“My God!” Kern said. “You have a passport and you have your violin—”
The violinist glanced up. “But that hasn’t anything to do with it,” he exclaimed irritably. “Can’t you understand that?”
“No, I can’t.”
Kern was tremendously disillusioned. He had thought that anyone who could play like that must be a superior person. Someone from whom you could learn… And now he saw, sitting there, an embittered man who, though he was fifteen years Kern’s senior, seemed to him like a spoiled child. The first phase of emigration, he thought. He will soon quiet down.
“Aren’t you really going to eat your soup?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then give it to me. I’m still hungry.”
The violinist pushed the plate toward him. Kern ate the soup slowly. Every spoonful contained strength to withstand misery and he didn’t want to lose any of it. Then he stood up. “Thank you for the soup. I’d have liked it better if you had eaten it yourself.”
The violinist looked at him. Furrows disfigured his face. “That’s something you’re not old enough to understand,” he said apologetically.
“It’s easier to understand than you think,” Kern replied. “You’re unhappy, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, that’s all?”
“It’s not much. You begin by thinking there is something extraordinary about it. But you’ll find out, when you’ve been out in the world a while longer, unhappiness is the commonest thing there is.”
He went outside. To his surprise he saw the professor strolling up and down on the opposite side of the street. His attitude—hands clasped behind his back, body bent slightly forward—was the same one he had assumed when he walked up and down on the lecture platform elucidating some new and complicated discovery in the domain of cancer research. Only now he was probably thinking about vacuum cleaners and phonographs.
Kern hesitated a moment. He had never accosted a professor. But now, after his experience with the violinist, he walked over to him.
“I beg your pardon, Professor,” he said, “for speaking to you. I would never have believed that I would be in a position to give you advice. But now I should like to try.”
The professor paused. “Please do,” he replied distractedly. “Please do. I shall be grateful for any advice. What was your name?”
“Kern. Ludwig Kern.”
“I shall be grateful for any advice, Herr Kern. Quite unusually grateful. Really!”
“It is hardly advice. Only the lesson of experience. You are trying to sell vacuum cleaners and phonographs. Give it up. It is a waste of time. Hundreds of emigrees here are trying that. It is as hopeless as trying to sell life insurance.”
“That was the next thing I was going to try,” the professor interrupted excitedly. “Someone told me it was easy to do and you could earn good money at it.”
“He offered you a commission for every policy you sold, didn’t he?”
“Yes, of course. A good commission.”
“But nothing else? No expenses and no salary?”
“No, nothing of that sort.”
“I could make you that offer. It doesn’t mean a thing. Professor, have you sold a single vacuum cleaner? Or a phonograph?”
The professor looked at him helplessly. “No,” he said, strangely embarrassed, “but I hope very soon—”
“Give it up,” Kern replied; “that’s my advice. Buy a handful of shoelaces or a few boxes of shoe polish or some packages of safety pins. Little things that anyone can use. Peddle them. You won’t earn much, but now and then you’ll sell something. Of course, hundreds of emigrants are trading in them too. But people buy safety pins sooner than vacuum cleaners.”
The professor looked at him thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that at all.”
Kern smiled in embarrassment. “I can believe it. But think it over. It’s better, as I know from experience. Earlier I, too, tried to sell vacuum cleaners.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” The professor extended his hand. “Thank you. You are very kind.” His voice was suddenly strangely soft and submissive as if he were a student who had come to class badly prepared.
Kern bit his lip. “I was at all of your lectures—” he said.
“Yes, yes—” The professor made a distracted gesture. “Thank you, Herr——Herr——”
“Kern. But it’s of no importance.”
“On the contrary, it is important, Herr Kern. I beg your pardon—my memory has not been very good recently. Thank you many times. I believe I shall try it, Herr Kern.”
The Hotel Bristol was a dilapidated little frame building that had been rented by the Refugees’ Aid. Kern was assigned a bed in a room in which two other refugees were staying. He felt very sleepy after the meal he had eaten and went to bed at once. The two others were not there and he did not hear them come in.
In the middle of the night he was wakened by screams. He sprang out of bed immediately and, without pausing for thought, seized his bag and his clothes, dashed through the door and down the hall. Outside everything was quiet. At the head of the stairs he stopped, put down his valise and listened—then he rubbed his eyes with his fist. Where was he? What was up? Where were the police?
Slowly memory came back to him. He looked down at himself and smiled with relief. He was in Prague, in the Hotel Bristol, and had a permit that was good for fourteen days. Silly to get in such a fright. Probably he had had a nightmare. He turned around. This mustn’t happen again, he thought, if I get jumpy that will be the last straw. Then everything’s up. He opened the door and groped in the dark for his bed. It was to the right, beside the wall. He quietly put down his valise and hung his clothes over the foot of the bed. Then he felt for the blanket. Suddenly, just as he was about to lie down, his hand encountered something soft and warm and breathing. He shot bolt upright.
“Who’s that?” a girl’s voice inquired sleepily.
Kern held his breath. He had got into the wrong room.
“Is someone there?” the voice asked again.
