Flotsam

  “I knew him when he was a mere child,” Marill explained. “Tender and trusting. A couple of months ago.”

  Steiner laughed. “He lives in a topsy-turvy century. A time when it’s easy to be rubbed out—but also a time when you mature fast.”

  Marill took a sip of the light red wine. “A topsy-turvy century,” he repeated; “the great unrest. Ludwig Kern, the young Vandal in the second Migration of Nations.”

  “That doesn’t fit,” Kern retorted. “I’m a young half-Jew in the second Exodus from Egypt.”

  Marill looked at Steiner reproachfully. “Your pupil, Huber,” he said.

  “No—he learned the trick of aphorisms from you, Marill. Besides, a steady weekly wage improves the wit of any young man. Long live the return of the prodigal son to the pay roll!” Steiner turned toward Kern. “Put the money in your pocket, Baby. Otherwise it will fly away. Money doesn’t like the light.”

  “I’ll give it to you,” Kern said. “Then it’ll be gone right away. You’re due for a lot more than this from me.”

  “Just get this straight. I’m a long way from being rich enough to have money paid back to me.”

  Kern looked at him. Then he put the money in his pocket. “How long are the stores open tonight?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “This is New Year’s Eve.”

  “Till seven, Kern,” Marill said. “Are you planning to buy something to drink for tonight? It’s cheaper here in the canteen. Excellent Martinique rum.”

  “No, no drinks.”

  “Aha! Apparently you’re getting ready to spend the last day of the year in the ways of bourgeois sentiment, eh?”

  “That’s about it.” Kern got up. “I’m going to Salomon Levi’s. Perhaps he’s sentimental today, too, and has topsy-turvy prices.”

  “In topsy-turvy times the prices rise,” Marill replied. “But go ahead, Kern! Habit is nothing—impulse all! And don’t get so engrossed in your haggling as to forget dinner at eight for the old warriors of the emigration, at Mère Margot’s.”

  Salomon Levi was a nimble, weaselly little man with a trembling, ragged, goat’s beard. He lived in a dark, vaulted room amid clocks, musical instruments, worn rugs, oil paintings, kitchen utensils, plaster gnomes and porcelain animals. In the window were artificial pearls, cheap imitation jewelry, old silver ornaments, watches and old coins mixed helter-skelter together.

  Levi recognized Kern immediately. His memory was a ledger that had stood him in good stead in many deals.

  “What gives?” he asked, ready for battle at once since he assumed Kern had something more to sell. “You come at a bad time.”

  “How’s that? Have you sold the ring already?”

  “Sold, sold?” Levi wailed. “Sold, you said, if I didn’t misunderstand you. Or have I made a mistake?”

  “No.”

  “Young man,” Levi went on fencing, “don’t you read the newspaper? Do you live on the moon? Don’t you know what is happening in the world? Sold! Old trash like that! Sold! How can you say such a thing, magnificently like a Rothschild? Do you know what it means to make a sale?” He paused for effect and then explained mournfully: “It means that a stranger comes and wants something and that then he draws his purse out of his pocket—” Levi took out his wallet. “Opens it.” He opened it. “And gets out cold kosher money.” He plucked out a fifty-franc note. “Puts it down.” The note was smoothed out on the counter. “And then the most important thing of all!” Levi’s voice rose to falsetto. “He permanently separates himself from it!”

  Levi put the note away. “And for what? For some trinket, some gewgaw, cold kosher money. Am I to laugh? Only crazy people and gojim act like that. Or an unlucky fool with my passion for business. Well, what have you today? Much I cannot give. Four weeks ago—now, those were fine times.”

  “I don’t want to sell anything, Herr Levi. I’d like to buy back the ring.”

  “What!” For an instant Levi’s mouth fell open like a hungry yellowhammer in its nest. His beard was the nest. “Ach, already I know. You want to trade. Nix, young man. I know that trick. A week ago I was caught—a watch, sure it did not go, but a watch is a watch, after all. For that I got a bronze inkwell and a fountain pen with a gold nib. What shall I tell you? Tricked I was because I am a blind trusting fool; the fountain pen does not work. Sure, the watch does not go for more than a quarter of an hour, but is it the same thing when a watch does not go and when a fountain pen does not work? A watch is still always a watch, but a fountain pen that is empty, what is that? That is a contradiction; it is like it wasn’t there at all. And what did you want to trade?”

