Flotsam

  Kern looked up at the dark sky. “And when one has no passport. Names have to be written down, otherwise they don’t belong to you.”

  The wind caught in the tops of the trees and made a murmuring sound as though beyond the forest lay an ocean. “Do you think the fellows over there will shoot?” Moritz Rosenthal asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  The old man rocked his head. “There’s one advantage in being sixty-five: There’s not so much of your life left to risk—”

  Steiner had finally found out where old Seligmann’s children were hidden. The address that had been stuck in the Hebrew prayer-book had been right; but meanwhile the children had been taken somewhere else. It took Steiner a long time to find out where: everyone took him for a police spy and distrusted him.

  He got the bag from the rooming house and started off. The house was situated on the east side of Vienna. It took him more than an hour to get there. He climbed up the stairs. On each floor there were the doors to three flats. He struck matches and read the names. Finally on the fifth floor he found an oval brass plate with the inscription: SAMUEL BERNSTEIN, CLOCK-MAKER. He knocked.

  Beyond the door he heard a sound of scurrying and of moving furniture. Then a cautious voice asked: “Who’s there?”

  “I have something to deliver,” Steiner said: “a bag.”

  Suddenly he felt he was being watched and turned around quickly.

  The door to the apartment behind him had opened noiselessly. An emaciated man in shirt sleeves stood at the entrance. Steiner put down the bag.

  “Whom do you want?” the man in the doorway asked.

  Steiner looked at him. “Bernstein isn’t in,” the man added.

  “I have old Seligmann’s things here,” Steiner said. “This is where his children are supposed to be. I was present when he met his end.”

  The man examined him for a moment longer. Then he shouted: “It’s all right to let him in, Moritz.”

  There was the rattling of a chain, a key grated in the lock and the door of the Bernstein flat opened. Steiner strained his eyes in the dim light. “Why—” he said. “Why, it can’t be! But of course it is, it’s Father Moritz!”

  Moritz Rosenthal stood in the doorway. In one hand he held a wooden spoon. An ulster was draped around his shoulders. “It’s me,” he replied. “But who—Steiner?” he said suddenly, in pleased surprise. “I might have guessed! My eyes certainly are getting bad! I knew you were in Vienna. When was the last time we saw each other?”

  “That was about a year ago, Father Moritz.”

  “In Prague?”

  “In Zürich.”

  “Right, in the prison in Zürich. Nice people there. I’ve been getting a little confused recently. Six months ago I was in Switzerland again. Basle. Excellent food there; unfortunately no cigarettes like in the state prison in Locarno. There they even had a camellia bush in the cell. I was sorry to have to leave. Milan was nothing by comparison.” He broke off. “Come in, Steiner. We’re standing there, like old criminals, exchanging reminiscences in the corridor.”

  Steiner went in. The flat consisted of a kitchen and one room. There were a couple of chairs, a table and two mattresses with blankets. A number of tools were spread out on the table. Amid them stood some cheap clocks and a painted case with baroque angels who supported an antique clock the second hand of which was a little figure of Death with a scythe that swung back and forth. On a curved bracket above the hearth hung the kitchen lamp with a chipped, greenish-white burner. A large soup kettle was steaming on the iron ring of a gas-cooker.

  “I was just stewing something for the children,” Moritz Rosenthal said. “Found them here like mice in a trap. Bernstein is in the hospital.”

  The three children of the late Seligmann were crouching beside the hearth. They were not looking at Steiner. They were staring at the soup kettle. The eldest was a boy of about fourteen; the youngest was seven or eight.

  Steiner put down the bag. “Here’s your father’s bag,” he said.

  The three children looked at him simultaneously, almost without moving. They barely turned their heads.

  “I saw him,” Steiner said. “He spoke of you—”

  The children looked at him and made no reply. Their eyes glittered like polished, round, black stones. The flames of the gas burner hissed. Steiner was uncomfortable. He had a feeling that he ought to say something friendly and human, but everything that occurred to him seemed trite and false in the face of the destitution emanating from these three silent children.

