Flotsam

  “Perhaps there’d be one if you had two francs in your hand.”

  “I don’t believe so. The proprietor told me he would always give free lodging to anyone who had spent two years in a concentration camp. He actually didn’t have an empty room.”

  “What?” Kern said. “You were in a concentration camp for two years?”

  “Yes.” Binding gripped his hat between his knees and produced a tattered document from his breast pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Kern. “Here, take a look. This is my discharge from Oranienburg.”

  Kern took the sheet gingerly in order not to tear the fragile creases. He had never seen a discharge paper from a concentration camp. He read the contents, the printed matter and the typewritten name, Richard Binding—then he looked at the seal with the swastika and the neat, clear signature of the official; everything was in order. It was, in fact, orderly in a pedantic and bureaucratic fashion, and this made the whole thing almost uncanny—as though someone had come back from the Inferno with a residential permit and a visa.

  He returned the document to Binding. “Listen,” he said, “I know what we’ll do. You take my bed and my room. I know someone here in the boardinghouse who has a larger room. I can sleep there perfectly well. So we’ll both be taken care of.”

  Binding stared at him wide-eyed. “But that’s altogether out of the question!”

  “Not a bit of it. It’s perfectly simple.” Kern picked up his overcoat and pulled it on over his pajamas. Then he laid his suit over his arm and picked up his shoes. “You see, I’ll take these along. Then I won’t need to disturb you early in the morning. I can dress in the other room. I’m awfully glad to be able to do something for someone who has been through so much.”

  “But—” Binding suddenly seized Kern’s hands. He looked as if he were about to kiss them. “My God, you’re an angel!” he stammered. “A savior.”

  “Oh nonsense,” Kern replied in embarrassment. “We help one another out, that’s all. Otherwise what would become of us? Sleep well.”

  “I’ll do that, heaven knows.”

  Kern wondered for a moment whether he should take his bag with him. He had hidden forty francs in a little side pocket in it. But the money was well hidden. The bag was snapped shut and he hesitated to show such open distrust of a man who had been in a concentration camp. Refugees don’t steal from one another. “Good night. Sleep well,” he said again and left.

  Ruth’s room was on the same corridor. Kern gave two short taps on the door. This was the signal they had agreed on. She opened the door at once. “Has something happened?” she asked in alarm when she saw the things in his hands. “Do we have to clear out?”

  “No. I’ve just loaned my room to a poor devil who was in a concentration camp and who hadn’t slept for a couple of nights. May I sleep here in your room on the chaise longue?”

  Ruth smiled. “The chaise longue is old and rickety. But don’t you think the bed is big enough for both of us?”

  Kern stepped quickly into the room and kissed her. “Sometimes I really do ask the silliest questions,” he said, “but it’s just from embarrassment, you know. This is all so new to me.”

  Ruth’s room was somewhat bigger than the other. Aside from the chaise longue the furniture was similar—but Kern noticed that it looked entirely different. Strange, he thought, it must be the few things of hers that are here—the little shoes, the blouse, the brown dress—what tender charm they have! When my things are in a room they only make it look untidy.

  “Ruth,” he said, “if we wanted to get married, do you know we couldn’t possibly do it? Because we haven’t any papers.”

  “I know. But that’s the last thing for us to worry about. Why do we even have to have two rooms?”

  Kern laughed. “Because of the high standard of Swiss morality. It will wink at infringements of police regulations, but to live together without being married is out of the question.”

  He waited until ten o’clock next morning, then he went over to get his bag. He wanted to look up a few addresses without waking Binding. But the room was empty when he got there. Binding, presumably, was already on his way. Kern opened his bag. It was not snapped shut and this surprised him. He was certain he had closed it the night before. It seemed to him that the bottles were not lying in the same order as usual. The little envelope in the hidden side pocket was there. He opened it and saw immediately that the Swiss money was gone. Only two lonesome Austrian five-schilling notes fluttered out.

  He made a thorough search everywhere. Even through his suit, although he was sure the money wasn’t there. He never carried money with him because he might be arrested while away from home. In that event, Ruth would at least have the bag and the money. But the forty francs had disappeared. He sat down on the floor beside the bag. “That swindler,” he said helplessly, “that damned swindler! How could anything like this happen?”

  He remained sitting for a while, debating whether he should tell Ruth; but he decided not to do it until it was absolutely necessary. He didn’t want to distress her until the last possible moment.

  Finally he took out Binder’s list and wrote down a number of Berne addresses. Then he filled his pockets with soap, shoelaces, safety pins and bottles of toilet water and went downstairs.

  There he met the proprietor. “Do you know a man named Richard Binding?” he asked.

  The proprietor pondered for a while, then he shook his head.

  “I mean a man who was here yesterday evening. He asked for a room.”

  “No one asked for a room yesterday evening. I wasn’t even here. I was bowling until twelve.”

  “Is that so? Did you have any free rooms?”

  “Yes, three of them. They’re still free for that matter. Were you expecting someone? You can have Number Seven on your corridor.”

