The Passenger

by Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz

  “Well, you wealthy people have it easy,” Lilienfeld said wistfully. “You always manage to wriggle out of everything. Tell me, are you a millionaire?”

  Silbermann smiled. “No, I’m really not,” he said.

  “I thought you might be. You look like one. So calm. I think as a rule rich people have smooth faces without a lot of wrinkles, right?”

  “There are as many different types of faces as there are types of worry. If you don’t have one kind you have another. Is my situation any better than yours?”

  “Maybe not at the moment, but otherwise it is! I don’t begrudge you, either. I don’t envy anybody! At most my brother, he’s in South America. He managed to get out of Germany and he’s earning good money there. But he’s also been through a lot. We all have. You, too. I’m really happy that you’re a rich man. Because otherwise how else would I have managed to come up with the two hundred marks?”

  “They stole two hundred thousand marks from me, if I include the apartment house!” said Silbermann, more to himself than to the other.

  “Two hundred thousand marks,” Lilienfeld sighed reverently. “And here I thought I shouldn’t have asked for two hundred in exchange for nothing more than an address. But two hundred thousand! How does that make you feel? I can only imagine. I lost five or six thousand marks myself—that’s how much my shop was worth. But this. It must be absolutely horrible. It would be better if you’d never had it, I think. And here you wanted to give me an extra hundred! That shows that you’re a noble soul. But maybe you’re also thinking it no longer matters.”

  “Maybe,” said Silbermann, holding back his smile with effort.

  “Still, you meant it very well,” Lilienfeld decided. “You must be in complete despair, losing two hundred thousand marks—I think I’d do something to myself!”

  Silbermann shook his head. “The amount itself doesn’t matter,” he said. “After all, losing your business was…”

  “Yes, my wonderful shop,” Lilienfeld interrupted, wistfully. “I had two display windows, you know? Sure they were small all right, but they brought in a lot of business! I even fashioned pews for the church, despite the fact that I’m a Jew! Incidentally, the Jewish community still owes me three hundred marks!” For a moment Lilienfeld seemed lost in thought. “And now it’s all gone, everything, just like that! The windows smashed, and the landlord gave me notice. Then they wanted to arrest me on top of that. If only I’d been able to pack my tools! All gone, everything…” He propped his elbows on his knees and buried his head between his hands. “I wasn’t even able to take my Sunday suit!” he said gloomily.

  “You see, I’m no worse off than you,” Silbermann said, picking back up the thread of the conversation. “Whether you lose two hundred thousand marks or your shop, it’s not that big a difference. As it is, I managed to save some money.”

  Lilienfeld looked up. “Which is getting in the way of your own safety and security,” he said, as if to insist that Silbermann was more unfortunate than he himself.

  “Security,” said Silbermann. “There’s no security without money.”

  “But right now your money isn’t making you secure. On the contrary, it is putting you in danger.”

  “There are always two sides to everything,” Silbermann admitted. Then he laughed. “I find it amusing how we’re both pitying each other and how each of us is trying to prove that the other is worse off, as though that were some kind of consolation.”

  “I don’t pity you at all,” Lilienfeld contested. “Not in the least! You were always well off, but not me. I’ve been through a lot, but because of that it’s easier for me now!”

  “Exactly,” said Silbermann, laughing. “It’s easier for you!”

  “You don’t need to laugh about it. That’s just the way it is. I haven’t lost two hundred thousand marks, and I don’t need to sneak any money over the border. I’m happy as a clam!”

  “You’re a nice person.” Silbermann grinned. “Really!”

  “You’ve always had it pretty good, am I right?”

  “That’s not a question for which there’s a simple answer. In one sense you’re right, but then again, I was in the war.”

