by B. TRAVEN
“Then you were a German,” the clerk admitted. “Because then Poznan belonged to Germany. Where were you when all the people born in the Polish provinces but living in Germany were officially ordered to adopt either country as their native land?”
“I was shipping on a Dane. I was likely then somewhere off the Chinese coast.”
“It was your duty to go to a German consul at the nearest port and make there your proper declaration.”
“But I did not know that such a thing had to be done. You see, when sailing, and working hard, out on the sea, you have no time or even thoughts to think of such things.”
“Didn’t your captain tell you that you had to go see the German consul?”
“But I shipped on a Dane. It was a Danish master I was with. He sure was not interested in any orders issued by German authorities.”
“Very bad for you, Koslovski.” The clerk sat back and seemed to work his mind for a solution. When, after long meditation, he had found one, he said: “Bad for you, I say again. I think that is all. I can do nothing for you in this case. Are you rich? I mean do you hold any property?”
“No, mister, I am a sailor.”
“That settles it, then. Nothing I can do for you. Even the periods of grace for proper adoption have expired. Sorry, but you cannot even rely on the fact that a higher power prevented you from making the declaration when there was time. You were not shipwrecked. You called at many ports in which there were German consuls, or at least consuls of other nations who were authorized to represent German interests. The call for adoption was published profusely and repeatedly all over the civilized world. At all consulates there were the bulletins on the blackboards.”
“Sailors never read newspapers. When in port, one has other things to do than to go to the consulate and look at bulletins. Where could I get a German newspaper? Papers in other languages I do not understand well. Sometimes, by good chance, one may pick up a German newspaper. But I never saw any notice about this adoption thing.”
“I am not responsible for this, Koslovski. Sorry. Sure I would like to help you. Yet I have not the power to do so. I am just a clerk here, an official to do what I am ordered to do.
Now, of course, it is not quite as bad as you imagine. There is still a way for you make an application to the Secretary of State. He can do it. But this takes time. Probably two years or three. Since the war, citizenship has become a more definite matter than it used to be. Besides, the Poles do not show any consideration toward our nationals. Why should we be more generous? In a certain way you are a Pole. You were born on soil that is now Polish territory. I tell you, my good man, it sure will come to the point where the Poles, those stinking godless dirty pigs, will drive out of Poland all those Germans who have adopted for German citizenship. I assure you, Koslovski, we will do the same. The only way to deal with those bandits.”
Every official assured him that he would like so very much to help him, if only he had the power to do so. Yet, suppose Stanislav had talked loudly or without proper respect to any clerk, high or low in office, or he had dared to look sternly at the face of an official, he would have been thrown into prison without mercy for having insulted an official and for having committed a criminal assault upon the state. Then the official would become automatically the almighty state in person, endowed with all the powers, forces, responsibilities, and privileges of the state. The brother of the insulted official would pass sentence, another brother of the official would beat him up with a club, and still another brother in office would lock him up in jail and guard him there for as long a time as another brother of the official thought suitable for such a horrible offense. But none of all these brothers in office have the power to help a poor individual in distress. “What, then, is the state and all its great apparatus good for if it cannot help a being in need?” Stanislav questioned.
“I can give you only one piece of good advice,” the clerk said, swinging leisurely in his chair: “You’d better go to the Polish consulate general. The Polish consul, believe me, is simply under obligation to give you a Polish passport, with which you may easily obtain a sailor’s book. If you bring us a Polish passport we will make an exception of you, having served the German navy, and having lived in Hamburg now and before the war. I will see to it, personally, that you get a German sailor’s book upon presenting a Polish passport. That is the only advice I have in your case.”
Next day Stanislav was at the Polish consulate.
“Born in Poznan?”
“Yes, my parents still live in Poznan.”
“Speaking Polish?”
“Not very much; practically none.”
“Did you live in Poznan, or in West Prussia, or in any of the Polish provinces then under the rule of Germany, Russia, or Austria at the time when Poland was declared an independent and sovereign country?”
“No”
“You did not live in any territory considered Polish territory between 1912 and the day of the armistice?”
“No. I was on high sea, mostly with Danish or German merchants.”
“What you were doing, where you were sailing, and on what ships you were at that time, I have not asked you. Answer only my questions.”
“Stanislav,” I broke in while he was saying this, “here was the right moment to grasp this nuisance by the collar, drag him across the desk, and land him the best you have in store.”
“I know, Pippip. I felt that way. But I was smart. I kept on smiling like a gal at her first dancing party. You see, first I wanted my passport. Then, one hour before my ship would sail, I would come back to this guy and sock him until he went shreddy. And then out and off with the can.”
The Polish consul continued: “You said that your parents are still living in Poznan.”
“Yes.”
“Since you are of age, we, of course, could not consider any adoption made by your parents on your behalf, even supposing they had done so. What concerns us is the correct answer to my question: Have you in person registered your serious intention to remain a Polish citizen before a Polish consul or any other person authorized by the Polish government to accept such declarations?”
