“I didn’t dismantle anything, we just took the entire capital in order to … but it’s pointless to talk about it. Here is your letter.”
Becker opened his briefcase, took out a few packets of bills, and began to count.
“Forty-one thousand five hundred marks,” he said, when he was finally finished. “So there, I gave you fifty percent after all. Be so kind as to count it.” Then he bent over the table and whispered confidentially, “See that you manage to get it over the border.”
“Spare me your advice,” Silbermann said dismissively.
After they finished the transaction, Becker sighed. “No offense, Otto,” he said, suddenly lapsing back into the old, friendly tone. “Once I really start winning, you know my system, you’ll get your money back with interest. Yesterday I lost nine thousand marks because I had to stop too early. But now I’m going to win back every penny I ever lost.”
Silbermann stood up abruptly. “For a real villain,” he said, “you’re lacking in flair. And for a decent human being, but above all for a friend, you’re decidedly too slimy for my taste.”
He walked out of the café. Becker watched him, taken aback.
The Jew isn’t all that wrong, he thought. But I have to pay my debts once and for all. I can’t cheat the people out of their money. This last moral consideration calmed him once again. A pity, though, he went on thinking, as he left the café, we were friends for so long—I’ll make up for it all eventually!
FOUR
Silbermann’s coat pockets were bulging out from all the bills, so he went to a shop to buy a briefcase. After making the purchase he realized it was already 6:55, so he dashed to the nearest post office, where he took a form from the telegraph counter and sent a local telegram to his wife. Because he was worried about returning to his apartment, he asked her to meet him in a café closer to home.
When he left the post office he wondered what he should do with the forty-one thousand five hundred marks he had recovered. He decided not to dwell on the matter of Becker and how deeply his former friend had disappointed him, although that did little to stave off his painful, depressing reflections.
He took a streetcar to the place where he was expecting Elfriede. For some strange reason he was convinced that she would come. Once inside, he set his hat on a chair and went to the men’s room to transfer the money to his briefcase. On his way back to his table he noticed that the place was full of men in uniform, and he instinctively hugged his briefcase close to his body. Half an hour passed. By then Silbermann had drunk his third cup of coffee and was becoming increasingly nervous.
Hopefully the telegram was delivered right away, he thought. How long does that usually take? I should have asked. If she had received it, she could be here in five minutes. Assuming she was at home. After all, she had to go back to the apartment sooner or later. I’m sure I’ve been waiting here at least an hour, he thought, but a glance at the clock told him it had been only thirty-five minutes.
Mulling over his situation, he wondered: what am I supposed to do now? Because they’re still going after Jews. I can’t stay a single night in my apartment—not with forty-one thousand marks!
We have to leave Germany, but no place will let us in. I have enough money to start a new life, but how to get it out of the country? I don’t have the nerve to try to smuggle it across. Should I stay or go? What to do?
Should I risk ten years in prison for a currency offense? But what other choice is there? Without money I’d starve out there. Every road leads to ruin, every single one. How am I supposed to fight against the state?
“Waiter, please bring me a glass of water.”
Other people were smarter. Other people are always smarter! If I’d realized in time what was going on, I could have saved my money. But everyone was constantly reassuring me, Becker more than anybody. And fool that I am, I let myself be reassured. Which is why I’m stranded here. The devil take the hindmost. An old but true saying. And this time I happen to be the hindmost. But aren’t there still six hundred thousand Jews living in Greater Germany? How do they manage? Oh, they’ll know how to take care of themselves. Other people always know better. Just not me, even though I wasn’t born yesterday, either!
Maybe things aren’t half so bad, and the whole business is one big psychosis. But no, I should finally acknowledge the reality of the situation: things are going to get worse—much, much worse! Moreover, the fact that it takes someone like Becker to disabuse me shouldn’t come as a surprise. The scoundrel. But what good does it do to get worked up? I have to get out of Germany! Only there’s no place to go! To make it out of here you have to leave your money behind, and to be let in elsewhere you have to show you still have it. It’s enough to drive a person mad! If you dare do anything, you risk getting punished, and if you do nothing you’ll be punished all the more. It’s just like in school. If you did the math problems completely on your own you’d get an “unsatisfactory,” while if you copied off a better student you’d get a “good”—unless you were caught, and then you’d get a “fail.” Which is what you would have gotten in the first place if you’d been entirely honest and hadn’t even attempted to solve the problem: one way or the other, you always wind up with the same result.
He smiled sadly and lit a cigarette.
Nevertheless I have to try to make it out, he thought, and sighed. Except I know I’ll wind up right inside the barbed wire. I see it coming.
He reached for his briefcase and placed it behind him, against the back of his chair, just to feel secure.
Forty-one thousand marks, he thought, that’s still something! Even in the Third Reich. I count myself lucky that I recovered that much. If I’d been a little more sensible when I spoke with Becker, I probably could have salvaged even more. But when faced with such despicable behavior, who could avoid getting riled up, let alone be able to coolly assess the situation?