  “The war wasn’t good,” Lilienfeld admitted. “But it wasn’t all that bad, either. We were always just one of many, part of a group. And now we’re alone. There’s no longer someone giving commands, there’s no order you can stick to. You have to run and there’s no one telling you where to. The pressure’s a lot worse now than it was under the Prussian officers. The war wasn’t pleasant, by any means! But we were soldiers. Soldiers among soldiers. And now we’re filthy Jews and the others are Aryans! They’re living in peace, and we’re being hounded, only us. That’s the worst thing! The other carpenters are doing their business and getting on with their lives. While I have to get out, go away! That’s the thing! The war was also a unique situation, but not just for us, not just for me! There was a community. Everybody was affected.”

  “Be glad you don’t belong to the new community! It’s hard to imagine one that’s worse or more stupid and brutal. A good minority is still better than a bad majority.”

  “So you say! But I had to sit in my shop and watch them march past, with flags and music. At times I could practically scream, let me tell you. They were all people I knew. The veteran’s association, the skat club, the guild. All former friends, and suddenly you’re sitting there completely alone. No one wants to have anything more to do with you, and if they do happen to run into you, then you wind up being the one who looks away just so you don’t have to see them doing it. That’s why I didn’t dare set foot outside. I kept thinking: you’ll end up bumping into someone and then get worked up all over again. This person was in your class at school, that person trained alongside you or was one of the regulars at your table in the pub. And now? Now you’re just air, and bad air at that!”

  “But all of that only reflects on the others!”

  “It doesn’t matter who it reflects on! The fact is that I’ve been through hell. They smeared the word ‘Jew’ all over my shop windows, and then I had to wipe it all off while the whole street was watching. The thing is that it was mostly the work of Willi Schröder, whose father I once had to take to court because he didn’t want to pay. But this wasn’t just some silly boy’s prank, either. And it’s not something you can really get over. What can I do about that, tell me. It’s not a feeling you can ever get rid of, once it’s there. If I were a pious Jew, I would say none of that matters. But I’m not. I was in the war, and I’ve seen it all!”

  Lilienfeld paused a moment before continuing.

  “And then you become so sensitive. You start smelling meanness everywhere. Whereas all you want is to be able to work in peace, have a glass of beer in the evening, play a nice game of skat, just like everybody else. And you can tell me all about the chosen people and how God is testing them. I couldn’t care less about that. I’m perfectly happy being a tradesman. And now I have to put up with being treated like a robber and murderer! The only thing missing is for them to start spitting on us.”

  Lilienfeld stared dully ahead.

  “So, it all just comes because I have a better head on my shoulders,” he then said, convinced and relieved. He now looked as though he expected Silbermann to pat him on the shoulder and say, “Cheer up, Lilienfeld!”

  Silbermann, who had been quite gripped by Lilienfeld’s story, had to smile at his companion’s naive conclusion.

  “I’m thirsty for some coffee!” Lilienfeld declared, now that he had said his piece and was probably also afraid of falling into too melancholy a mood. “At the next station I’m definitely hopping off for a coffee and some brandy, that’s my usual routine. Do you know when the dining car is open?”

  “I’m not sure if there is one yet: it might get added at Dortmund. We can go through the train and check.”

  They both got up and went into the corridor. A man was standing at the window in front of the neighboring compar
tment. He politely stepped back to let them pass, and they went on.

  “I hope he didn’t hear our conversation,” said Lilienfeld, after they were out of earshot. “You were speaking so loudly. One has to be very careful. I’ve heard these trains are full of informers.”

  They made their way to the next car, which was second class, and where the corridor was completely empty. As they passed through two sleeping cars they ran into a member of the staff but no one else. Finally they wound up in a third-class car, where the corridor was full of people smoking, chatting, and looking out the window.

  Lilienfeld stood on the coupling that was swaying back and forth under their feet and grabbed Silbermann by the arm.

  “I’m not going any further,” he whispered. “There are too many Christians here for my taste!”

  “But why are you so afraid?” asked Silbermann.

  “Why? Yesterday they attacked my shop. Once you’ve been through everything I have, you’ll start thinking differently!”