  “What’s in the bag?” the eldest asked presently. He had a colorless voice and spoke slowly, stiffly and cautiously.

  “I don’t remember exactly. Various things of your father’s. And some money.”

  “Does it belong to us now?”

  “Of course. That’s why I brought it.”

  “Can I take it?”

  “Why, naturally!” Steiner said in surprise.

  The boy got up. He was thin, dark and tall. Slowly he approached the bag, his eyes fastened on Steiner. With a quick animal movement he seized it and then sprang back as though he were afraid Steiner would tear his prize away from him. He immediately dragged the bag into the next room. The two other children followed close behind him, pushing each other like two big, black cats.

  Steiner looked at Father Moritz. “Well, yes,” he said, relieved. “Of course they’ve known about it for some time—”

  Moritz Rosenthal stirred the soup. “It doesn’t mean very much to them now. They saw their mother and two brothers die. This doesn’t hurt them so much now. What happens often no longer hurts so much.”

  “Or it hurts even more,” Steiner said.

  Moritz Rosenthal peered at him from wrinkle-circled eyes. “Not when you’re very young. Not when you’re very old either. The period in between is the bad time.”

  “Yes,” Steiner said. “Those lousy fifty years in between, they’re the ones.”

  Moritz Rosenthal nodded placidly. “That’s all over for me.” He put the cover on the pot. “We’ve found places for them already,” he said. “Mayer is taking one with him to Rumania. The second is going to an orphanage in Locarno. I know someone there who will pay for him. For the time being the oldest is going to stay here with Bernstein—”

  “Do they know they’re going to be separated?”

  “Yes. But even that doesn’t bother them much. They’re rather pleased at the prospect.” Rosenthal turned around. “Steiner,” he said, “I knew him for twenty years. How did he die? Did he jump down?”

  “Yes.”

  “They didn’t throw him off?”

  “No. I was there.”

  “I heard about it in Prague. They said there that he had been pushed off. So I came here. To look after the children. Promised him once that I would. He was still young. Barely sixty. Never thought it would happen that way. He was always a little crazy, though, after Rachel died.” Moritz Rosenthal looked at Steiner. “He had a lot of children. That’s often the case with Jews. They love their families. But actually they oughtn’t to have any.” He drew his ulster around his shoulders as though he were chilly and suddenly he looked very old and tired.

  Steiner got out a package of cigarettes. “How long have you been here, Father Moritz?” he asked.

  “For three days. Got caught once at the border. Came across with a young man you know. He talked to me about you. Kern, his name was.”

  “Kern? Yes, I know him. Where is he?”

  “Somewhere here in Vienna. I don’t know exactly.”

  Steiner got up. “I’ll just see if I can find him. Auf Wiedersehen, Father Moritz, old wanderer. Heaven knows where we’ll see each other again.”

  He went into the bedroom to say good-by to the children. They were sitting on one of the mattresses with the contents of the bag spread out in front of them. The balls of yarn were carefully arranged in a little pile; beside them the shoelaces, the little bag of schillings and a few box
es of sewing silk. The shirts, shoes, suit and other belongings of old Seligmann were still in the bag. The eldest child looked up as Steiner came in with Moritz Rosenthal. Instinctively he spread his hands over the things on the mattress. Steiner paused.

  The boy looked up at Moritz Rosenthal. His cheeks were fiery and his eyes shone. “If we sell those,” he said excitedly, pointing to the things in the bag, “we’ll have about thirty schillings more. Then we can take all the money and lay in a stock of materials too—corduroy, buckskin and even stockings—you can earn more with that. I’ll begin tomorrow. I’ll begin at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He looked at the old man very earnestly and eagerly.

  “Fine!” Moritz Rosenthal patted the youngster’s narrow head. “Tomorrow at seven you begin.”

  “Then Walter won’t have to go to Rumania,” the boy said, “he can help me. We’ll get along all right. Then only Max will have to go away.”

  The three children looked at Moritz Rosenthal. Max, the youngest, nodded. It seemed fair to him.

