“Listen, Stein,” Silbermann said quickly and quietly. “I’m leaving this hotel. The Jewish concierge was arrested today. I assume some member of the staff is in contact with the police, or even worse, with the party. And they might very well sic the SA on us.”
“Where do you intend to go?” asked Stein, rather calmly taking in Silbermann’s report.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m not staying here under any circumstances.”
“I’m staying,” Stein declared. “After all, I won’t be getting out of the German Reich tonight. Nor will you. What purpose does it serve to make yourself meshuga on top of that. Anyway, things always turn out differently than you think.”
“If you want to be a fatalist, that’s your business,” Silbermann interrupted. “I intend to do what I can to avoid falling into their hands.”
“But where do you want to go? It’s the same in every hotel. All a matter of luck. Even in the cemetery a Jew isn’t safe from getting shoved around. What are you going to do?” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation.
“So are you coming or not?”
“Listen, Silbermann, if you take me along, with my nose, you might as well stay here,” he said, dismissing the thought with an almost scornful laugh. “Flee, with my nose? Absurd.”
“You could be a South American, or an Italian,” Silbermann said to console him.
Stein brushed off the idea with a wave of his hand. “I could be, but I’m not. I have a German passport.” He shook his head. “No,” he said, “there’s no help for me. I have to see to my business, that’s all I can do. A rich Jew is still worth more than a poor one. So don’t let me detain you. Farewell and take care. I’ll call you in a few days, once the anti-Semites have calmed back down. I’d like to make this deal with you, you know? By which I mean that you’ll make the deal and pay me a commission. I’m telling you, what you get off those scrapped ships is nothing by comparison. This is a positive gold mine.”
“I don’t think I’ll be making any more deals,” Silbermann said slowly, “but feel free to call me in the next few days.”
He paid for his room and explained his sudden departure more or less neatly with an unforeseen trip, gave the waiter who was filling in for the concierge a handsome tip, without really knowing why, and left the hotel.
I’ll take a train to Hamburg, he decided when he was out on the street. That’s the best thing. I have a fine man there, that Becker. I can talk things over with him and he can intercede, too. Surely today was a case of things getting out of hand. Tomorrow the government might well declare it all happened without their knowledge. Even if it is full of anti-Semites, it’s still the government, and this is something they simply can’t allow. On days like this the task is simply to survive with body and soul intact. Whoever gets hurt is always wrong. Whoever comes through unscathed is right. I want to be right.
He took a streetcar to Bahnhof Zoo. On the way he counted his cash: he had ninety-seven marks left.
He marveled at how quickly it went. From one hundred eighty to ninety-seven. From now on he had to be thrifty, at least until he caught up with Becker, since being short of money in this situation really would be the last straw.
Once at the train station he purchased a ticket to Hamburg and went straight to the platform, even though the train wasn’t due to depart for another hour. He bought a pack of chewing gum from a vending machine, and, thinking that this could calm and distract him, he stuck one piece after the other into his mouth, slowly and meticulously chewing away as he had often seen others do, until the tough substance gradually released its peppermint flavor.
He chewed vigorously for some time, with the intended mindlessness, and without deriving any pleasure—he was merely following a self-imposed task. As he did so he paced up and down the platform. He tried thinking about something pleasant, and finally imagined that his wife was likely already in bed and sleeping. But this thought brought others in its wake and, instead of reassuring him, only made him more anxious and afraid.
She’s bound to be worried, he thought. At least I ought to send her a card.
He went to the waiting room, approached the buffet, and asked for a postcard. Then he sat down, ordered a coffee, and began to write, careful not to interrupt his deliberate chewing:
Dear Elfriede.
I’ve gone to Hamburg for a business meeting. I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m doing fine. I tried calling but unfortunately couldn’t reach you. I very much hope you’re doing well.
Many heartfelt greetings,
Otto.
