Flotsam
Page 37
“Look,” Moritz replied, “I’ll tell you the truth at once. I haven’t a passport.”
“You haven’t a passport?”
Six months, Moritz thought, listening to the resonant voice. And he shook his head submissively.
The keeper of the gate lifted his staff. “Then you do not need to spend twenty million years standing in the back of the celestial theater. You will be given immediately an upholstered wing-chair.”
“That’s all well and good,” Father Moritz replied, “but it won’t do. I have no entrance visa and no residential permit. For the moment we’ll say nothing about a permit to work.”
“No residential permit? No visa? No permit to work?” The guardian lifted his head. “Then you will be given a box in the middle of the first row in full view of the Heavenly Hosts.”
“That wouldn’t be bad,” Moritz said, “especially as I’m very fond of the theater. But now we come to something that spoils it all. As a matter of fact I’m surprised you haven’t a sign posted out here saying we can’t come in. You see, I’m a Jew. Deprived of German citizenship. Illegal for years.”
The keeper of the gate raised both arms. “A Jew? Deprived of citizenship? Illegal for years? Then two angels will be assigned to your personal service and a trumpeter as well.” He shouted through the gate: “The Angel of the Homeless!” And a towering figure clad in blue raiment with a face like all mothers of the world strode forth beside Father Moritz. “The Angel of Those Who Have Suffered Much!” called the guardian again, and a white-clad figure with an urn of tears on its shoulder moved to the other side of Father Moritz.
“Just a minute,” the latter begged, and then asked the guardian: “Are you sure about what’s in that thing?”
“Don’t be alarmed. Our concentration camps are down below.”
The two angels took hold of his arms, and Father Moritz, the old wanderer, the dean of exiles, walked confidently through the gate toward an immense light over which suddenly bright-colored shadows began to whirl faster and faster.…
“Moritz,” Edith Rosenfeld called from the doorway. “Here’s the baby. The little Frenchman. Do you want to look at him?”
There was no reply. She approached cautiously. Moritz Rosenthal of Godesberg-on-the-Rhine no longer breathed.
* * *
Marie regained consciousness. She had lain the whole morning in a twilight agony. Now she clearly recognized Steiner.
“You’re still here?” she whispered in alarm.
“I can stay here as long as I like, Marie.”
“What does that mean?”
“The Amnesty has been proclaimed. I am included. So you needn’t be afraid any more. Now I shall stay here always.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “You only tell me that to comfort me, Josef—”
“No, Marie. The Amnesty was announced yesterday.” He turned to the nurse who was busying herself in the back of the room. “Isn’t it true, nurse, that since yesterday there’s no further danger of my being arrested?”
“That’s true,” the nurse answered indistinctly.
“Please come closer. My wife would like to hear you say it.”
The nurse was still bending over. “I’ve already said it.”
“Please, nurse,” Marie whispered.
She remained silent. “Please, nurse,” the sick woman whispered once more.
The nurse reluctantly approached the bed. Marie watched her anxiously. “Isn’t it true,” Steiner asked, “that since yesterday I can stay here permanently?”
“Yes,” the nurse gulped.
“There is no further danger of my being arrested?”
“No.”
“Thank you, nurse.”
Steiner saw the dying woman’s eyes become veiled. She no longer possessed the strength to weep. “Now everything is all right, Josef,” she whispered. “And now, just when I could be useful to you, I must go—”
“You are not going, Marie—”
“I should like to be able to get up and go away with you.”
“We will go away together.”
She lay for a time watching him. Her face was gray and the bones seemed to be working through the skin. Overnight her hair had become dull and lifeless like a burned-out fire. Steiner looked at all this and did not see it; all he saw was that she still breathed, and as long as she was alive she was Marie, his wife, clothed in the glory of youth and their life together.
Evening crept into the room, and from beyond the door Steinbrenner could be heard from time to time, urgently and impatiently clearing his throat. Marie’s breathing became shallow, then it came in gasps and pauses. Finally it was almost inaudible, and ceased, like a gentle breeze falling asleep. Steiner held her hands until they grew cold. He died with her. When he got up to go out he was an insentient stranger, an empty shell that had the motions of a man. He looked at the nurse with indifferent eyes.
Outside he was taken in charge by Steinbrenner and another man. “For more than three hours we’ve been waiting for you,” Steinbrenner growled. “We’ll have plenty of chances to talk about that later on, you may be sure.”
“I am sure of it, Steinbrenner. I always count on you in such matters.”
Steinbrenner moistened his lips. “You know perfectly well the way to address me is Herr Major, don’t you? Go right on calling me Steinbrenner and being chummy, but for each time you do it you’ll spend weeks weeping bloody tears, sweetheart. From now on I shall have plenty of time with you.”