  “We’ll see. We’ll talk it over later.”

  Moritz Rosenthal accompanied Steiner to the door. “No time for grief,” he said. “Too much want, Steiner.”

  Steiner nodded. “I hope the boy doesn’t get caught right away—”

  Moritz Rosenthal shook his head. “He’ll be on the lookout. He knows a good deal. We learn young.”

  Steiner went to the Café Sperler. He had not been there in some time. Since he had had his false passport he had been avoiding those places where he had been known before.

  Kern was sitting on a chair by the wall. He had put his feet on his bag, leaned his head back and gone to sleep. Steiner cautiously took a seat beside him. He didn’t want to wake him up. Somewhat older, he thought. Older and more mature…

  He looked around the place. Beside the door squatted Circuit Judge Epstein with a couple of books and a glass of water on the table in front of him. He sat there alone and discontented; there was no anxious client in front of him with fifty groschen in his hand. Steiner looked around; apparently his rival, Lawyer Silber, had stolen his clientèle. But Silber was not there.

  The waiter came up without being called. His face was radiant. “You here again?” he said familiarly.

  “So you remember me?”

  “You bet! I was worried about you. The police are getting sharper. Cognac again, sir?”

  “Yes. What’s become of Lawyer Silber?”

  “He’s among the missing, sir. Arrested and deported.”

  “Aha! Has Herr Tschernikoff been here lately?”

  “Not this week.”

  The waiter brought the cognac and put the tray on the table. At that moment Kern opened his eyes. He squinted; then jumped to his feet. “Steiner!”

  “Here you are,” the latter said casually. “Just drink this cognac; there’s nothing so refreshing as brandy after you’ve been asleep sitting up.”

  Kern drank the cognac. “I’ve been here twice before looking for you,” he said.

  Steiner smiled. “With your feet on your bag. So you’ve no place to stay, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You can stay with me.”

  “Really? That would be fine. Up to now I’ve had a room with a Jewish family but I had to leave today. They’re afraid to keep anyone for more than two days.”

  “You won’t need to worry at my place. I’m living way out of town. We can start right away. You look as if you needed sleep.”

  “Yes,” Kern said. “I’m tired. I don’t know why.”

  Steiner motioned to the waiter. He came galloping up like an old and experienced war-horse at the signal for battle. “Thanks,” he said expectantly, even before Steiner had paid. “A thousand thanks, sir!”

  He looked at the tip. “Kiss your hand,” he stammered overcome. “My humblest thanks, Count!”

  “We’ve got to go to the Prater,” Steiner said when they were outside.

  “I’m ready to go anywhere,” Kern replied. “I feel fine now.”

  “We’ll take the trolley. Better on account of your bag. Still toilet water and soap?”

  Kern nodded.

  “I’ve changed my name since I saw you, but you can go on calling me Steiner. I keep it as my stage name anyway. Then I can always say it’s a pseudonym. Or the other way about. Depending.”

  “What are you now anyway?”

  Steiner laughed. “For a while I was a substitute waiter. When the regular man got out of the hospital I had to leave. Now I’m an assistant in the Potzloch Entertainment Enterprises. Shooting gallery manager and mind reader. What are your plans?”

  “I haven’t any.”

  “Perhaps I can get you a job with us. People are always needed from time to time to help out. I’ll tackle old Potzloch about it tomorrow. The advantage is that the police don’t bother people in the Prater. You don’t even have to report.”

  “My God,” Kern said, “that’s wonderful. I’ve been wanting to stay for a while in Vienna.”

  “Really?” Steiner glanced at him sidewise. “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  They got out and walked through the darkened Prater. Steiner stopped in front of a gipsy wagon a little apart from the city of tents. He unlocked the door and lighted a lamp. “Here we are, Baby. The next thing is to conjure up a bed for you.”

  Out of a corner he pulled a couple of blankets and an old mattress and spread them on the floor beside his own bed. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, eh?”

  “I hardly know.”

