The Passenger

by Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz

  Wheels rattle, doors open, it could almost be pleasant, if it weren’t for the fact that I think too much.

  Then he smiled. The Reichsbahn used to offer mystery tours, so-called Journeys into the Blue. Now he had been awarded such a journey, but this time it was sponsored by the government. There were periods in history when people had practically suffocated from a sense of ennui, and so they plunged into adventurous affairs, deliberately wobbling the chairs on which they sat so comfortably, simply for their own exhilaration. They turned to the stock exchange to experience some emotion. But these days citizens are more than adequately provided with emotional experiences. As a child I used to dream about trains. How gladly I would have traveled on one, farther and farther away.

  Now I am on a train. Now I’m traveling.

  Other trains shot past. A distant, piercing whistle came blaring inside and unfamiliar voices laughed in the neighboring compartment. But the wheels kept grinding the same song over the tracks: utility poles look exactly alike, utility poles look exactly alike, when one is in flight … when one is in flight.

  Am I traveling? No! I’m stuck in the same place, like a person who takes refuge in a cinema where he sits in his seat without moving as the films flicker away—and all the while his worries are lurking just outside the exit.

  There was more travel in the express train game we used to play as children, when we placed three chairs one behind the other, closed our eyes, and pretended to go racing across the country at a furious speed. Back then we traveled in our minds. We were everywhere and nowhere—and still inside our room. Now I’m not really traveling, I’m merely moving.

  He gave a start.

  I’m sinking back into melancholy, letting myself drift off into fantasies, he thought, annoyed at himself. Meanwhile what I need to do is cling to reality, which is what it is, unreal though it may be.

  “Will we be in Aachen soon?” he asked.

  This time the young girl answered. “There’s still time,” she said, looking at him thoughtfully with serious brown eyes.

  Silbermann thanked her. Then he asked whether she, too, was traveling there.

  She nodded.

  “I’m meeting my fiancé,” she volunteered, since Silbermann had evidently made a trustworthy impression. “I actually live in Dortmund, but the couple Franz works for, he’s a chauffeur, they’ve been in Aachen for three days.”

  “I see,” said Silbermann.

  “It’s so rare we get to see each other. He works for the director of a company from Berlin, and I work in Dortmund.”

  “Why don’t you move to Berlin?” Silbermann asked sympathetically.

  “I’d like to, but that won’t work. And it’ll be some time before we can get married, too.”

  “And why is that?” asked the stout man, curious, setting the paper on his knee.

  “Franz doesn’t earn enough for two, and on top of that we’d need to furnish a whole apartment, which would cost at least a thousand marks. And where are we supposed to come up with that?”

  “But you could get a marriage loan.” Silbermann rejoined the conversation.

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “No,” she said, “we don’t want to start by borrowing.”

  “But that’s better than nothing,” the other man said, shaking his head at such an irrational attitude.

  “Besides, it’s not that simple,” she explained. “I’m not sure we’d even qualify.”

  Silbermann leaned forward, interested, but before he could say anything, the other man asked, “And why wouldn’t you?” He peered inquisitively at the girl.

  “Franz isn’t in the party.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” the man declared. “He would still get the loan. Just give it a try.”

  The girl shook her head. “It’s no use,” she said.

  “And so you’ll keep living in Dortmund while he’s in Berlin?” Silbermann asked.

  “I’d gladly move to Berlin, but you can’t get work there if you’re from out of town,” the girl said. Her voice sounded displeased.

  “What type of work do you do?” asked Silbermann.

  “I’m a stenotypist.”

  Silbermann looked at her closely. She doesn’t exactly seem to be an enthusiastic supporter of National Socialism, he thought, and an idea began taking shape—though for the moment it was still quite vague.

  “So you’d be quite happy if you could get married?” he asked.

  “Ach,” she said, sadly, “for now that’s out of the question.”

  “Do you really have to have a whole apartment right away?” asked the stout man, astounded to hear such lofty aspirations given such limited resources.

