Flotsam

  * * *

  Kern was sitting in one of the cells in the Santé prison, with the Austrian Leopold Bruck and the Westphalian Moenke. They were pasting together paper bags.

  “Boys,” Leopold said after a while, “I’ve got gas on my stomach—fit to burst. What I’d like to do is eat this paste—if there wasn’t a penalty!”

  “Wait ten minutes,” Kern replied; “then the evening grub will be here.”

  “What good’s that? Afterwards I really will have gas.” Leopold blew into a paper bag and smashed it with a bang. “It’s a misery in these rotten times that people have stomachs. When I think of boiled beef or roast pork I could pull this whole joint to pieces.”

  Moenke lifted his head. “My thoughts run more to a big rare beefsteak,” he announced. “With onions and roast potatoes. And an ice cold beer to go with it.”

  “Shut up,” Leopold groaned. “Let’s think of something else. Flowers for instance.”

  “Why flowers in particular?”

  “Anything that’s beautiful, don’t you understand? To distract us.”

  “Flowers won’t distract me.”

  “Once I saw a bed of roses.” Leopold made a violent effort to concentrate. “Last summer. In front of the jail in Pallanza. In the evening sunlight when we were released. Red roses. As red as—as—”

  “As a rare beefsteak,” Moenke helped him out.

  “Oh what the hell!”

  There was the rattling of keys. “There comes our grub,” Moenke said.

  The door opened. It was not the turnkey with their food; it was the warden. “Kern—” he said.

  Kern got up.

  “Come with me. Visitor!”

  “A visitor?” Kern asked in amazement.

  “Very likely the President of the Republic,” Leopold suggested.

  “Perhaps it’s Klassmann. He has papers. Maybe he’s brought along something to eat.”

  “Butter,” Leopold said yearningly. “A big piece. Yellow as a sunflower.”

  Moenke grinned. “Oh boy, Leopold the lyricist! Now you’re even thinking about sunflowers.”

  Kern stopped in the doorway as though he had been struck by lightning. “Ruth!” he said breathlessly. “How did you get here? Have they arrested you?”

  “No, no, Ludwig!”

  Kern threw a hasty glance at the warden who was disinterestedly leaning in the corner. Then he walked quickly across to Ruth.

  “For God’s sake get out of here right away, Ruth,” he whispered in German. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You might be arrested at any moment and that means four weeks in jail and six months for a second offense! So go quick—quick!”

  “Four weeks,” Ruth looked at him in horror. “Do you have to stay here four weeks?”

  “That’s nothing. That was just bad luck. But you—Let’s not be silly. Anyone here might ask for your papers! At any instant.”

  “But I have papers!”

  “What?”

  “I have a residential permit, Ludwig!”

  She got the slip of paper out of her pocket and gave it to Kern. He stared at it. “Christ,” he said slowly after a pause, “it’s a fact! Really and truly! Why that’s as if a dead man had come to life. Then it really worked this time. Who was it? The Refugees’ Aid?”

  “Yes. The Refugees’ Aid, and Klassmann.”

  “Warden,” Kern said, “is a prisoner permitted to kiss a lady?”

  The warden looked at him indifferently. “As long as you like, so far as I’m concerned,” he replied. “The only thing is she must not use the opportunity to slip you a knife or a file.”

  “That wouldn’t pay anyway for the couple of weeks that are left.”

  The warden rolled a cigarette and lit it.

  “Ruth,” Kern said, “have you heard anything from Steiner?”

  “No, nothing. But Marill says that would be impossible anyway. He certainly won’t write. He’ll just come back again. Suddenly he’ll be with us.”

  Kern looked at her. “Does Marill really believe that?”

  “We all believe it, Ludwig. What else can we do?”

  Kern nodded. “Yes, what else really is there for us to do? He’s only been gone for a week after all. Perhaps he’ll get through.”

  “He must get through. I can’t conceive of anything else.”

  “Time,” said the warden. “That’s all for today.”

  Kern took Ruth in his arms. “Come back,” she whispered, “come back quickly. Will you stay here in the Santé?”

  “No. They’ll transport us. To the border.”

  “I’ll try to get another permit to visit you. Come back. I love you. Come quickly. I am afraid. I’d like to go with you.”

  “You can’t do that. Your récépissé is only good for Paris. I’ll come back.”

  “I have money here. It’s stuck under my shoulder strap. Take it out when you kiss me.”

  “I don’t need any. I have enough with me. You keep it. Marill will look after you. And perhaps Steiner will be back soon.”

  “Time,” the warden admonished them. “Children, after all no one’s going to the guillotine.”

  “Good-by.” Ruth kissed Kern. “I love you. Come back, Ludwig.”

  She looked around and picked up a package from the bench. “Here’s something to eat. They looked it over downstairs. It’s all right,” she said to the warden. “Good-by, Ludwig.”

  “I am happy, Ruth! Good God, I’m happy about your permit. That’s Heaven here and now.”

  “Now off with you,” the warden said. “Back to Heaven.”