Silbermann only now realized that for some time he’d been looking a few tables away at an attractive woman of about thirty who was wearing a green dress. The woman smiled faintly—just enough to encourage him.
“Well,” said Silbermann, then he looked away. My type, went through his head, and: she looks very charming, refreshing … He recalled days long gone when he had been somewhat of a “ladies’ man,” and without intending to, he once again observed her. I’m letting my guard down, he thought, relaxing my internal discipline. That’s a bad sign! I get mesmerized by a pretty face and let myself be cheated by idiots. Am I starting to go senile? Is she actually smiling, or am I just imagining? That would have to be determined. Now she’s turning away. And she’s right to do so. Not only am I married, but I have plenty of other worries.
He turned serious again and let out another sigh, which attracted the woman’s attention.
They always think everything is meant for them, he thought, with reproach as well as amusement. Naturally anytime a man sighs it must be because of a woman.
He looked at the clock.
What’s keeping Elfriede? I’ll try reaching Findler again, he decided.
He stood up and walked past the woman. She didn’t smile at all, which was also fine as far as he was concerned.
Inside the booth he searched through the phone book to find the number of the guesthouse where Findler had been living. A maid answered who not only did not know Findler’s new telephone number but had no idea he even existed. He asked her to check with the others, but the landlady, who might have been able to tell him, was absent, and the rest of the staff didn’t know.
With all the back-and-forth, the phone conversation lasted about ten minutes, and afterward Silbermann hurried back into the café since he still hoped his wife might have turned up, but she hadn’t.
Meanwhile the lady in green had left, a fact that he only noted in passing, but which further dampened his mood.
He had the impression that the place had emptied out, and soon the waiting became unbearable. Then he was horrified to realize that he’d left
his briefcase on the chair when he went outside to phone. His absentmindedness worried him greatly, and he forgot all about the lady in green. Keeping an anxious eye on the other guests, he hurried to stash some of the money back in his suit pockets, so that at least he would avoid a total loss.
It was already eight o’clock. He ordered a meat platter and ate with good appetite. However, every time the door of the café opened, he gave a start and turned around, hopeful but also expecting another disappointment. By twenty minutes after eight he’d finished his meal and asked the waiter for the bill.
That’s it, he decided, I’m going to go. I simply have to know what’s happening. Then he remembered that at nine o’clock he could call Fräulein Gersch, but after a moment’s hesitation he decided to leave after all. He was so impatient that instead of going on foot he took a taxi.
The eighteen-year-old son of the doorman was standing in front of the building, dressed in the uniform of the SA. When he saw Silbermann climbing out of the cab, he turned around and hurried inside.
That’s a bad sign, thought Silbermann, pausing for a moment to weigh his options. In any event I’ll have to be very quick and leave the apartment right away, he concluded.
He rushed up the stairs. He rang several times and, since he didn’t hear any footsteps, he unlocked the door. He was distraught to see glass splinters on the rug. Then he noticed that the large front-hall mirror had been shattered.
Calling card of the master race, he thought, incensed, and hurried into the dining room. Seeing that the furniture was still intact, he concluded that yesterday’s visitors hadn’t ventured into this room. And even though they must have posed a great temptation for such robust hands, the crystal bowls were also still intact.
“Elfriede!” Silbermann called, and rang immediately for the maid. Obviously they’re not here—I knew it, he thought, and once again called out his wife’s name. He opened the door of the parlor. Here the marks of heavy feet were evident. The floor was littered with shards of porcelain. Silbermann saw the étagère standing amid the shattered tea service.
He again called out, “Elfriede!” Then he sensed that was pointless. She isn’t here, they’ve taken her away, it’s possible they’ve done something to her. And meanwhile I took a train to Hamburg … I ate and I drank coffee and chattered away and saw to my business deals. I was everywhere but here, which is where I should have been.
He went to the back part of the apartment to look for the maid. He called out for her, checked in the kitchen and in her room, but of course she wasn’t there. Of course! How on earth could he have thought that everything would be normal and exactly the way it had been except for the telephone being out of order?
“I made it too easy for myself,” he groaned as he moved quickly to the bedroom and then the dressing room. “My optimism was nothing but cowardice! If only I’d come back sooner, but instead I chose to sit down with Becker—as if I couldn’t just have easily waited until later to let myself be cheated. What use are the forty-one thousand marks to me now!”
He looked at the objects lying on the floor, the overturned tables and chairs, the slashed paintings and torn-down curtains. Then, in an act of hopeless, unrestrained fury, he kicked a pile of books that had been pulled off the bookcase, sending them flying in all directions, and collapsed onto a leather armchair that had withstood all attempts at destruction, and stared expressionless at the floor.
“The end of the song,” he mumbled, “the end of the song.” He didn’t know exactly what he meant by that.
Something gleamed on the carpet. He picked it up. It was a party badge that one of the intruders must have lost. Silbermann studied the small swastika. “You murderer,” he whispered, “you murderer…” He put it in his jacket pocket.
“This is evidence,” he said out loud. “Sufficient evidence!” He reached into his pocket and clasped the badge tightly, as though he wanted to crush it. Then he took it back out and studied it once again. Finally he stood up.