He looked over the contents of the card and decided it was in no way suspect, though he couldn’t imagine what he might have written that would have aroused suspicion. He left the waiting room, passed through the ticket barrier to mail the card, then returned to the platform and resumed his pacing. He was cold, and shivered as he rubbed his hands together. He had left his gloves at home. Suddenly he saw a Sicherheitsdienst officer appear next to him.
Bahnpolizei—railway police, he thought, startled. They’re going to search the train for Jews. Silbermann couldn’t remember ever having been so nervous. And it was hardly an unfamiliar sight: after all, how many SS and SA men had he encountered every day without really thinking anything of it? But now he sensed that every uniform was out to get him, and whenever he caught sight of a party member he felt: “That man is my sworn mortal enemy,” and “He has complete power over me.” He had reacted the same just after the Nazi “takeover”—but now it was even worse.
Silbermann resumed his pacing. When he was twenty meters away from the SS man he again turned in his direction. Am I really more anxious than other people? he asked himself. How would an SS man feel if he were forced to move about inside a Bolshevik state? And what if he had some additional marking, some feature that made him stick out like poor Fritz Stein?
These thoughts allowed him to feel his fear was justified. It was also comforting to imagine his enemies encountering their own day of dread, and Silbermann, who had always viewed the party of expropriation with disapproval and disgust, now found himself almost sympathizing with it, as his possible avenger. The idea was tremendously satisfying, and he clung to it for some time.
From a safe distance, Silbermann darted a glance at the unsuspecting man in uniform, as though to say: just wait, this is a long way from being over.
The train pulled into the station hall, and Silbermann, who had positioned himself in front of the sign marked 2ND CLASS, got rid of the gum he had been faithfully chewing the entire time—which suddenly struck him as very silly. Then he boarded the train. He entered a smoking compartment, took a forward-facing seat by the window, and looked out at the platform, which was still quite empty. He yawned, checked his watch, and determined that it would be quite a while before the train departed. The idea of waiting was hardly a pleasant one, since he didn’t think he would recover his inner peace until the train was moving.
In any case I’m looking forward to speaking with Becker, he thought. He felt a growing desire for that man’s company—although more as his business partner than for the person himself.
Hopefully he’ll still be awake, Silbermann thought, but even if he’s already in bed it doesn’t matter. I’ll simply wake him. I absolutely have to speak with him today. How come he didn’t warn me? Usually he always knows everything in advance.
Suddenly Silbermann had a horrifying suspicion.
Becker had known. And it suited him this way. Now he has me at his mercy. He can rob me of my entire fortune in one fell swoop. The truth is I never fully trusted him. Maybe he’s just as much a scoundrel as Findler! Here he’s already pocketing half the revenue, but that’s not enough for him. He wants the capital. He’s already hinted at that. What did he say recently? “I need something to build on, Otto. When I think about it, I realize I don’t have anything at all that I can build on.”
And he’s a Nazi, too. He’s never made any secret about that. Maybe he just
wanted to wait for the right moment so he could grab everything at once. A gambler. How could I have ever trusted a gambler? But these days it takes a gambler to do business with a Jew—no one else dares.
Silbermann couldn’t sit still any longer. He stepped into the corridor and leaned out a window. The fresh, cool air did him good.
How could I possibly have thought that Becker wanted to betray me? he now asked himself. He was always a decent fellow, and we’ve known each other half our lives. It’s the times that make a person doubt everyone and everything. Still, you shouldn’t let them throw you off track.
He stepped aside to make room for a married couple who, having checked several compartments, finally sat down in his. The man could easily be a Jew, Silbermann thought, and leaned back out the window. The train was sparsely occupied, and Silbermann was glad not to have any other travelers choose his compartment.
I’ll be able to sleep, he thought, once again yawning. I’m certainly tired enough.
The train slowly started rolling, and Silbermann left the corridor. He settled comfortably in his seat, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep. But even though the rhythm of the wheels, which had always had a lulling effect on him, made him more tired than he already was, he stayed awake. Now and then he registered bits and pieces from his companions’ conversation, which from what he could tell moved from a critique of shared acquaintances to the pros and cons of air travel.