  Kern took the package under his arm. It was heavy. He went back with the warden. “Do you know,” the latter said thoughtfully, “my wife is sixty and is slightly hunchbacked. Sometimes that’s brought home to me.”

  The turnkey with the bowls of food had just reached the cell door when Kern got back.

  “Kern,” Leopold said with a disconsolate expression, “potato soup again without potatoes.”

  “This is vegetable soup,” the turnkey announced.

  “You might even call it coffee,” Leopold replied. “I believe everything you say.”

  “What’s in that package?” the Westphalian Moenke asked Kern.

  “Something to eat. I don’t know what yet.”

  Leopold’s face shone like a communion chalice. “Open it up! Quick!”

  Kern untied the string. “Butter,” Leopold said reverently.

  “Like a sunflower,” Moenke added.

  “White bread! Sausages! Chocolate!” Leopold went on ecstatically. “And here—a whole cheese.”

  “Like a sunflower,” Moenke repeated.

  Leopold paid no attention. He drew himself up. “Guard,” he said with authority, “take your miserable slop and—”

  “Stop,” Moenke interrupted. “Not so fast! These Austrians! They’re the reason we lost the war in 1918. Hand over the bowls,” he said to the guard.

  He took them and put them on a bench. Then he arranged the other things beside them and looked at this still life. On the wall above the cheese was an inscription in pencil by a former inmate of the cell: “There’s an end to everything, even a life sentence.”

  Moenke grinned. “We’ll use the vegetable soup as tea,” he announced. “And now let’s have dinner like civilized people! What do you say, Kern?”

  “Amen,” the latter replied.

  * * *

  “I’ll come again tomorrow, Marie.”

  Steiner bent over the still figure and then straightened up. The nurse was standing by the door. Her sharp glance swept over him, but she avoided his eyes. The tray in her hand trembled and the glass on it clinked softly.

  Steiner walked out into the corridor. “Stop!” a voice commanded.

  On each side of the door stood a man in uniform with drawn revolver. Steiner stopped. He had no feeling of panic.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Johann Huber.”

  “Come over here to t
he window.”

  A third man approached and looked at him. “It’s Steiner,” he said, “no doubt of it. I recognize him. You probably recognize me too, eh Steiner?”

  “I’ve never forgotten you, Steinbrenner,” Steiner replied quietly.

  “You’ll catch it this time!” the man snickered. “Welcome home! I’m really overjoyed to see you again. Very likely you’re planning to stay with us for a little while this time, eh? We have a marvelous new camp with every modern convenience.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “Handcuffs!” Steinbrenner commanded. “As a precaution, my sweet. It would simply break my heart if you were to desert us again.”

  There was a click of a door latch. Steiner looked over his shoulder. It was the door of his wife’s room that had opened. The nurse looked out for an instant, then quickly drew back

  “So that’s how it was,” Steiner said.

  “Oh, yes—Love,” Steinbrenner snickered: “it brings the toughest birds back to their nest—for the good of the State and the joy of their friends.”

  Steiner looked at the blotched face with receding chin and blue circles under the eyes. He looked at it calmly; he knew what that face portended for him, but it was all very remote—like something that did not actually concern him at all. Steinbrenner blinked his eyes, licked his lips and took a step back.

  “Still not a grain of conscience, Steinbrenner?” Steiner inquired.

  The man grinned. “Only a good conscience, sweetheart. It gets better and better the more of you I have under my thumb. My sleep is first-rate. But in your case I’m going to make an exception. I’m going to visit you at night so that I can chat with you a little. All right, take him away!” he commanded suddenly in a sharp voice.

  Steiner went down the stairs with his escort. The people who met them stopped and let them pass in silence. In the street too this silence prevailed as they went by.

  Steiner was arraigned. A middle-aged official questioned him and the facts were put down in the records.

  “For what purpose did you come to Germany?” the official asked.

  “I wanted to see my wife before she died.”

  “Which of your political friends have you met here?”

  “No one.”

  “It will be better for you to tell me before you are sentenced.”

  “I have already told you: no one.”

  “On whose instructions did you come here?”

  “I had no instructions.”

  “With what political organizations were you associated abroad?”

  “None.”

  “Then how did you live?”

  “From the money I earned. As you see, I have an Austrian passport.”

  “With what group were you to get in touch when you arrived here?”

  “If that had been my intention I’d have hidden myself better. I knew what I was doing when I went to see my wife.”

  The official continued to question him for a while longer. Then he scrutinized Steiner’s passport and his wife’s letter, which had been taken from him. He looked at Steiner, then he read the letter once more. “You will be transferred this afternoon,” he said finally, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I want to make one request,” Steiner said. “It’s a small matter but to me it means everything. My wife is still alive. The doctor says that at most she can only live for one or two days more. She knows that I intended to come back tomorrow. If I do not come, she will know I am here. For myself I expect neither sympathy nor favors of any kind; but I should like my wife to die in peace. I beg you to keep me here for one or two days and allow me to visit my wife.”

  “Not a chance. I can’t give you such an opportunity to escape.”