Kern stood rigid. He felt sweat break out all over him. After a while he heard a sigh and the sound of the girl turning over. He waited a few minutes. But everything remained silent and there was only the sound of a deeper breathing in the darkness. He reached quietly for his things and slipped cautiously out of the room.
A man in a shirt was standing in the corridor now in front of Kern’s room and was staring at him through his eyeglasses. He watched Kern come out of the neighboring room carrying his things. Kern was too confused to give any explanation. He went silently through the open door, past the man, who did not move out of the way for him, put his things away and got into bed. Before doing so he carefully ran his hand over the cover. There was no one lying under it.
The man stood for a while in the doorway, with the faint light from the hall glittering on his eyeglasses. Then he came in and closed the door with a sharp snap.
At that instant the screaming began again. Kern understood it now. “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me! For Christ’s sake don’t hit me! Please, please! Oh …”
The screaming changed to a hair-raising gurgle and died away. Kern sat up. “What’s the matter anyway?” he inquired in the darkness.
A switch clicked and the light came on. The man with the eyeglasses got up and went to the third bed, where lay a gasping, sweat-drenched man with wild eyes. The other man brought a glass of water and held it to his mouth. “Drink this. You’ve just been dreaming. You’re safe.”
The man drank thirstily, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his thin throat. Then he fell back exhausted, shut his eyes and gave a deep sigh.
“What’s it all about?” Kern asked again.
The man with the eyeglasses came over to his bed. “What’s it all about? Someone who has dreams. Who dreams aloud. Released from a concentration camp a couple of weeks ago. Nerves, see?”
“Yes,” Kern said.
“Are you staying he
re?” asked the man with the eyeglasses.
Kern nodded. “I seem to have a touch of nerves myself. When he began to scream a while ago I dashed out. I thought the police were raiding the place. After that I got into the wrong room.”
“So that was it.”
“Please excuse me,” said the third man. “I’ll stay awake now. Excuse me.”
“Oh nonsense,” said the man with the eyeglasses, going back to his bed. “Your nightmares don’t bother us a bit. Do they, young man?”
“Not a bit,” Kern repeated.
There was a click and the room became dark. Kern lay down, but for a long time he could not go to sleep. That had been strange, that experience in the next room. The soft breast under the thin sheet. He could still feel it, and it seemed to him as if his hand were no longer the same.
Later he heard the man who had cried out get up and seat himself beside the window. His bowed head was revealed against the brightening gray of the dawn like the somber statue of a slave. Kern watched him for a time and then fell asleep.
* * *
Josef Steiner had no trouble getting back across the border. He knew the ground well and his experience of wartime patrol duty stood him in good stead. He had been a company guide and in 1915 had received the Iron Cross for a dangerous reconnaissance on which he had captured a prisoner.
In an hour’s time he was out of the danger zone. He took the trolley for Vienna. There were not many people in the car. The conductor recognized him. “Back already?”
“A ticket to Vienna, second class,” Steiner said.
“Quick work,” said the conductor.
Steiner glanced at him. “I know all about it,” the conductor went on. “People are sent out under guard every day—you soon get to know the officers. It’s a nasty business. You rode out in this car, but you wouldn’t remember that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The conductor laughed. “You’ll remember. Look, stand on the back platform. If an inspector comes along jump off—but that’s not likely at this hour. You’ll save the price of a ticket.”
“Thanks.”
Steiner got up and went to the back of the car. He felt the wind on his face and saw the lights of the little vineyard villages rush by. He filled his lungs, enjoying the headiest of all intoxications, the intoxication of freedom. His blood tingled and he felt the strong glow of his muscles. He was alive. He had not been caught; he was alive and had escaped.
“Have a cigarette, brother,” he said to the conductor who had joined him at the rear of the car.
“All right. But I can’t smoke it now. Thanks.”
“I can smoke mine, though.”
“Yes.” The conductor laughed good-naturedly. “That’s where you have it over me.”
“Yes,” Steiner said, drawing the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs, “that’s where I have it over you.”
He went to the rooming house where the police had picked him up. The landlady was still sitting in her office. She was startled at sight of Steiner.
“You can’t stay here,” she said quickly.
“Oh, yes I can,” Steiner said, putting down his knapsack.
“It’s out of the question, Herr Steiner. The police may come back any time. Then they’ll shut up my house.”
“Dear Luise,” Steiner said equably, “the safest place during the war was a fresh shell-hole. Another hardly ever landed immediately in the same place. So, for the time being, your flea-bag is one of the safest in Vienna.”
The landlady ran her hands distractedly through her hair. “You’re the ruination of me,” she announced pathetically.
“How nice! That’s what I’ve always wanted to be! Someone’s ruination! You’re a romantic creature, Luise.” Steiner looked around. “Is there still a little coffee and a drop to drink?”
“Coffee? And a drink?”
“Yes, dear Luise! I knew you would understand me. Such a pretty woman! Is that still the bottle of plum brandy in the cupboard?”
The landlady looked at him helplessly. “Yes, of course,” she said at last.
“Just the thing!” Steiner fetched the bottle and two glasses. “Won’t you have one too?”
“I?”
“Yes, you. Who else?”