  “Nothing, Herr Levi. I said buy. Buy!”

  “With money?”

  “Yes, with real money.”

  “I know—some Hungarian money or Rumanian money or no-good Austrian money or inflation notes. Who can tell what they are worth? Not long ago came in a man with curled mustaches like Charlemagne—”

  Kern brought out a hundred-franc note and placed his wallet on the counter. Levi stiffened and emitted a low whistle. “You are in money? The first time I have seen such a thing. Young man, look out for the police—”

  “I earned it,” Kern beamed, “earned it honestly. And now where is the ring?”

  “This instant.” Levi rushed out and came back with the ring that had belonged to Ruth’s mother. He was polishing it with the the sleeve of his coat, blowing on it and then polishing it again. Finally he laid it on a square of velvet as though it were a twenty-carat diamond. “A fine piece,” he said reverently. “A true rarity.”

  “Herr Levi,” Kern said, “you gave us a hundred and fifty francs for the ring. If I give you one hundred eighty you’ll have a twenty per cent profit. That’s a good bargain, isn’t it?”

  Levi didn’t hear him. “A man could fall in love with a piece like this,” he murmured in dreamy ecstasy. “No modern trash. Value! Real value! I planned to keep it myself. I have a little private collection for my own pleasure.”

  Kern counted out one hundred eighty francs on the counter.

  “Money,” Levi said scornfully. “What is money today? With devaluation. Goods, they are the only real value. A lovely little ring like this gives a man pleasure and also it goes up in value. A double joy! And just now gold is so high,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Four hundred francs would be cheap for such a beautiful piece. A connoisseur’s price you might get for it.”

  Kern recoiled. “Herr Levi!”

  “I am human,” Levi said nobly. “I shall part with it. I will give you this happiness with no profit to myself. Because this is New Year’s Eve. Three hundred francs, done, even though it costs my heart’s blood.”

  “That’s twice what you paid,” Kern said angrily.

  “Twice! You say that casually without knowing what you mean. What is twice? Twice is half, as Rabbi Michael von Howorodka wisely says somewhere. Have you ever heard of overhead, young man? It costs and costs; taxes, rent, coal, assessments, losses. To you that is nothing, but for me it is staggering! Each day it amounts to as much as a little ring like this—”

  “I’m a poor man, an emigree—”

  Levi dismissed the point. “Who is not an emigree? He who wants to buy is always richer than he who has to sell. Well, and which of us two wants to buy?”

  “Two hundred francs,” Kern said, “that’s my last word.”

  Levi picked up the ring, blew on it and carried it out. Kern put his money in his pocket and walked to the door. As he was opening it Levi screamed after him: “Two hundred and fifty, because you’re young and I like to be a benefactor.”

  “Two hundred,” Kern shouted back from the door.

  “Schalom alechem!” Levi saluted him.

  “Two hundred and twenty.”

  “Two hundred and twenty-five. On my word of honor because I have to pay the rent tomorrow.”

  Kern returned and with a sigh laid down the money. Levi packed the ring in a little pasteboard box. “This bo
x you shall have for nothing and the fine blue cotton. Ruined I am because of you.”

  “Fifty per cent,” Kern growled. “Usurer!”

  Levi paid no attention to Kern’s last remark. “Take my word for it,” he said, sincere for the moment. “At Cartier’s, in the Rue de la Paix, a ring like this costs six hundred. It is worth three hundred and fifty. That’s the truth.”

  Kern rode back to the hotel. “Ruth,” he said in the doorway, “we’re on our way up and going fast. Here! The last of the Mohicans is home again.”

  She opened the little box and looked inside. “Ludwig—” she said.

  “Useless things, that’s all!” Kern said quickly in embarrassment. “What is it Steiner says? They’re supposed to give the greatest warmth. Just wanted to test it out. And now put it on! We’re all going to eat today in a restaurant. Like real workmen with weekly wages!”