After ten long minutes of trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, Silbermann righted himself in his seat. Only now did he notice that the man was wearing the gold party badge on his coat lapel. Silbermann automatically furrowed his brow and cast a sullen glance in his direction, then he tilted his head back into the upholstery but kept his eyes open and stared sleepily ahead, without thinking anything in particular.
First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call Elfriede and send her a telegram in addition to the postcard, he resolved. Maybe I should have called Fräulein Gersch again. And what about Becker—strange that I haven’t heard a single word from him. I’m eager to know if he picked up the money. Also I ought to write Eduard one more time, the boy has no idea what’s going on here … And what actually happened at home? I probably should have sent someone to check. Here I am sitting in this train and have no idea, they might have done something to her, my God. At least Findler was there—the man’s uncouth but he’s reliable. This display he puts on, this pretense of decency—that’s what Findler has—a phony uprightness like all these scoundrels. Ten thousand marks down payment, how outrageous can you get! Thank God Elfriede has money. Where’s it all going to lead? I’m as helpless as a little child. Who could have imagined anything like it? In the middle of Europe, in the twentieth century!
The conductor came and checked the tickets.
Silbermann felt a need to say something and asked when they were due to arrive in Hamburg, even though he knew.
Before the conductor could reply, the man with the gold party badge answered the question. Silbermann thanked him for the information, and a conversation developed. After a few remarks about the weather, the speed of express trains and automobiles, the man with the party badge asked if Silbermann played chess.
Silbermann nodded amenably, and the other man immediately pulled a small travel set out of his briefcase and began arranging the pieces. This was a novel situation for Silbermann, but he didn’t see any reason not to accept the challenge. Besides, he assumed the game would make him focus on other things, which would be helpful as well as relaxing. It would also occupy the other man enough to keep him from talking.
It soon became clear that Silbermann was by far the better player. For a moment he wondered whether he shouldn’t let the other man win, just for the sake of caution, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and after an hour of silent combat he put the other man in checkmate.
“Very nice,” acknowledged the man with the party badge, and began to explain to his wife, who had dozed off during the match but was once again awake and drowsily sizing up Silbermann, why he had lost his king’s pawn and what other mistakes had led to his defeat.
“If I had moved my rook to a3 instead of g4, then you would have … no, I should have castled beforehand, but then you would have taken your knight and, no … obviously I should have first moved my queen back. I have no idea, normally I play much better. But I’m exhausted, that’s what it is.”
Silbermann nodded to everything.
“Your opening impressed me,” the man said, with the authority of an expert. “Oh well, I just wanted … but shall we perhaps play another round?”
It was clear he desperately wanted to make up for his loss.
“I’m not sure we’ll finish before we get to Hamburg,” Silbermann pointed out.
“We can play a blitz game. Incidentally, if I may, my name is Turner.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Silbermann answered dryly.
He now expected the question: And with whom do I have the pleasure?
I’ll just say Silb, he decided.
But the other man didn’t ask, and so they began their second round. This time the man with the party badge tried very hard and managed to gain a slight advantage over Silbermann. But Silbermann also concentrated and played with a dogged earnestness and a fervent inner rage, as if something extraordinary depended on their game.
His opponent’s face reddened, and the man blinked excitedly as he pressed his lips together and kept nudging his wife to call her attention to the various positions. At one point he wanted to take back a move but abandoned the idea when he caught sight of Silbermann’s slightly raised eyebrow. Then he made two different moves than he had intended, and ultimately he lost this match as well.
“You’re a very skillful player,” he said, but this time his voice sounded more reproachful than respectful.
“I played poorly,” Silbermann lied, aware of the arrogance implied by this self-belittlement. The hostile remark further humiliated the defeated man, who could at least claim to have made Silbermann exert himself.