  “Come on, you just have to stay calm and keep going. No one can tell by looking that you’re Jewish.”

  “Except you noticed right away!”

  “Only because you were so uneasy.”

  “Well, in any case I’m turning around,” Lilienfeld announced. “I don’t have to prove how brave I am for a cup of coffee. Having the nerve to do something is all well and good, but having your peace is even better.”

  “What do you think might happen to you?”

  “I don’t know. All it takes is running into a single acquaintance and there you have it. Sure, that’s not going to happen—but what if it does?”

  They turned around.

  “I don’t understand you,” said Silbermann on their way back. “Earlier you wanted to be in third class so you’d be surrounded by people.”

  “Call it paranoia,” said Lilienfeld, enlightened. “I feel as if I were somehow branded. Besides, I don’t think Jews are allowed in the dining car.”

  “Jews aren’t allowed to live their lives,” Silbermann answered. “Do you want to be ruled by that?”

  Lilienfeld didn’t speak again until they had reached their compartment. “Sometimes I feel utterly discouraged and fainthearted,” he said, a little ashamed of his explanation. “It took me days before I was willing to leave my shop. Because I was afraid that someone might start shoving me around or insult me. Even though business was bad, I didn’t chase after any new orders. You know sometimes I have the sense that nothing’s going right anymore, nothing at all!”

  “Come on,” said Silbermann encouragingly. “I much preferred that nice optimism you had before. Don’t give up on yourself like that! I’m sure you lived through far more dangerous situations in the war. And there you were lucky and came out of it safe and sound. Maybe in eight days you’ll have already found work abroad, and then all of this will be behind you. Just don’t give in, my friend! Don’t break down. Keep your eye on the goal, and you’ll be sure to reach it! Weltschmerz isn’t something you can afford! That can come later, when you’re digesting a good meal—then you’re allowed to be melancholic.”

  “You’re right,” said Lilienfeld, noticeably brighter. “If you want we can go again!”

  How great is the power of words, Silbermann marveled, not at all feeling the same encouragement he had talked his companion into.

  “No, no,” he said. “Let’s leave it. You aren’t completely wrong, either. A waiter is likely to show up soon, and if not we’ll share a cup of coffee at the next station.”

  “I wonder if I’ll make it,” asked Lilienfeld, once again very downcast.

  “Make what?”

  “I mean, if I’ll make it over the border. If I won’t get caught. I could just as easily run right into the guards on the other side and get sent back. In which case I’d do myself in.”

  “Man!” said Silbermann with feigned jauntiness. “Stop all that shilly-shallying! And don’t even think such crazy thoughts. If it doesn’t work out the first time, then it will the second. I don’t understand you!”

  “Aren’t you at all afraid?” Lilienfeld defended himself.

  “I am. Of course. But I refuse to give in to my fear!” said Silbermann, nice and firmly.

  FIVE

  Inside the post office, Silbermann paced uneasily back and forth, waiting to be told the telephone call he had requested was being put through. So as not to arouse suspicion, he went out of his way to look relaxed and cheerful.

  He’d arrived in Aachen an hour earlier and left his suitcase at the baggage check, while holding on to his valuable briefcase, which he was now carrying under his arm. After Silbermann had seen Lilienfeld off in Dortmund, accompanied by his strongest words of encouragement, he’d had time to write a long, detailed letter to his wife as well as another one to his sister that communicated only what was most essential. He’d also sent Elfriede a reassuring telegram.

  If nothing else, I’ve put my affairs in some degree of order, he thought as he paced. He found it was pleasant and calming at least to have addressed things in writing, even if none of his problems had actually been solved.

  But after he’d waited ten minutes and his call still hadn’t gone through, he gradually began to have misgivings. He wondered if his son might not be in, or whether a new regulation had been passed concerning long-distance calls, perhaps requiring the police to be notified whenever a number was requested for abroad. What if they stop me and ask me for the purpose of the call? Maybe they’ll search me, too, and find the money. Especially in a border town they’d think I was up to something. What do you need these forty thousand marks for? they’ll ask, and next they’ll confiscate my money and haul me off to the concentration camp!

