordinary human being who would say anything in favor of that kind of messing up of people’s private affairs. It seems to me governments have to mess up things to create new jobs for officials and to produce evidence of their god-given right to collect more taxes.
9
Thirty francs, no matter how you get them, don’t last very long. Money always goes sooner than you expect it will. The same with really fine people.
Hanging around the docks one day, I saw two guys walking along and caught a few words of their conversation. There is something queer about languages. The English say that we can’t speak English, while we say that what the English talk is a sort of ancient Scotch, because no serious-minded person can ever guess what they mean when they start talking about races or movies or, worse, politics. That’s why the first English settlers couldn’t get along as well with the Indians as we can, because the Indians are hundred-per-centers, and the English are not.
But whatever language the limeys talk, I am not crazy about them. They don’t like us, either, and never did. It’s been going on now for more than a hundred and fifty years — ever since the tea-party that had no bridge-partners. The war made things worse.
You come into a port where the limeys are thick, and they shout as though they owned the world. Maybe in Australia, or in China, or along the coast of the Indian Sea. You step into a tavern like a good and decent sailor who is ashore for a couple of hours and wants to wash down the salt from his throat.
You don’t have to say who you are. You just step across to the bar and you say: “Hello, pal, gimme a shot. No, straight. Make it two.”
That’s all you need to say, and hell is let loose.
“Hey you, Yank. Who won the war?”
Now, as a decent sailor, what can you say to that? What has that to do with me? I didn’t win the war. Of that I am sure. Those who say they won it would rather that nobody reminded them of it, true or not true.
Again: “Hey, Yank, you’re a smart sailor. Tell the world who won the war!”
What do I care? I am drinking my hard washer, and ask for another, straight. Mother told me long ago not to meddle with boys who are not honest and who seek only trouble.
Now there are about two dozen of the limeys. Grinning and laughing. I am alone. I don’t know where the other fellows from my can are right now. Not very likely to drop in here, anyhow.
“Make this one a doubler. Mother’s son is thirsty.”
“Hey, submarine admiral, Nancy of the gobs. Tell us real sailors who won the war.”
I do not even look at the drunks. I punish them with my profound disrespect. But they cannot leave a guy in peace, especially since I am all alone. I don’t even know if the barman will keep neutral. I guess I shall have to say something. The honor of my country is at stake. No matter what it may cost me.
Now what can I say? If I say: “We,” there will be roaring laughter and a big fight. If I say: “The Frenchies,” there will be a fight. If I say: “I won it,” there will be a fight, and most likely the jail afterwards and then the hospital. If I say: “The Canadians, the Australians, the Africans, and the New Zealanders,” there will be a fight. If I stay on saying nothing, it will be taken to mean: “We Americans won it,” which, I know, will surely result in the biggest fight. I could say: “You English, you won the war.” This would be a lie, and that reminds me again of my mother, who told me a thousand times never to tell a lie, and always to think of the cherry-tree that was responsible for a president. So what else can be done about it? There is a fight on. That’s the way they treat the fine guys whom they called, when they needed them badly, “our cousins across the sea.” Not my cousins; no, siree.
So that’s why I am not so crazy about the limeys. But whether I liked them or despised them made no difference now. I had to be friendly, for they were all I had to rely on.
“What bucket are you from, chaps?”
“Hello, Yankey, what’re you doing here?”
“I was mixed up with a jane who had a sick mother. Had to take her to the hospital myself. So I was skipped, see?”
“Now it is too hot here for you, isn’t it? Polishing anchor-chains, hey?”
“You said it. How about stowing with you?”
“It might be done. Always a free hand for a sailor feller.”
“Where are you making for?” I asked.
“Lisbon and old Malta, and then Egypt. Can’t take ye that far, but welcome to Boulogne. From there on, you have to look out for your own future.”
“Boulogne will be okay with me.”
“See, the bos’n we have is a bloody devil, he is. If it were not for him, we could take you round the world sightseeing. Now, tell ye what we’ll do for you. You come round about eight at night. Then the bos’n will be so filled up he’ll be kicking over the rim. Doesn’t see anything and doesn’t hear anything. Now, you just come up. We’ll wait for you at the railing. Just look at me. If I tip my cap over onto my neck, everything is shipshape and you
just hop on. But if anybody finds you aboard, don’t ever say who heaved you up. Sailor’s word.”
“Understand. I’ll be there at eight.”
I was there. The cap was cocked onto his neck. The bos’n was so well drenched that it lasted until Boulogne. There I got off, and that’s how I came to France.
I changed my money for French coin. Then I went to the depot. I bought a ticket to the first station on the way to Paris. The Paris Express. I boarded it.
The French are very polite gents. No one molested me to show my ticket.
The train pulled in at what they call a gare, which means their depot. So I came to Paris, which is supposed to be the paradise for Americans who have become sick of God’s country.
Now the tickets were asked for.
The police are quick in Paris. Since I had no ticket for Paris, and I had ridden all the way down from Boulogne on a very soft seat unmolested by anybody, I had become a case for the Paris criminal investigation police department, or something that sounded as highfalutin’ as that.
I knew a few words of French, and I hoped that this would save me, but these cops knew more about the English language than I shall ever be able to pick up. They must have had better teachers than we usually have.
Where did I come from? Boulogne. How did I come to Boulogne? On a ship. What ship? The Abraham Lincoln. No Abraham Lincoln lately in Boulogne. Where is my sailor’s card? Haven’t got any.
“You mean to say you have no —”
“No, I have no sailor’s card.”
I had become so used to that question that I would understand it even in Hindustani, whatever that may be. The tune of the words, and the gestures, and the lifted eyebrows that always accompany the question are so unmistakably alike among all the bureaucrats and policemen of the world that there never can be any doubt about what is asked.
“And I have no passport either. Nor have I an identification card of the French authorities. No immigration stamp. No customs-house seal. I have no papers at all. Never in all my life did I ever have any papers.”