The man shuffled about uncomfortably on the seat cushion, looked at his fingernails, then at the chess set next to him, and finally said, “All good things come in threes. Don’t you want to beat me a third time?”
“I’m not at all that confident in my ability,” Silbermann said by way of restraint, and so they began their third match.
I’m going to be reasonable, Silbermann decided. I’m going to lose. But he won once again. They played a fourth and fifth match, and as the train pulled into Hamburg the man with the party badge had just lost his sixth. His regard for Silbermann was now practically boundless.
“I must see you again,” he requested as they said good-bye. “It’s been a long time since I encountered a player as good as you.” He gave Silbermann his calling card.
Silbermann read: Hermann Turner, chief engineer, Kleiststraße 14, and glanced at the telephone number.
“I just might give you a ring in the near future,” he said, good-humoredly.
“Yes, please do,” the other said, with all the humility of a mediocre player trying to entice a grandmaster to a game.
They shook hands and parted company.
A real human being, Silbermann thought happily. That was a real human being despite his party badge. Maybe things aren’t all that bad. People with whom you can play chess, and who can lose without being offended or insolent, are hardly robbers and killers.
His chess victories had given him quite a boost, and when he left the station, he no longer had the feeling he was fleeing, that he was weak and all alone. He had proven that he could still win. He wondered whether he should take a taxi, but then decided to go on foot, since the hotel wasn’t all that far away. Few people were on the streets, and there were almost no cars. When he came to the Jungfernstieg, he looked out over the Alster and spent a while staring at the gray water. He studied the reflections of the streetlamps on the dark flowing surface and inhaled deeply the refreshing,
moist, cool air.
“What actually is the matter?” he asked himself. Things are hard, and there’s harassment, that’s certain. But sooner or later they’ll leave us alone again, and I’ll just emigrate. Things aren’t all that bad, when it comes down to it. Despite everything, I’m still alive.
THREE
Becker was sitting with two Sturmführers, clearly at ease and enjoying himself, dining and drinking champagne—as had become his custom in recent years after closing a business deal. When he caught sight of Silbermann taking a seat at the next table, his relaxed mood vanished and he seemed on edge, shooting reproachful glances at his friend. Don’t even think of joining us, his eyes warned, while at the same time asking: Why did you come? Why did you follow me? What on earth are you thinking, anyway?
Silbermann acted as though he hadn’t noticed his partner’s admonishing gaze and chiding glances. He studied the menu for a long time and then ordered a steak and a half-bottle of red wine, in a natural if somewhat faltering voice. He had slept through the whole morning and by the time he woke up it was practically one in the afternoon. Now it was nearly 2:00.
The evening before had gotten very late. Becker hadn’t been in the hotel when Silbermann arrived, and after waiting a long time in vain, he went to look for a place to spend the night. He hadn’t dared to ask for a room in the Vier Jahreszeiten—the doorman’s “Heil Hitler” had sounded too sincere. So he had gone to a guesthouse for foreigners that he knew of, where he was able to sleep undisturbed. However, when he filled out the official registration just as he was leaving, and they saw his name, he was told that in the future he’d be better off staying in a guesthouse reserved for Jews. The comment did not exactly improve his mood.
Silbermann cast sullen glances at Becker.
That man sitting there, he thought, that friend of mine—at least I hope he’s my friend—has my fortune in his pocket. Then he wondered whether their Hamburg business associates might have tried to change the terms of the deal. In actuality everything had been clearly spelled out and agreed to, he told himself. But nothing was so clear it couldn’t become murky again. On the other hand, Becker was a capable businessman and also a reliable one. Reliable, without a doubt. Absolutely. Together they had netted seven thousand marks from dismantling that ship: if they had taken on the actual scrapping as well, they would have likely earned even more. As it was, they’d put in a lot of work and had had their share of troubles. In any case I’ll be happy and content just to get my money back, thought Silbermann.
The Passenger Page 5