“No. I did not know that I had to do this.”
“What you did know and what you did not know is of no importance to me. What I wish you to answer is: Did you register your declaration?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want in this office? You are a German and no Pole. Go to your own officials and do not molest us here any more. That’s all. Good afternoon.”
Stanislav narrated this experience not in an angry tone, rather sadly and almost pitifully. He would have liked to express his ideas as to bureaucracy in true sailor’s fashion. Yet it was too late for this now. The consul was not at hand.
I said: “Now look how quickly those new-born countries have acquired Prussian officialdom. Some of those countries did not even have a complete civilized language of their own yesterday, and today they are doing even better than the big powers. You may be sure that these new countries that, so far, are not even sure of their own names, will go a long way to make bureaucracy their one and only state religion. You ought to know what America has achieved in the hundred and fifty years of her existence. How fast she works to surpass even Imperial Russia with passports, visés, restrictions of free movements. Limitations and moldiness everywhere. All the world over, in consequence of the war for democracy, and for fear of communistic ideas, the bureaucrat has become the new czar who rules with more omnipotence than God the Almighty ever had, denying the birth of a living person if the birth-certificate cannot be produced, and making it impossible for a human being to move freely without a permit properly stamped and signed.”
“They are all talking high-hat at conferences about the progress of culture and civilization and the welfare of mankind,” Stanislav said. “It looks fine on the front page of the papers. But it is all talk, with nothing back of it save hypocrisy, egoism, and an insane nationalism.
There is hardly any chance to become alive again, once on the Yorikke. Not under conditions as they are today. The only hope you have to be free again in this world is that the can goes down to ground and doesn’t take you along, but spits you out like a leper. And suppose you find yourself after such an affair at some shore again; where do you get off? Only on another Yorikke.”
Stanislav went again to police headquarters, Citizenship Department.
“The Polish consul does not recognize me as a Pole,” he said.
“You might have known this before,” the inspector explained. “These stinking Polish pigs need a licking, that’s what they need. The old German God in heaven is our witness, they will get it soon enough, and after that they will never come for more.” The inspector banged the desk with his fist.
When he was calm again, he said: “Now, Koslovski, what can we do for you? You must have some papers. Otherwise you will never get a ship. Not in these days.”
“Certainly, Mr. Inspector, I must have papers.”
“Right, right, Koslovski. Tell you what I will do. I shall give you a police certificate. Tomorrow morning you go with this certificate to the passport department. It is room wait a minute — yes, it is room 334, here in the same building. You shall have your passport all right. With this passport you go to the sea board, seamen’s registration, and there you will get your sailor’s book. With a good sailor’s book you will get the best liner the Hapag can afford.”
“Thank you, Mr. Inspector.”
“That’s all right. We do what we can for an old man of the K.M.”
Stanislav felt so happy that he wanted to embrace the whole world.
The Germans proved that, after all, they were less bureaucratic than all the other nations.
He went to the passport department, presented the police certificate and the photographs, stamped by the inspector as evidence that he was the person whose face the photographs showed, signed his beautiful new passport with the German republican eagle printed on it, paid seventy-five thousand billion marks as fee, and left the department with the most elegant passport he had ever possessed in all his life. With such a passport in hand he could even emigrate to God’s own beloved country, and he would be received at Ellis Island with a brass band, and all the sirens singing. Yes, sir.
He could hardly believe he had in his possession such a fine passport. Everything in it was fine and perfect. Name, birthday, birthplace, occupation: Able-bodied seaman, honorably discharged from the Imperial Navy. Everything like a hymn. Now, let’s see, what is this? Wha-a-a-a-t? “Without country?” All right. It won’t matter. He will get a sailor’s book like a whiff. Well, well? What does this mean? “Good only for the interior.” Maybe the clerk thinks that ships sail on the sands of Brandenburg, or on the moors of Luneburg, or only on the river Elbe. Doesn’t matter. The passport is a peach.
Next day Stanislav went with his beautiful passport to the sea board to take out a sailor’s voyage book.
“You want a sailor’s book?”
“Yes, please.”
“We cannot give you a sailor’s book on this passport. You are without nationality. To have a citizenship, properly established, is the most important thing for a sailor’s identification book. Your passport is all right for Germany, but not for any foreign country. It gives you no right to a German sailor’s book.”
“How, then, can I get a ship? Won’t you, please, tell me this?”
“You have got a good passport. You will get any decent foreign ship with that passport. Only not a German ship. The passport says that you are living here in Hamburg, it tells who you are, where you come from, and all that. You are an old sailor with experience. Easy for you to get any ship. Any foreign ship. You make more money on a foreign ship than on a German, since our money is without any value.”
Stanislav found a ship. Two days later. A Dutch. An elegant merchant. Almost new. Was still reeking of fresh paint. Fine Dutch pay.
When the skipper saw the passport he smiled with lips lifted high and said: “Good paper. That’s what I like, men with fine papers. Let’s go straight to the consul, read the articles, sign on, and you get your advance. We sail with high water early in the morning.”