They went down the broad stairway, Steiner between his two guards. It was a warm evening and the long windows in the oval bay of the wall were open wide. There was a smell of gasoline and a hint of spring.
“I shall have such an eternity of time with you,” Steinbrenner declared slowly and gloatingly. “Your whole life, sweetheart. And our names go so well together, Steiner and Steinbrenner. Sometime we’ll have to see what we can make of that.”
Steiner nodded thoughtfully. The open bay window grew larger, came nearer; very near—He thrust Steinbrenner toward it, leaped against him, over him, and pitched with him out into space.
* * *
“You don’t need to have any scruples about taking the money,” Marill said. He was sad and distracted. “He left it with me expressly for you two. I was to give it to you if he didn’t come back.”
Kern shook his head. He had just arrived and was grimy and tattered from the trip. He had come from Dijon as a helper on a moving van. Now he was sitting with Marill in “the catacombs.”
“He will come back,” he said. “Steiner will come back.”
“He won’t,” Marill replied emphatically. “Good God, don’t go on making things worse with your everlasting ‘He will come back.’ He won’t come back. Here, read this.”
He drew a rumpled telegram from his pocket and threw it on the table. Kern took it and smoothed it out. It was from Berlin and was addressed to the owner of the Verdun. “CORDIAL BIRTHDAY GREETINGS—OTTO,” he read.
He looked at Marill. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“It means he’s been nabbed. That’s what we’d agreed on. One of his friends was to send the telegram. It was easy to foresee. I told him what was going to happen. And now shut up and take these filthy bills.”
He pushed the notes toward Kern. “There’s two thousand, two hundred and forty francs,” he explained. “And here’s something more.” He took out his wallet and extracted two tickets. “Here’s passage for two, from Bordeaux to Mexico. On the Tacoma. A Portuguese freighter. For you and Ruth. Sails on the eighteenth. We bought them with Steiner’s money. This is what’s left over. The visas have been attended to. The Refugees’ Aid Committee has them.”
Kern stared at the tickets. “But—” he said uncomprehendingly.
“No buts,” Marill interrupted him angrily. “Don’t be difficult, Kern. All this has cost some pains. The damnedest piece of luck! There was an announcement three days ago. The Refugees’ Aid Committee had got permissio
n from the Mexican Government to send over one hundred and fifty refugees. Provided they could pay for the trip. We booked passage for you and Ruth instantly. Before everything was taken. Money for the trip was available just at that moment. Well now—”
He was silent. “Yvonne, bring me a kirsch,” he said presently to the fat waitress from Alsace. Yvonne nodded and paddled out to the kitchen with swaying hips.
“Bring two,” Marill shouted after her.
Yvonne turned around. “I’d have done it anyway, Monsieur Marill,” she announced.
“Fine. There’s at least one understanding soul.”
Marill turned back to Kern. “Made up your mind now?” he asked. “A bit surprising, all this, I admit. If you show your ticket and visa at the Prefecture you’ll get a residential permit for France good up to the date when the ship sails. Even if you entered illegally. That’s something the Refugees’ Aid Committee arranged. Go there first thing tomorrow morning. It’s the one chance for you to get out of this mess. You know what the penalty is now, if you’re arrested again?”
“Yes. One month for a first offense—six months in jail the second time.”
“That’s right, six months. And sometime or other you’ll be nabbed again as sure as fate!” Marill looked up. Yvonne was standing in front of him, about to place a tray with two glasses on the table. One was an ordinary glass; the second was a tumbler filled to the brim with brandy.
“That’s for you,” Yvonne announced, grinning and pointing with her thumb at the tumbler. “For the same price.”
“Thanks. You’re a bright child. It would be a damned shame for you to marry and turn into a Xantippe, as you undoubtedly would. Or into a noble martyr. Prost!”
Marill emptied half the glass at one gulp. “Prost, Kern!” he repeated. “Why aren’t you drinking?” He put his glass on the table and looked Kern full in the face for the first time. “All we need now,” he said, “is for you to begin howling! Man, is that your idea of the way to behave?”
“I’ll not howl,” Kern retorted. “And if I do howl, who cares? But, damn it, all the time I thought Steiner would be here when I got back, and now you hand me money and tickets and I’m saved because he’s lost—that’s a God-damned miserable thing, don’t you understand?”
“No! I don’t understand. You’re talking sentimental rubbish. No sense in it anywhere. That’s the way things always happen. And now empty your glass. The way—Well, the way he’d have emptied it. What the hell! Don’t you think I feel it in the marrow of my bones too?”