  “There’s bread, butter and salami in the little box. Fix a sandwich for me too.”

  There was a gentle knocking on the door. Kern put down his knife and listened, his eyes darting to the window. Steiner laughed. “The old dread, eh kid? It’s a cinch we’ll never get over it. Come in, Lilo,” he called.

  A slender woman entered and paused in the doorway. “I have company,” Steiner said. “Ludwig Kern, young but already an experienced exile. He’s going to stay here. Can you make us some coffee, Lilo?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman got out an alcohol stove, lighted it, put on a small pot of water and began to grind coffee. She did all this almost noiselessly, with slow, graceful movements.

  “I thought you were asleep long ago, Lilo,” Steiner said.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  The woman had a deep, husky voice. Her face was narrow and regular and her dark hair was parted in the middle. She looked like an Italian, but she spoke German with a harsh Slavic accent.

  Kern was sitting in a broken wicker chair. He was weary, not in mind alone—a sleepy relaxation, such as he had not known in a long time, had come over him. He felt protected.

  “A pillow,” Steiner said. “The one thing we need is a pillow.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Kern replied. “I can fold up my coat or get some underwear out of my bag.”

  “I have a pillow,” the woman said.

  She let the coffee come to a boil, then got up and went out in her shadowy, noiseless way.

  “Come and eat,” Steiner said, pouring coffee into two handleless blue cups.

  They ate the bread and sausage. The woman came back, bringing a pillow. She laid it on Kern’s bed and sat down at the table.

  “Don’t you want coffee, Lilo?” Steiner asked.

  She shook her head. Silently she watched the two men eat and drink. Then Steiner got up. “Time to sleep. You’re tired, kid, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m getting sleepy again.”

  Steiner ran his hand over the woman’s hair. “You go to sleep too, Lilo—”

  “Yes.” She got up obediently. “Good night.”

  Kern and Steiner went to bed. Steiner blew out the lamp.

  “Do you know,” he said presently out of the warm darkness, “a man ought to live as though he were never going back.”

  “Yes,” Kern replied. “As far as I’m concerned that’s not hard to do.”

  Stein
er lit a cigarette. He smoked slowly. The reddish point of light gleamed brighter each time he inhaled the smoke. “Would you like one too?” he asked. “They taste entirely different in the dark.”

  “Yes.” Kern felt Steiner’s hand as he gave him the package and the matches.

  “How was it in Prague?” Steiner asked.

  “All right.” Kern was silent for a while, smoking. Presently he said, “I met someone there.”

  “Was that what brought you back to Vienna?”

  “Not just that. But she is in Vienna too.”

  Steiner smiled in the darkness. “Remember, Baby, you’re a wanderer. Wanderers should have no adventures that will tear out pieces of their hearts when they have to move on.”

  Kern was silent.

  “I’m saying nothing against adventures,” Steiner added. “And nothing against the heart. Least of all against those who provide us with a bit of warmth on the way. Only against us perhaps. Because we take—and aren’t able to give much in return.”

  “I don’t think I can give anything at all in return.” Kern suddenly felt very discouraged. What abilities had he? And what could he give Ruth? Only his feeling for her and that seemed to him like nothing at all. He was young and ignorant and nothing more.

  “Nothing at all is better than a little, Baby,” Steiner said reassuringly. “It’s almost all there is.”

  “It depends on whom—”

  Steiner smiled. “Don’t be worried, Baby. Whatever your heart says, is right. Throw yourself into it. But don’t get caught halfway.” He crushed out his cigarette. “Sleep well. Tomorrow we’ll go to see Potzloch—”

  “Thanks. I’m certain to sleep well here.”

  Kern put out his cigarette and burrowed his head into the strange woman’s pillow. He was still discouraged; but also almost happy.

  Chapter Nine

  DIRECTOR POTZLOCH WAS a lively little man with a ragged mustache, a tremendous nose, and eyeglasses that were always slipping off. He was constantly in a great rush, particularly when there was nothing to do.

  “Quick! What’s up?” he asked when Steiner came to him with Kern.