  “No. I don’t believe the man I was expecting will come back. He’s probably already on his way to Zürich.”

  By noon Kern had earned three francs. He went into a cheap restaurant to get some bread and butter. Afterward he planned to go on peddling at once.

  He stood at the counter and ate hungrily. Suddenly he almost dropped the bread. He had recognized Binding at one of the farthest tables.

  He stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth, swallowed it down and walked slowly to the table. Binding was sitting there alone, his elbows propped on the table. In front of him was a large dish of pork chops with red cabbage and potatoes which he was engrossed in eating.

  He did not look up until Kern was right in front of him. “Look who’s here!” he said casually. “How’s tricks?”

  “There are forty francs missing from my wallet,” Kern said.

  “That’s a shame,” Binding replied, swallowing a great mouthful of chop, “that certainly is a shame.”

  “Give me what you have left and we’ll call the matter closed.”

  Binding took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth. “The matter is closed as it is,” he declared good-naturedly. “Or perhaps you thought there was something you could do about it?”

  Kern stared at him. In his rage he had not yet realized that there was actually nothing he could do. If he went to the police, they would ask for his papers and then he himself would be locked up and subsequently deported.

  He measured Binding through narrowed eyes. “Not a chance,” the latter said. “I’m a very good boxer. Forty pounds heavier than you. Besides a row in a public place means the police and deportation.”

  At the moment Kern wouldn’t have cared much what happened to him, but he had to think of Ruth. Binding was right: there was not the ghost of a chance for him to do anything. “Do you do this sort of thing often?” he asked.

  “It’s the way I live. And as you see I live well.”

  Kern almost choked with impotent bitterness. “At least give me back twenty francs,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I need the money. Not for myself. For someone else to whom it belongs.”

  Binding shook hi
s head. “I need the money myself. You got off cheap. For a measly forty francs you learned the greatest lesson of all—not to be trusting.”

  “Right.” Kern stared at him. He wanted to leave but he simply couldn’t. “All your papers—of course they are fakes too?”

  “Just imagine,” Binding replied, “they aren’t at all. I was in a concentration camp.” He laughed. “For theft, to be sure, from a district Party leader. A most unusual case!”

  He reached for the last chop on the plate. The next moment Kern had it in his hand. “Go ahead, make a fuss,” he said.

  Binding grinned. “I wouldn’t think of it. I’ve had about all I want anyway. Have them bring you a plate and take some of the cabbage. I’m even ready to treat you to a glass of beer.”

  Kern made no reply. He was ready to kick himself for the thing that had happened. Quickly he turned around and walked away with the snatched chop still in his hand. At the counter he asked for a piece of paper to wrap it in. The girl behind the counter looked at him curiously. Then she fished two pickles out of a jar. “Here,” she said, “take these too.”

  Kern accepted the pickles. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you very much.” Supper for Ruth, he thought. Hell and damnation, at a cost of forty francs!

  At the door he turned around once more. Binding was watching him. Kern spat. Binding smilingly saluted him two fingers of his right hand.

  * * *

  Beyond Berne it began to rain. Ruth and Kern had not enough money left to take a train to the next large town. They had, to be sure, a small final reserve, but they did not want to touch this until they reached France. A car that was going their way gave them a lift for about fifty kilometers. After that they had to walk. Kern seldom took the risk of selling anything in the small towns. It made them too conspicuous. They would never spend more than one night in the same place. They would arrive late in the evening when the police stations were closed and would leave in the morning before they had opened again. Thus they were always away from the place at the time when the report form should be handed in to the authorities. Binder’s list failed them for this part of Switzerland; it mentioned only the larger towns.

  Near Murten they slept in an empty barn. That night there was a cloudburst. The roof was in bad repair, and when they woke up they were drenched to the skin. They tried to dry their things, but they could not make a fire. Everything was wet and they had great difficulty in finding a spot where the rain had not come through. They went to sleep pressed close together to keep each other warm, but their coats which they used for covers were too wet—the cold woke them up again. So they waited for the first light of morning and then started on their way.

  “Walking will warm us up,” Kern said. “And in an hour we’ll probably be able to get some coffee somewhere or other.”

  Ruth nodded. “Perhaps the sun will come out. Then we’ll dry out fast.”

  But it remained cold and cloudy all day. Rain squalls drove across the fields. It was the first really cold day of the month; the clouds hung ragged and low, and during the afternoon there was a second heavy storm. Ruth and Kern took refuge in a small chapel. It was very dark, and after a while there was thunder, and flashes of lightning gleamed through the stained glass windows on which saints in blue and gold were holding scrolls in their hands describing the peace of heaven and of the soul.

  Kern felt Ruth shivering. “Are you very cold?” he asked.

  “No, not very.”

  “Come, it’s better for us to walk around a little. I’m afraid you’ll catch cold.”

  “I won’t catch cold. Just let me sit this way for a little while.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “No. I just want to sit here for a moment more.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for you to walk around? Just for a few minutes. It’s not good for you to sit still in wet clothes for so long. This stone floor is too cold.”

  “All right.”