“I’m going to examine everything,” he said. “I’m going to make sure everything is substantiated and then…” He didn’t know how to go on. He saw that they’d broken into his desk and the money stored there was gone. “Yes indeed,” he said, “yes indeed”—as if that gave him great satisfaction. But then he was overcome with despair.
If only I’d stayed, he thought. If only I’d stayed here! It would never have ended so badly. I would have talked to them, given them money. Because what else are they after? Nothing. I was never politically active. Never in my life. Only once did I buy a forbidden newspaper, but not a soul on earth knows about that.
Suddenly he had an idea. He hurried to the dining room and lifted the large Delft bowl off the credenza. Underneath he found her letter. He was so excited that when he tore open the envelope he damaged the contents. He pulled up one of the tall carved chairs, sat down, and read:
Dear Otto.
The people just now left the apartment, and they intend to come back. I called the doctor right away, because Herr Findler was badly hurt. Tonight I’m going to Ernst’s in Küstrin. I have no idea what I should do, but I’m not staying here another hour. I took the money from the desk. I’m giving Frau Fellner the key to the apartment and in Küstrin I’ll hire a carrier to retrieve the things. Please write immediately to Ernst’s address, but it’s better if you don’t come. Jews in the small towns are being treated even worse. The best would be if you went to Eduard right away!!! After all, I can come later. Please write at once, because I’m terribly worried about you …
The ending was hardly decipherable.
“I ought to be glad now,” Silbermann said to himself quietly. “So why aren’t I?”
So, she has the money, he then thought. Why didn’t they steal it? People break into houses in order to steal. He shook his head and went on speaking his thoughts out loud. “I don’t understand. The whole thing is simply unreal. They come, they break in, they chase people away—it doesn’t make sense for them not to have stolen things.”
He stood up.
Still, it’s all good, he forced himself to think. “Everything’s fine,” he then said. “It was just a false alarm. She’s safe—of course I’ll go to Eduard. Actually I ought to be dancing with joy, when I think about how lucky I’ve been.”
He sat back down. I have to check again to see if they really didn’t steal anything, he then decided. That had to have been their motive. What else could it be? Hate? They don’t even know me. And out of the blue like that. In one day? Following orders? Strange.
He went through the apartment.
No, they hadn’t stolen anything, as far as he could see, only destroyed things. The government, he thought, knows why it does what it’s doing. The government needs money. But why did these individual people do this? Why?
Then he remembered Findler. Poor man, he thought. It turns out that transacting business in this particular milieu isn’t so simple after all. Silbermann couldn’t help smiling, though at the same time he felt it wasn’t very nice of him to do.
He had entered the bedroom and let himself drop onto his bed. I have to leave, he thought, as he closed his eyes. “Ach,” he said to himself. “I’d really like to stay. To sleep … But instead now I have to head to the border … I’ve never been capable of that sort of thing, I simply don’t know how. Secretly slipping past the guards…” He shuddered at the thought. “What do they want from me anyway,” he asked quietly. “All I want is to live in peace and earn my bread … The border! Me, sneaking over the border—my God.”
He jumped up.
It’s no use, he thought. Now is no time to let myself go! I have to pull myself together!
Newly resolved to do whatever he must, Silbermann vigorously smoothed out his jacket. Then he started packing his suitcase, taking only what was absolutely essential for the journey, and his mood again became more hopeful. A quarter hour later he was finished and took one last walk through his apartment. We had such a beautiful, comforta
ble life here, he thought, and now I have to leave everything behind and run away from my old life, because … because …
Succumbing to his worries, Silbermann sighed and again sat down on the chair, until the bell of a passing streetcar startled him back to his plan of action.
From underneath a pile of magazines that were stacked in a side shelf of the bookcase, he retrieved some hidden papers, including his military service book, the membership cards of various Jewish organizations, as well as the land registry deed for his building.
He felt sad as he stared at the certificate. That once meant money, he thought: seven thousand marks in rent. And fool that I am, I had the whole building repainted last year. Another thing I could have done without.
In an attempt to shrug off his melancholy mood, he strived to discern a certain pathetic irony in the new circumstances. It’s actually quite simple, he thought: I’ve been declared to be in the service of a hostile power, which means I’m back to being a soldier. Only now my mission is to smuggle myself and my briefcase through both German and French lines.
But no matter how emboldening his thoughts, his mood could not be lifted.
He stowed the papers in his briefcase and took out six thousand marks to put in his suitcase. Then he debated whether he shouldn’t also quickly pack his suits, his wife’s fur coat, and her evening dresses. In the end he decided not to, since he felt he’d already spent too long in the apartment.
We’re losing so much, he consoled himself, that these things no longer matter. He contented himself with locking the cabinets and drawers and taking the keys. Of course I forgot the most important thing, he thought, as he carried his suitcase through the apartment for the fifth or sixth time. Did Elfriede at least take her jewelry? She should have written about that, now I have to … Why didn’t she—I don’t understand!
The Passenger Page 8