How soft her voice was, the way she said that! Now he actually did have to go to sleep, and besides, he really was tired.
All of a sudden he burst into tears.
His father had punctuated every slap with the words, “This will teach you!” The blows were methodical and evenly spaced. And although they weren’t hard, they did sting quite a bit because his pants were stretched tight since he was bent over his father’s knee, and the pain took quite a while to subside.
However, his tears were due less to the pain than to the inherent injustice. To the fact that he had no way of defending himself just because he was younger and smaller. And the idea that it would always be that way weighed on him. He was convinced that he would never grow up. And even though all the adults insisted that once upon a time they, too, had been little boys and girls, he found that hard to believe, seeing how big they were now. He was afraid he’d have to go through life as a little boy, with a bearded tyrant of a father who was incapable of understanding.
As usual, he had Hilde to thank for his spanking. She always took advantage of their father’s protection. He had no doubt she was the favorite, and the tears he was shedding came from the deep despair of feeling unloved. And now he couldn’t even count on Senta the cook, who usually stood up for him. Senta, who made the best pancakes and who always let him taste her fruit preserves. She clearly liked him. So maybe he should simply marry her and move away. Of course that would make his family upset and they would worry about him … and he felt somewhat comforted imagining how troubled they would be by his leaving. He also considered the possibility that he might just suddenly die, and felt some delight picturing everybody’s tears.
At that point even getting sick would have been of some help. Six months earlier he had come down with the measles, and he remembered very well how tender and caring his father had been, in contrast to his usual rough manner: for once he had finally allowed Otto onto the center of the stage, where he clearly belonged. So if he fell ill now his father would spend hours sitting by his bed, reading a book and constantly checking on him. It would do Otto good, and his mother would also come and stay with him, and then he would be given medicine, and his father would always take it first and when he swallowed it himself his mother would sit him up and he would smile, in pain but brave, and everyone would love and appreciate him.
By then he had stopped sobbing except for an occasional spasm. That’s how it would be if he were sick. But what should he do now?
He started crying again, but the tears didn’t come as easily as before. His misery had shrunk, and he tried in vain to draw it out a little longer, to plunge back into it. But he couldn’t. His tears could no longer wash away his anguish, which was now hardened, and that was even worse.
If he went to Hilde and gave her a good shove, she would run back to their father, and he would get another spanking, and then he’d push her once again. What other choice did he have? Maybe he should just run away and never come back? Hilde was bound to be enjoying the fact that he’d gotten spanked. He was sure of that.
He stood up, filled with bitterness, and went into the next room, where Hilde was on the floor playing with his building blocks—the ones he’d just used to construct a Tower of Babel.
“Go away,” he said, and stamped his foot. “Go away!”
“I’m telling Papa,” she said, in a whiny voice, and stayed.
“Go and tattle,” he challenged. “Go to Papa, you little crybaby.”
But Hilde stayed where she was since she saw he wasn’t doing anything to her, and went on calmly playing with his blocks!
“Those are my blocks!” he explained, and stepped closer.
“Oh…” she said, with confident indifference.
“You’re not supposed to play with my blocks,” he declared and sat down as well, still only watching, to see how far she would push things.
The spanking he’d been forced to endure had given Hilde a great sense of confidence and power, and she quickly stuck out her tongue at him.
He was so outraged he was speechless.
There she was playing with his blocks, after she had knocked down his tower, and on top of that she was sticking her tongue out at him! And there was nothing he could do. She had their father on her side. Now she would always be able to stick her tongue out at him.
He was so angry and indignant he started shaking. More than anything he would have liked to cry, and now he probably would have been able to since he felt so humiliated. But that was exactly what Hilde wanted, to see her older brother cry! After all, he was her big brother, because she was only five. So the only thing he could do was sneer at her.
“You stupid cow,” he said, taking a superior tone, and kicked the silly tower she had built.
Now Hilde started to cry. “I’m telling Papa,” she threatened, but stayed where she was. Perhaps she wasn’t fully confident of what a second complaint might bring. That’s why she was crying, and now he even felt a tiny bit sorry for her—after all, she was his little sister.
He let her cry a little longer and then suggested: let’s build a Tower of Babel together. His tone was sullen and grumpy, but she accepted the offer of peace.
Ten minutes later, after they had constructed bridges, houses, and entire cities and then, like moody gods, destroyed them, she said with a snippy voice, “I’m still going to tell Papa! You called me a stupid cow and you’re not supposed to!”
“You knocked down my Tower of Babel,” he said, outraged. “You played with my blocks, you blabbed to Papa, and yesterday you stole raisins from the pantry!”
“So did you!”
“I was allowed to. Senta said I could.”
“She said I could, too.”
“No she didn’t.”
“Yes she did.”
They both went silent as they each searched for words that would seal a victory.
“I’m going to Papa,” Hilde threatened, after a while. But it sounded a bit weak.
“Go ahead!”
“I will,” she said, but even she didn’t seem to fully believe she would. Perhaps his accounting had made her a little more reflective.