  * * *

  It was ten o’clock in the evening. Steiner, Marill, Ruth and Kern were sitting in the “Mère Margot.” The waiters were beginning to push the chairs together and sweep the floors with tremendous brooms and water. The cat on the cashier’s desk stretched and leaped down. The proprietress was asleep, tightly wrapped in a knitted jacket. But from time to time she opened a watchful eye.

  “I believe they’re trying to shove us out of here,” Steiner said, motioning to the waiter. “High time, too. We’ve got to go to Edith Rosenfeld’s. Father Moritz arrived today.”

  “Father Moritz?” Ruth asked. “Who’s that?”

  “Father Moritz is the dean of the emigrees,” Steiner replied. “Seventy-five years old, little Ruth. Knows all borders, all cities, all hotels, all boardinghouses and private lodgings where one can live unreported, and the jails of five civilized countries. His name is Moritz Rosenthal and he comes from Godesberg-on-the-Rhine.”

  “Then I know him,” Kern said. “I crossed with him once from Czechoslovakia into Austria.”

  “And I went with him from Switzerland into Italy,” Marill said.

  The waiter brought the check. “I’ve crossed a few borders with him myself,” Steiner said. “Have you a bottle of cognac I can take with me?” he asked the waiter. “Courvoisier? At store prices of course.”

  “Just a moment. I’ll ask the patronne.”

  The waiter went across to the sleeping woman in the knitted jacket. She opened one eye and nodded. The waiter came back, took a bottle from one of the shelves and gave it to Steiner, who put it in his overcoat pocket.

  At this instant the street door opened and a shadowy figure entered. The patronne put her hand to her mouth, yawned and opened both eyes. The waiters made wry faces.

  The man who had come in went, as silently as a sleepwalker, straight through the room to the big rôtisserie in which a few roasting chickens were turning on spits above the glowing wood coals.

  The man examined the chickens with X-ray eyes. “How much is that one there?” he asked the waiter.

  “Twenty-six francs.”

  “And that one?”

  “Twenty-six francs.”

  “And that one?”

  “Twenty-six francs.”

  “Do they all cost twenty-six francs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that at once?”

  “Because you didn’t ask me at once.”

  The man looked up. For a moment healthy rage showed through his somnambulism. Then he pointed to the biggest chicken. “Give me that one.”

  Kern nudged Steiner. Steiner was watching attentively. His mouth was twitching.

  “With salad, roast potatoes, rice?” the waiter asked.

  “With nothing. With a knife and fork. Hand it over.”

  “The Chicken,” Kern whispered. “The old Chicken, as I live and breathe.”

  Steiner nodded. “That’s who it is! The Chicken from the Vienna jail.”

  The man sat down at a table. He took out his wallet and paid out the money. Then he put it away and solemnly unfolded his napkin. In front of him rested the magnificent roast chicken. The man lifted his hands like a priest bestowing a blessing. A fierce and radiant air of satisfaction enveloped him. Then he lifted the bird and put it on his own plate.

  “We’ll not disturb him,” Steiner whispered softly. “He’s earned his roast chicken the hard way.”

  “Exactly. I propose we get out at once,” Kern replied. “I’ve run into him twice before. Both times in prison. On each occasion he was arrested at the moment when he was about to eat a roast chicken. If he runs true to form, the police will be here any minute!”

  Steiner laughed. “Then let’s get going! I’d rather celebrate New Year’s Eve with those disinherited by fate than in the guardroom of the Prefecture of Police!”

  They got up. At the door they looked around again. The Chicken was just detaching a crisp brown leg from the body of the prize. He regarded it, like a pilgrim looking at the Holy Sepulchre, and bit into it reverently. But after that he went at it with determination and enormous appetite.

  ———

  Edith Rosenfeld was a delicate, white-haired woman of sixty-six. She had come to Paris two years before with eight children. She had found places for seven of them. Her eldest son had gone to China as an army doctor; her eldest daughter, who had been a philologist at Bonn, had secured a position as a servant girl in Scotland through the Refugees’ Aid; the second son had passed the French Government examinations in law; when he could not find a practice, he had become a waiter in the Hotel Carleton in Cannes; the third had enlisted in the Foreign Legion; the next had migrated to Bolivia; and the two other daughters were living on an orange plantation in Palestine. The only one left was her youngest son. The Refugees’ Aid was trying to get him a job as a chauffeur in Mexico.