  “I won’t escape. The room is on the fifth floor and has only one entrance. If someone takes me there and watches the door, there will be nothing I can do. I make this request not for myself but for a dying woman.”

  “Impossible,” said the official. “I have no authority to grant it.”

  “You have the authority. You can order another hearing for me and you can make these visits possible. You could give as a reason that I may tell my wife something that is important for you to know. That could be the reason too for having my guard wait outside. You could arrange for that reliable nurse to stay in the room and listen to what was said.”

  “That’s nonsense. Your wife won’t tell you anything, nor will you tell her.”

  “Of course not. She doesn’t know anything. But she would die in peace.”

  The official reflected and leafed through the documents.

  “We examined you formerly on the subject of Group VII. You did not give us any names. In the meantime we have caught Müller, Boese and Welldorf. Will you tell us the names of the others?”

  Steiner was silent.

  “Will you tell us their names if I make it possible for you to visit your wife for two days?”

  “Yes,” Steiner said after a pause.

  “Then tell them to me.”

  Steiner was silent.

  “Will you give me two names tomorrow evening and the rest the day after tomorrow?”

  “I will tell you the names day after tomorrow.”

  “Do you promise that?”

  “Yes.”

  The official stared at him for a time. “I’ll see what I can do. Now you will be taken back to your cell.”

  “Will you give me back my letter?” Steiner asked.

  “Your letter? It has to stay with the rest of the evidence.” The official looked at him, undecided. “There’s nothing incriminating in it. All right, take it with you.”

  “Thanks,” Steiner said.

  The official rang and had Steiner taken away. Too bad, he thought, but what can a man do? You’re in the fire yourself the minute you show any sign of being human. Suddenly he banged his fist down hard on the table.

  * * *

  Moritz Rosenthal was lying in bed. For the first time in days he had no pain. It was an early evening in February. The first lights were beginning to gleam through the silvery blue dusk of Paris. Without moving his head Moritz Rosenthal could see the windows grow bright in the houses opposite; it was like a gigantic ship in the twilight, an ocean liner ready to sail. The wall between the windows threw a long shadow toward the Hotel Verdun like a black gangplank lowered for those who were to go aboard.

  Moritz Rosenthal did not move; but as he lay on his bed he saw the windows suddenly open wide and someone who looked like himself get up and stride out over the shadowy gangplank to the ship, which lay rolling gently in the long groundswell of life; now the anchor was raised and the ship glided slowly away. The room collapsed about him like a fragile pasteboard box and went swirling away in the eddies; streets rushed by, forests slid past under the bow, there was fog, the ship rose gently in the subdued roar of eternity, clouds and stars swam by in the deep blue and then like a comforting cradle-song the red and gold of a majestic coast rose before him, the dark gangplank was lowered noiselessly, Moritz Rosenthal walked down it, and when he looked around the ship was no longer there and he was alone on a foreign shore.

  A long, smooth road stretched before him. The old wanderer did not hesitate for long; a road was meant to be followed—and his feet had known many roads.

  But after a short time he saw, behind silver trees, an immense, shining gate and farther on flashing domes and towers. A massive figure radiant with light stood guarding the entrance, a shepherd’s crook in his hand.

  The customs! Moritz Rosenthal thought in dismay, and jumped behind a bush. He looked around. There was no going back; that way led into emptiness. There’s no help for it, the old refugee thought resignedly, I’ll have to stay hidden here till it’s dark. Then perhaps I can steal around to one side and get by somehow. He peeked through the crotch of a limb made of garnet and onyx and saw the mighty guardian motioning with his staff. He glanced around again; there was no one else there. The guardian continued to wave. “Father Moritz
!” called a soft sonorous voice. Call all you like, Father Moritz thought, I’m not going to show myself.

  “Father Moritz,” the voice called again. “Come forth from behind the bush of tribulation.”

  Moritz stood up. Nabbed, he thought. That giant can certainly run faster than I can. There’s no way out; I’ll have to go.

  “Father Moritz!” the voice called once more.

  “That he should know my name, too, what luck!” Moritz murmured. “I must have been deported from this place before. According to the latest regulations that means not less than three months in prison. I hope at least the food’s good and they don’t give me The Ladies’ Magazine for the year 1902 to read, but something modern. Something by Hemingway is what I’d like.”

  The gate became brighter and more radiant the nearer he approached. What flood-lighting they have on the borders now, Moritz reflected. You can’t even recognize where you are any more. Perhaps they’ve recently lighted the whole frontier so it’ll be easier to catch us. What extravagance!

  “Father Moritz,” said the keeper of the gate, “why are you hiding?”

  What a question, Moritz thought, when he knows my name and all about me.

  “Enter,” said the keeper of the gate.

  “Look here,” Moritz replied. “According to my opinion I’ve done nothing illegal yet. I have not crossed your border. Or does the section behind me count too?”

  “It counts too,” said the guardian.

  Then I’m lost, Moritz thought. It seems to be an island. Perhaps it’s Cuba where so many people have been trying to get to recently.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the guardian said, “nothing will happen to you. Just go right in.”