“Stupid cow,” he said once more, decisively, to prove to himself that he had won.
Then they played some more. The door opened, and their mother came in.
“You’re being so loud,” she said, without reproach. “Please talk a little more quietly. I’d like to lie down.”
She walked past them, and they both cringed a bit out of guilt. When she was almost out of the room, Hilde said quietly, as though just to herself, “I’m not a stupid cow!” She tossed her head back and looked at their mother as if expecting her to ask who had claimed she was.
“Don’t quarrel” was all she said.
He couldn’t simply let Hilde get away with such a sneaky betrayal. “She stole raisins!” he called out, full of genuine indignation. “She stole…”
But their mother had already left the room. He couldn’t count on her to help him much, either.
Hilde once again stuck out her little pink tongue.
He stood up and left her and the blocks and went to the kitchen to talk everything over with Senta once and for all.
Hilde also stopped playing with his blocks. Without him there it was no longer fun for her. She stood outside the kitchen and waited for him.
But when he came back he walked right past her without paying her any attention, because now he had definitively promised himself to Senta. They would get married and move away, and Hilde could stick her tongue out as long as she wanted, it no longer affected him …
Silbermann had probably slept an hour when he was wakened by steps in the corridor. For a moment they stopped in front of his door.
He listened anxiously.
But then they went on.
He jumped out of bed.
“There’s no point,” he mumbled. “I have to leave. I have to get out of the country. I can’t stand it any longer. The anxiety is d
riving me mad. I’ll go back to Aachen and try crossing the border there.”
He stepped up to the mirror, washed his face, combed his hair, and left the room. In the doorway he thought: What nonsense. I really should stay here. Who knows when I’ll have a bed again.
In addition to the Susigs, two gentlemen were sitting in the dining room, reading the newspaper. Silbermann knocked quickly and went in, and was met with a resounding chorus of “Heil Hitler.”
Without returning the greeting he simply nodded his head and turned to Frau Susig: “I’m going to the station to pick up my suitcase.”
“But my husband can take care of that. He’d be happy to.”
“Go ahead,” said the old man.
His wife looked at him severely.
“All the same…” he added, and nodded encouragingly to Silbermann.
“Thank you anyway,” said Silbermann. “The fact is I have other business in town.” And with that he left the room.
What strange people, he thought, as he climbed down the stairs, but he immediately forgot all about the Susigs and focused on his own affairs. He was surprised to find himself at the station after just five minutes, since he hadn’t really paid attention to where he was going.
What a pity I don’t have Lilienfeld with me, he regretted, since he’s a man with practical experience. Two heads are stronger than one. You strengthen each other. I encouraged Lilienfeld and he did the same for me. Basically each of us was encouraging himself, but it did boost our spirits. Tremendously.
He asked for a third-class ticket for Aachen.
Is that Lilienfeld speaking out of me? he wondered when he heard himself ask for third class. But then he decided that was the right choice, since in second class he would have to be decently shaved in order not to attract attention.
He fetched his suitcase, then asked when the train was scheduled to depart and stepped into the third-class waiting room. Without ordering anything, he sat down at one of the wooden tables. For a few minutes he brooded without specific thoughts.
“All the same…” he said quietly, mimicking Herr Susig. “All the same…”
Those words seemed to best capture his mood. He said them out loud to himself three or four times.
Now I’m ready for adventure, he determined. I’ll make it over the border yet, it’s all manageable …
But he couldn’t rid himself of the conviction that something would once again get in the way, that he simply wasn’t up to the demands of the situation and would ultimately have to give in.
“Ach,” he growled. “Other people are doing the same thing. And they manage to make it!”
He propped both elbows on the table and took his head between his hands. There’s absolutely nothing more I can do, he thought, devoid of hope. The only thing I can do is think …
He stared dully at the tabletop.
How dirty it is, and how scratched, he thought. Why don’t they refinish it? Probably because third class isn’t worth the trouble.
He looked around the waiting room. A few workers were standing at the bar, drinking beer and making a lot of noise, which Silbermann noted with disapproval.
If I were to give each of them a hundred marks, he wondered, would I then have friends? For a few days perhaps—a hundred marks doesn’t go very far.
He stood up and headed to the platform, trudging rather than walking.
More and more train rides, he thought, farther and farther away, and meanwhile I’m already dog tired. Back and forth and forth and back. I’m so fed up with it all already.
He sat down on his suitcase and waited for the train.
Who or rather what am I now anyway? he asked himself. Am I still Silbermann, Otto Silbermann the merchant? Undoubtedly, but how did he wind up in such a situation?
He took a deep breath. “I’m living with loss,” he said quietly. Then he made a clumsy movement, and the suitcase he was sitting on began to totter. With difficulty he regained his balance and got on his feet. He heard the train approaching and picked up his suitcase.
Actually all I have to do is jump in front, simply drop right in front of the train, he thought. Then everything would be over and nothing would matter anymore.
The train came nearer.
Silbermann stepped close to the edge of the platform.