The Dutch consul registered his name in full: Stanislav Koslovski. A.B. Age, height, weight.
Then he asked: “Sailor’s book, please?”
Stanislav said: “Passport.”
“Just as good,” the consul said.
“Passport is brand-new. Ink still fresh. Only two days old. All shipshape. I know the officer personally who signed this passport,” the skipper said, and lighted a cigar.
The consul held the passport, satisfied to have in his hand such a wonderful piece of bureaucratic fine art. He turned the leaves and nodded approvingly. He was pleased.
Suddenly he stared. He stopped, and his satisfied smile froze on his lips. He turned the pages back and on again.
He took a breath and said shortly: “You cannot sign on.”
“What?” Stanislav cried.
And “What? “ cried the skipper. He was so surprised that he dropped the match-box.
“That man cannot sign on,” the consul repeated.
“Why not?” the skipper asked. “As I said, I know the officer who has signed the passport. The passport is correct.”
“No objection to the passport,” the consul said. “But I won’t sign on this man. He is without a country.”
“What do I care?” said the skipper. “I want this man. My first mate knows him to be a first-class man at the helm. I know the ships he has been on, and I know their masters. Therefore I know what he is worth. So that’s why I want to have him. I need men like him.”
The consul clasped his palms together and said: “Listen, captain, since you say you like that man so very much, are you willing to adopt him?”
“Nonsense,” the skipper said.
“Do you take all the responsibility for this man after he signs- off your ship again?”
“I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Consul.”
“I’ll explain it. This man, no matter how good a sailor he is, may not go ashore in any country he wishes; he cannot stay in any country he would like. He may go ashore, of course, as long as the ship is in port. But if he is found ashore after your ship has put out, the company of your ship is made responsible for him. Your company has to get him out of this country again. Where are you, or your company, going to take him?”
The skipper was quick with an answer: “He can always go back to Hamburg, where he comes from.”
“Can. Can. The truth is he cannot.” The consul began to talk like a judge sitting at his bench and pouring out stale moralities. “He has got a German passport good only for Germany. Germany has no obligation to let him in again once he has left it. Now, of course, he might obtain a special certificate, independent of this passport, which would permit him to enter Germany and to live there whenever he wants to. Such a certificate, though, can only be issued by the German secretary of state. I do not believe that this German authority will give him such a paper, because it would equal a paper of citizenship, and that is exactly what was denied him, or else he would have obtained a passport without any restriction. Fact is, and so far a well-established fact, that he was born in Poznan, and that neither Germany nor Poland, for some reason or other, has acknowledged his citizenship. He may go to the League of Nations. But the League of Nations has no country to give him. So, whatever paper the League of Nations may issue on his behalf, the fact that he has no country to call his own would still be unsettled. Only if you are willing to make out an affidavit here that you take the responsibility for him after he leaves your ship –”
“I cannot do such a thing. I am only an employee of my company,” the skipper said.
“Then, of course, no other road for me. I do not sign him on.” Saying this, the consul, with a heavy double stroke, crossed out the name of Stanislav, already written in the registers, so indicating that for him t
he case was at end.
“Listen.” The skipper leaned over on the desk. “Couldn’t you make an exception here? I would like to have him. I cannot find a better man at the helm than he is. I can go to sleep and leave the whole ship to him and nothing would go wrong. He got the right sailing instinct with the first bottle of milk he drank. I know this. We have talked together for a couple of hours.”
“Sorry, captain. Very sorry indeed that I cannot be at your service.” The consul rose from his chair. “My powers are extremely limited. I must obey my regulations. I am not the government. I am only her faithful servant.”
When he had finished he drew his mouth wide into his cheeks, as if he wanted to give a smile studied before a mirror. At the same time he lifted up his shoulders so that they almost reached his ears. His arms hung down flabbily, and they swung slightly at the elbows. He looked like a plucked bird with both wings broken. He made a sad picture, but it was a true picture of an excellent bureaucrat, who knows that by his word men may live or die.
“Damn it all, and to hell with it,” bellowed the skipper. With a powerful gesture he threw his cigar upon the floor, and crushed it with half a dozen steps, dancing like a savage Negro. He sent the consul a look as if this shrimp had been a deck-hand and been caught kicking a full pail of black paint over a washed deck. He stormed with two long steps to the door, jerked it open, went out, and banged the door so that the whole building seemed to shake.
Stanislav, having already left, waited outside in the corridor.
The skipper came up to him and said: “What can I do now with you, Lavski? Nothing. Devil knows how much I would like to have you with me. I cannot get you now, not even under the emergency. That guy knows your name, and if he finds out, then I will find myself not in good shipshape. These god-damned scribblers, how I hate them! More than squalls on the Zuider. Well, here, take five gulden. Have a good time tonight. Now I have to run around to find another A.B. Good ones are rarer than sunshine on the North Sea. Good luck.”