  Edith Rosenfeld’s apartment consisted of two rooms: a larger one for her, and a small one in which this last son, Max Rosenfeld the auto fancier, lived. When Steiner, Marill, Kern and Ruth came in, there were already about twenty persons assembled in the two rooms—all refugees from Germany, some with residential permits but most of them without. Those who could afford it had brought along something to drink. Almost all had chosen cheap, red French wine. Steiner and Marill sat among them like two pillars with their cognac. They poured it out generously, hoping to avoid unnecessary sentimentality.

  Moritz Rosenthal arrived at eleven o’clock. Kern barely recognized him. He seemed to have aged ten years in less than one. His face was yellow and bloodless, and he walked with difficulty, leaning on an ebony cane with an old-fashioned ivory handle.

  “Edith, my old love,” he said, “here I am again. I couldn’t come earlier. I was very tired.”

  He bent over to kiss her hand, but he could not reach it. Edith Rosenfeld stood up. She was as light as a bird. She held his hand and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I almost believe I’m getting old,” Moritz Rosenthal said. “I can no longer kiss your hand. But you brazenly kiss me on the cheek. Oh to be sixty once again!”

  Edith Rosenfeld looked at him smiling. She did not want to show him how shocked she was at his altered appearance. And Moritz Rosenthal didn’t show her that he knew how shocked she was. He was calm and cheerful and he had come to Paris to die.

  He looked around. “Well-known faces,” he said. “Those who belong nowhere meet each other everywhere. Strange stories!… Steiner, where were we the last time? In Vienna, right! And Marill? In Brissago, and later in Locarno in the police station, wasn’t that it? Why, there’s Klassmann too, the Sherlock Holmes of Zürich. Yes, my memory’s still functioning fairly well. And Waser! Brose! And Kern from Czecho! Meyer, the friend of carabinieri in Palanza! God yes, children, the good old times! Now things are no longer the same. My legs don’t want to go on.”

  He lowered himself cautiously. “Where do you come from now, Father Moritz?” Steiner asked.

  “From Basle. Children, let me tell you one thing: avoid Alsace! Be cautious in Strassburg, and flee Colmar! Penitentiary atmosphere. Mathias G
ruenwald and the Isenheim altar have had no influence. Three months in prison for illegal entry; there is no other court that gives more than fifteen days. Six months for a second offense, and the prisons are workhouses. So avoid Colmar and Alsace, children! Go by way of Geneva!”

  “How’s Italy now?” Klassmann asked.

  Moritz Rosenthal took the glass of red wine that Edith Rosenfeld had placed beside him. His hands trembled badly as he lifted it. He was ashamed of this and put the glass down again. “Italy is full of German agents,” he said. “There is nothing more for us there.”

  “And Austria?” Waser asked.

  “Austria and Czechoslovakia are mousetraps. France is the single country in Europe we have left. Make sure you stay here.”

  “Have you heard anything of Mary Altmann, Moritz?” Edith Rosenfeld asked after a pause. “She used to be in Milan.”

  “Yes. She’s in Amsterdam now as a chambermaid. Her children are in an emigrees’ home in Switzerland. In Locarno, I believe. Her husband’s in Brazil.”

  “Have you seen her to speak to?”

  “Yes, just before her trip to Zürich. She was delighted they had all found places.”

  “Do you know anything of Josef Fessler?” Klassmann asked. “He was waiting in Zürich for a residential permit.”

  “Fessler shot himself and his wife,” Moritz Rosenthal answered as calmly as if he were talking about breeding bees. He didn’t look at Klassmann. His eyes were turned toward the door. Klassmann made no reply. Nor did any of the others. There was a moment’s silence. Each one acted as if he had heard nothing.

  “Have you run into Joseph Friedmann anywhere?” Brose asked.

  “No. But I know he’s in prison in Salzburg. His brother went back to Germany. He’s said to be in a concentration camp now.” Moritz Rosenthal took his glass in both hands, as cautiously as though it were a sacramental goblet, and drank slowly.

  “What’s Minister Althoff doing now?” Marill asked.

  “He’s in splendid luck. He’s a taxi driver in Zürich. Residential permit and permit to work.”