Just fall, he thought, just let yourself fall …
“Stand back,” a voice beside him thundered.
He gave a start and took three steps back. Then the train was there.
Have I completely lost my wits? he worried, surprised by his own weakness. To the point I would take my own life? I, Otto Silbermann? On account of the Nazis? The idea is laughable. I have thirty-six thousand marks on me. What reasonable human being takes his life with thirty-six thousand marks in his pocket? For fear of difficulties, for fear of the border, on account of a ridiculous border, which can be crossed in two minutes if a person can pluck up the courage? Impossible! A person simply can’t do a thing like that! Why should a person commit suicide when he’s carrying a briefcase full of life?
No, that’s it—no more weakness! Twenty-four hours from now I may be saved, and if not, then I’ll travel on, I’ll crisscross all of Germany until I make it. As long as I have money in my wallet and even if it’s a single thousand-mark bill, I’ll have both the strength and spirit to live, and I can subsist for a long time off the energy I have stored.
And so, in a smoke-filled third-class compartment on the train from Dortmund to Aachen, Silbermann swore that he would go on living, under—and despite—all circumstances.
He repeated this vow in silence over and over and felt much calmer. He now sensed he’d gotten a grip on himself, that he was ready for all contingencies. He opened his suitcase and, after some cumbersome rummaging, managed to retrieve his razor. Then he went to the toilet to shave his beard, which was showing a handsome growth. When he sat back down his travel companions noticed the transformation.
“Made yourself pretty?” an older worker sitting across from Silbermann jibed. The disdain in his voice was obvious: being an unpretentious sort himself, he clearly didn’t think much of such procedures.
“I merely made myself human,” Silbermann joked.
His travel companions laughed. Silbermann now observed them: a young worker, a rather stout man who Silbermann thought was very intent on playing the important gentleman, as he cast commanding glances around the room, and a young, rather plain-looking girl of about twenty-two, who was knitting.
Silbermann’s gaze returned to the young worker. He was struck by the man’s sunken face and drooping shoulders. Undoubtedly a miner, he thought. They age quickly. Those people don’t get much out of life, although they go through a great deal—they probably don’t even realize how much. They keep fighting for work, for better wages, for their bare lives—without noticing how time goes slipping through their fingers. They don’t have any youth, these people. The struggle starts when they’re fourteen years old and from then on it’s a fight for sheer survival, with everything at stake.
It’s the same with me. I can sense how closely death is nipping at my heels. It’s just a matter of being faster. If I stop I’ll go under, I’ll sink into the mire. I simply have to run, run, run. When I think about it I’ve been running all my life. But then why is it so difficult all of a sudden, now that it’s more necessary than before? Greater danger ought to bring greater strength, but instead it’s paralyzing, if the first attempts to save yourself fall through.
He shook his head at the thought. I’d be better off talking! he decided, instead of just sitting here thinking and brooding.
“The weather seems to have taken another turn for the better,” he remarked to all his companions.
At the same time he was telling himself: You’re in a comfortable place, you can relax. Being around people is almost always nice, almost always … In any case he felt warmly reassured by the companionship, even if it was that of a train compartment, haphazard and unintended.
“It’s going to rain again,” the worker across from him said sullenly. He nodded his head as thanks for the cigarette Silbermann offered.
“On the contrary,” declared the stout man, addressing Silbermann as his social equal: “In my opinion, and I believe I have a feel for weather like very few people. In my opinion”—to Silbermann’s ears this “in my opinion” sounded pompous—“tomorrow we’re going to have a truly beautiful day, unless I’m very much mistaken.” No, listening to him speak, it would be hard to imagine he could possibly be mistaken.
“No thank you,” he said, declining Silbermann’s offer of a cigarette. “I prefer cigars. They’re easier to digest.”
“Yes, well let’s hope the weather will be good,” said Silbermann flatly.
“Are you in sales, a commercial traveler?” the man was interested to know.
“Merchant,” Silbermann answered, absentmindedly.
“I was a salesman in my youth,” said the man, “then I took over the shop from my sister.”
“I see,” said Silbermann politely.
The man unfolded a newspaper and began reading.
“Do you have a lot of work?” Silbermann asked the older worker.
“Enough,” the other man answered, not keen to share more. He, too, took a newspaper from his bag.
I want a conversation, Silbermann thought. I’d like to keep talking, without stopping. He rested his head against his coat, which was hanging on the hook and closed his eyes. He listened to the rattle of the wheels.
Berlin—Hamburg, he thought.
Hamburg—Berlin.
Berlin—Aachen.
Aachen—Dortmund.
Dortmund—Aachen.
And it may go on that way forever. Now I really am like a traveling salesman, and the route I’ve been assigned has more and more miles.
The fact is that I have already emigrated … to the Deutsche Reichsbahn.
I am no longer in Germany.
I am in trains that run through Germany. That’s a big difference. Once again he listened to the wheels rumbling over the rails, the music of travel.
I am safe, he thought, I am in motion.
And on top of that I feel practically cozy.
The Passenger Page 13