“No.”
“Oh, come, Luise! Have one as a favor to me. There’s something unfriendly about drinking alone. Here—” He filled a glass and offered it to her.
The landlady hesitated, then took the glass. “Oh, very well. But you won’t try to stay here, will you?”
“Only for a few days,” Steiner said pacifyingly, “not more than a few days. You bring me luck. And I have plans afoot.” He smiled. “And now the coffee, dear Luise.”
“Coffee? I have no coffee here.”
“Yes you have, my child. It’s standing right over there. And I bet it’s good.”
The landlady laughed in exasperation. “Aren’t you the one! Besides, my name is not Luise; my name is Therese.”
“Therese, you are a dream.”
The landlady brought him the coffee. “Old Seligmann’s things are still here,” she said, pointing to a bag. “What in the world shall I do with them?”
“Was that the Jew with the gray beard?”
The landlady nodded. “He’s dead. I heard that much and no more—”
“Well, that’s enough for one man. Don’t you know where his children are?”
“How should I know? I can’t bother my head about things like that.”
“That’s true.” Steiner pulled the bag toward him and opened it. A number of rolls of yarn of various colors fell out. Under them, carefully packed, lay a box of shoelaces. Then came a suit, a pair of shoes, a Hebrew book, some shirts, a couple of cards of horn buttons, a small chamois bag containing one-schilling pieces, two phylacteries and a white prayer robe wrapped in tissue paper. “Not much for a whole life, eh, Therese?”
“Many have less.”
“That’s right too.” Steiner examined the Hebrew book and found a slip of paper stuck under the paper inside the cover. Carefully he drew it out. There was an address written in ink on it. “Aha! I’ll make inquiries here.” He stood up. “Thanks for the coffee and the brandy, Therese. I’ll be late tonight. You’d better put me in a room on the ground floor opening on the court. Then I can get out quick.”
The landlady was about to say something, but Steiner raised his hand. “No, no, Therese! If the door is locked on my return, I’ll come back with the whole Vienna police force. But I’m sure it won’t be locked. To give lodging to the homeless is a commandment of God. You’ll get a thousand years of bliss in Heaven for doing it. I’ll just leave my knapsack here.”
He left. He knew it was pointless to continue the conversation and he understood the extraordinarily persuasive effect that personal belongings exert upon people who lead regular lives. His knapsack would be more effective in finding quarters for him than any amount of pleading. By its voiceless presence alone it would overcome the landlady’s last objections.
Steiner went to the Café Sperler. He wanted to find the Russian, Tschernikoff. During detention they had agreed to wait there after midnight for each other on the first and second day after Steiner’s release. The Russians had had fifteen years more experience in being men without a country than the Germans. Tschernikoff had promised Steiner to look about and see whether forged passports could be bought in Vienna.
Steiner sat down at a table in the corner. He intended to order something to drink, but the waiters paid no attention to him. You did not have to order anything here; most of the people had no money.
The place was a typical emigrees’ exchange. It was full of people. Many of them were sleeping sitting up on benches and chairs; others lay on the floor with their backs against the wall. They were filling in the time until the café was closed by sleeping for nothing. From five in the morning until noon they would stroll about and wait for the café to open again. Most of them were
intellectuals. They had the hardest time adjusting themselves.
A man in a checked suit with a face like a full moon seated himself beside Steiner and regarded him for a while with lively black eyes. “Something to sell?” he asked finally. “Jewelry? Even old jewelry? I pay cash.”
Steiner shook his head.
“Suits? Shirts? Shoes?” The man looked at him searchingly. “A wedding ring perhaps?”
“Go away, you vulture,” Steiner snarled. He hated these peddlers who tried to cheat bewildered emigrees out of their last few belongings for a couple of groschen.
He called to a passing waiter. “You there! A cognac.”
The waiter glanced at him in bewilderment and came over. “Did you ask for a lawyer? There are two here. Over there in the corner is Lawyer Silber of the Court of Appeals in Berlin: one schilling per consultation. At the round table beside the door is Judge Epstein of the Munich Circuit Court: fifty groschen per consultation. Just between us, Silber is better.”
“I don’t want a lawyer, I want a cognac,” Steiner said.
The waiter put his hand to his ear. “Did I understand you correctly? A cognac?”
“Yes. A drink that tastes better if the glasses aren’t too small.”
“Very well. I beg your pardon, but I’m a little hard of hearing. And then I’m not used to the word any more. Coffee is almost the only thing that’s ordered here.”
“All right. Then bring me the cognac in a coffee cup.”
The waiter brought the cognac and remained standing by the table. “What’s the matter?” Steiner asked. “Do you want to watch me drink it?”
“You have to pay in advance. That’s the rule here. Otherwise we’d go bankrupt.”
“If that’s the rule, here you are.” Steiner paid.
“That’s too much,” the waiter said.
“The change is your tip.”
“Tip?” The waiter rolled the word on his tongue. “My God,” he said with emotion, “that’s the first one in years! Thank you, sir. That makes a fellow feel like a man again!”
A few minutes later the Russian came in. He saw Steiner immediately and sat down with him.