“Yes—”
Kern emptied his glass. “I’m all right now,” he said. “Have you a cigarette, Marill?”
“Of course. Here you are.”
Kern drew the smoke deep into his lungs. In the dim light of “the catacombs” he suddenly saw Steiner’s face—bending forward with a slightly ironic expression in the flickering candlelight, as it had looked an eternity ago in the Vienna jail. And it seemed to him that he heard the deep, unhurried voice: “Well, Baby?” Yes, he thought—Yes, Steiner!
“Does Ruth know?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Probably at the Refugees’ Aid. She didn’t know you were coming.”
“No. I didn’t know myself just when I’d get here.… Can one work in Mexico?”
“Yes. I don’t know at what. But you’ll get a permit to stay and a permit to work. That’s guaranteed.”
“I don’t know a word of Spanish,” Kern said. “Or do they speak Portuguese there?”
“Spanish. You’ll just have to learn it.”
Kern nodded.
Marill leaned toward him. “Kern,” he said in a suddenly altered tone. “I know it’s not easy. But my advice to you is: Go. Don’t stop to think. Go! Get away from Europe! The devil knows what’s going to happen here. A chance like this isn’t likely to come a second time. And you’ll never get as much money together again. Take ship, children. Here—”
He finished his drink.
“Will you come with us?” Kern asked.
“No.”
“Isn’t there enough money for three? After all, we still have some left over.”
“That’s not the point. I’m going to stay here. I can’t explain to you why. I’m going to stay. No matter what happens. You can’t explain it. You just know, that’s all.”
“I understand,” Kern said.
“There comes Ruth,” Marill exclaimed. “And just as certainly as I am going to stay here, you are going to go. Do you understand that too?”
“Yes, Marill.”
“Thank God!” Ruth paused for a moment in the doorway. Then she rushed into Kern’s arms. “When did you get here?”
“Half an hour ago.”
Ruth lifted her head from the embrace that had been endless and yet shorter than a heartbeat. “Do you know …?”
“Yes. Marill has told me everything.”
Kern looked around. Marill was no longer there.
“And do you know …?” Ruth asked hesitantly.
“Yes, I know. We won’t talk about it now. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll go out on the street. Somewhere outside. I want to get away from here. Let’s go out on the street.”
“Yes.”
They walked along the Champs Elysées. It was evening and a pale half-moon hung in the apple-green sky. The air was silvery and clear and so mild that the sidewalk cafés were filled with people. They walked in silence for a long time. “Do you know exactly where Mexico is?” Kern asked finally.
Ruth shook her head. “Not precisely. But then I no longer know where Germany is.”
Kern looked at her. Then he took her arm. “We’ll have to buy a grammar and learn Spanish, Ruth.”
“I bought one, day before yesterday. Secondhand.”
“Secondhand, eh?” Kern smiled. “We’ll make out, won’t we, Ruth?”
She nodded.
“Anyhow we’ll see a little of the world. That’s something we wouldn’t have had otherwise, back home.”
She nodded again.
They walked on past the Rond Point. The first tender green leaves were showing on the trees. They gleamed in the early lamplight like the flickering of St. Elmo’s fire rising from the earth and running along the branches and twigs of the chestnut trees. The soil of the gardens had been spaded and its strong scent mixed strangely with the smell of gasoline and oil that always hung over the broad avenue. In a few places the gardeners had planted flowering narcissi that shimmered in the darkness. It was the hour when the shops were closing, and the crowds were so thick it was hard to move.
Kern looked at Ruth. “How many people there are!” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “Frightfully many people.”
BY ERICH MARIA REMARQUE
All Quiet on the Western Front
The Road Back
Three Comrades
Flotsam
Arch of Triumph
Spark of Life
A Time to Love and a Time to Die
The Black Obelisk
Heaven Has No Favorites
The Night in Lisbon
Shadows in Paradise
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ERICH MARIA REMARQUE was born in Germany in 1898, and was drafted into the German army during World War I. Throughout the hazardous years following the war he worked at many occupations—schoolteacher, small-town drama critic, racing driver, and editor of a sports magazine. His first novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, vividly describing the experiences of German soldiers during World War I, was published in Germany in 1928. It was a brilliant success, selling over a million copies, and it was the first of many literary triumphs by Erich Remarque.
When the Nazis came to power, Remarque left Germany for Switzerland. He rejected all attempts to persuade him to return, and as a result he lost his German citizenship, his books were burned, and his films were banned. He went to the United States in 1938 and became a citiz
en in 1947. He later lived in Switzerland with his second wife, the actress Paulette Goddard. He died in Switzerland in September 1970.