  They walked slowly around the chapel, their footsteps echoing in the empty space. They walked past the confessional boxes whose green curtains bellied out in the draught, around the altar into the sacristy and back.

  “It’s still nine kilometers to Murten,” Kern said. “We’ll have to try to find a place to stay nearer than that.”

  “We can manage nine kilometers all right.”

  Kern muttered something to himself.

  “What are you saying?” Ruth asked.

  “Nothing. I was just cursing a certain Binding.”

  She pushed her hand through his arm. “Forget about it. That’s the simplest thing to do. What’s more, I think it’s going to stop raining.”

  They went outside. Drops were still falling, but above the mountains hung a gigantic rainbow. It spanned the entire valley like a many-colored bridge. Beyond the forest, between torn clouds, a burst of yellow-white light flooded the landscape. They could not see the sun; they only saw the light which streamed forth like a luminous mist.

  “Come,” Ruth said, “it’s going to be better now.”

  That evening they came to a sheepfold. The shepherd, a taciturn middle-aged farmer, was sitting in front of the door. Two sheep dogs were lying beside him. They dashed out barking as the two approached. The farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and whistled them back.

  Kern went up to him. “Could we sleep here for the night? We’re wet and tired and can’t go any farther.”

  The man looked at him for some time. “There’s a hayloft up there,” he said finally.

  “That’s all we need.”

  The man looked at him again for a time. “Give me your matches and your cigarettes,” he said finally. “There’s a lot of hay there.”

  Kern handed them over. “You’ll have to climb up the ladder inside,” the shepherd explained. “I’ll lock the fold behind you. I live in the town. Tomorrow morning early I’ll let you out.”

  “Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  They climbed up the ladder. It was dusky and warm up there. After a while the shepherd appeared, bringing them grapes and some cheese and black bread. “Now I’m going to lock up,” he said. “Good night.”

  “Good night and many thanks.”

  They listened as he climbed down the ladder. Then they took off their wet things and lay down on the hay. They got their night clothes out of their bags and then began to eat. They were very hungry.

  “How does it taste?” Kern asked.

  “Wonderful.” Ruth leaned against him.

  “We’re lucky, aren’t we?”

  She nodded.

  Below them the shepherd was locking up. The hayloft had a round window. They crouched beside it and watched the shepherd walk away. The sky had cleared and was reflected in the lake. The shepherd walked slowly across the mowed fields with the thoughtful strides of a man who spends his days close to nature. There was no one else in sight. He walked in solitude across the fields and it seemed as though he were carrying the whole sky on his dark shoulders.

  They sat at the windows until that colorless hour before nightfall when the light makes all things gray. Behind them in the play of shadows the hay grew to a fantastic mountain range. Its smell mixed with the smell of peat and whisky that rose from the sheep. They could see them through the holes in the floor, a confused mass of woolly backs, and they could hear the thousand little sounds that gradually grew quieter and quieter.

  Next morning the shepherd came and opened the sheepfold. Kern went down. Ruth was still asleep. Her face was flushed and her breathing was rapid. Kern helped the shepherd unbar the fold and drive out the sheep.

  “Would you let us stay here one more day?” he asked. “We’d be glad to help you in return if that’s all right with you.”

  “There’s not much you can do to help. But you’re welcome to stay here if you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kern inquired about the addresses of Germans living in the town. The place was not included in Binder’s list. The shepherd mentioned a few peop
le and told him where they lived.

  Kern started off in the afternoon when it was beginning to get dark. He found the first house without difficulty. It was a small white villa surrounded by a little garden. A tidy housemaid opened the door. She admitted him at once to a small reception room instead of making him stand outside. A good sign, Kern thought. “May I speak to Herr Ammers or to Frau Ammers?” he asked.

  “Just a minute.”

  The maid disappeared and presently returned. She led him into a living room, furnished in modern mahogany. The floor was so highly polished he almost lost his footing. There were antimacassars on all the furniture. After a minute Herr Ammers appeared. He was a little man with a pointed white beard and a friendly manner. Kern decided to tell his true story.

  Ammers listened sympathetically. “So you’re an exile and have no passport or residential permit?” he said. “And you have soap and household things to sell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Herr Ammers got up. “My wife can take a look at your things.”

  He went out. After a little while his wife entered. She was a faded, sexless creature, with a face the color of overcooked meat and pale, haddock eyes.

  “What sort of things have you there?” she asked in a simpering voice.

  Kern unpacked his wares, of which there were not very many left. The woman fussed over her selection, she looked at the sewing needles as though she had never seen anything of the sort before, she smelled the soap and tested the toothbrushes on her thumb, she asked about prices and finally decided to consult her sister.

  The sister was an exact duplicate. Small though he was, the bearded Ammers must have ruled the house with an iron hand, for the sister, too, was completely subdued and had a quavering, frightened voice. At every other instant the two women glanced at the door. They dallied and hesitated until Kern finally began to lose patience and started to pack up his things. “Perhaps you’ll think it over until morning,” he said, for he saw that even now they could not make up their minds.