  He was annoyed by these fearful thoughts, which he blamed on Lilienfeld. To ease his nerves he started humming to himself.

  The clerk waved him over. That was very nice of him. After all, even though Silbermann was standing just across from the counter, the man could have conspicuously called out “Connection to Paris!” and many eyes would have turned in his direction.

  Silbermann stepped inside the booth, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and was about to light it when he remembered that he’d have to open the door during the call to let out the smoke. The burning match singed his finger before he managed to toss it away.

  “Hello,” Eduard answered. “Father?”

  “Yes, good morning. How are you? I just burned my finger on a match.”

  “How are you and Mother doing? I’ve been worried sick!”

  “I’m here in Aachen,” Silbermann said pointedly. “Mother’s in Küstrin with your uncle. Have you finally managed to get the permit?”

  “No! I haven’t—things don’t happen that quickly. And it’s unlikely I’ll get anything very soon. I’ve already tried every possible approach, but … I’m very glad that you both … that you managed … I’m happy to hear your voice.”

  “You might not hear it so often much longer.” He grimaced in pain as he rubbed his burnt finger on the cool metal of the telephone box.

  “Can’t you get to Belgium, Father? Or Holland? You could wait there.”

  “There’s no chance. My only hope was that you could somehow make it possible. But you aren’t the French government. I understand that. I’m sure you’ve done everything you could.”

  “I’m still trying and will keep doing what I can. It might come through yet. I’m just glad that you’re in Aachen.”

  “That’s no reason to be glad.” Silbermann examined his burned finger, which hurt so badly he had a hard time concentrating on anything else, despite his urgent circumstances. “Yes, ma’am, we’re still talking,” he said to the operator who had cut in to ask. “So Eduard, see to it, all right? Be well … and I’ll send on a few patterns.”

  “What kind of patterns?”

  “You know, patterns,” Silbermann said, in a forceful voice.

  “Don’t worry, Father. It will work out somehow.”

  �
�Let’s hope so. Meanwhile I’m getting burned in more ways than one. My finger really hurts.”

  “Aha! I guess if you’re able to quip about it, you’re a little less worried about everything else.”

  “Rubbish. Just because you have worries doesn’t mean you can’t feel pain at the same time. So you think the prospects are pretty dim, right?”

  “For what?”

  “The permit. Don’t be so dense!”

  “They’re not completely hopeless, but…”

  “That’s all right. I see there’s really no point in hoping! Nevertheless for me everything depends on getting it! So then, good-bye!”

  “I’ll see you soon, Father. I will…”

  “Good-bye.”

  Silbermann left the phone booth. The pain in his finger had let up. Suddenly a man appeared out of nowhere a few meters away from him. Aha, he thought, with a calm that bordered on indifference: so now it’s come to this, I’m going to be arrested!

  “Where is the exit?” asked the man.

  “To the right,” answered Silbermann, without giving it a moment’s thought, and without really knowing. But he had sensed the man’s beady eyes had been sizing him up, and he felt he needed to shake him off right away.

  Silbermann sat down on a bench, overcome with despair. Of course it’s all going to end badly. What possessed me to think I could ever pull this off? He leaned back and stared with dull disinterest at the people around him. So here we are in Aachen, he thought. In Aachen with forty thousand marks, or more precisely forty-one thousand—loaded, as they say—but with no clear path or destination.

  He now wondered why he’d expected anything from the phone call. If at least I’d given Eduard a little push, he thought, but then I had to go and burn my finger. How could I have possibly imagined he would have taken care of things? I should have just let myself get arrested like all the others. Life is probably calmer in jail than it is outside. At least you can get some decent sleep. But living like this means constantly tensing up and then collapsing, you run this way and that without getting a single step ahead.