  “Yes,” she said, firmly. “We need an apartment and a typewriter. That way I could make copies and earn extra money.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Silbermann agreed. “You’d probably need a thousand marks.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Then it would all work out. We’ve already saved two hundred fifty marks. We just need another seven hundred fifty.”

  “And how long have you been saving up?” the other man felt comfortable enough to ask.

  “Oh God,” she said, again becoming sad. “It could well take another two years before we manage all that.”

  “And in the meantime a war might break out,” the man said, smiling. “The other countries won’t leave us in peace,” he added quickly. “And then what? Then you’ll be sorry! You’re making life unnecessarily difficult for yourselves! Instead of going and asking for a marriage loan…” He shook his head and went back to his newspaper. “There’s no helping you people,” he said ruefully.

  “But Franz was in a concentration camp,” the girl said quietly.

  They looked at her in shock.

  The stout man cleared his throat and disappeared completely behind his newspaper. The old worker mumbled something unintelligible and lit a cigarette. And the young worker stared at the girl to the point that she turned away.

  “And did he learn from the experience?” asked Silbermann, who was having more and more hope that he had discovered an ally.

  The girl looked at him warily. “In any case he’s had it up to here with politics,” she said at last.

  “He’s right about that,” said the old worker. “People like us, we’re just…” He made a gesture of tossing something away and was silent.

  The girl stared out the window for a few minutes and then packaged up her knitting and stowed it in her purse. Then she took out the breakfast she had packed, carefully unfolded the paper, and began eating a sandwich.

  “Is your fiancé also from Dortmund?” asked Silbermann. The sight of her food made him hungry.

  “No, he’s from Aachen.”

  “Then he must be happy to be back home again?”

  “Yes,” was all the girl replied. She probably felt she’d said too much already.

  Silbermann went into the corridor to see if there was a vending machine with chocolate. He didn’t find one, but on his way to look and also on his way back, he passed a young boy with dark hair, about fourteen years old, who Silbermann thought had been watching him very cautiously. Each time the boy had squeezed so close to the wall it seemed he might be afraid of something. Silbermann went back into the compartment and tried to resume the conversation.

  “Do you have a good position?” he asked the girl, just to keep her talking to him.

  She shook her head. “There’s plenty of work,” she said, “but it doesn’t pay well.”

  The old worker looked up, as though he wanted to say something, but contented himself with spitting on the floor.

  The stout man wrinkled his forehead.

  “We always have to complain, don’t we!” he said, looking at Silbermann for approval.

  “Who’s complaining here?” the girl asked aggressively.

  What a resolute young woman, Silbermann was happy to observe.

  “You’d be well advised to watch y
our words,” the man said, sounding serious.

  “Now, now,” said Silbermann soothingly. “What’s all this about?” He smiled at the girl. “You don’t have to scowl like that. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Then he turned to the man. “Listening in on someone else’s conversation makes one prone to mishear things, and then it’s easy to create ill will.”

  The man’s face turned red. He probably realized he was dealing with a man from a higher social status than his own, and even if he wasn’t sure Silbermann really did have something important to say, he decided not to argue, just to be on the safe side.

  “I simply can’t stand hearing phrases like ‘So much work, so little pay’ anymore,” he explained, now sounding noticeably milder.

  “Those aren’t just phrases,” said the old worker. “That’s how it is.”

  “Are you implying that things were better before?” the man asked tensely.

  “I’m not implying anything,” said the worker. “Besides, I’m in the party.” He cast a disparaging glance at the man.

  “I’m in the party as well,” the latter hastened to explain.

  “Since when, then?” the worker asked, snidely.

  “That’s nobody’s business!” said the man, refusing to answer.

  “But you’re quick to butt into conversations that aren’t your business,” the young girl declared.

  “If there’s complaining going on, then yes.”

  “Don’t sound so high and mighty,” growled the old worker. “You act as though you’re pushing the whole cart by yourself.”

  The man looked at him sternly. “You say you’re in the party?” he asked.

  “And for longer than you!”

  Both men were silent. Silbermann noted a thankful glance from the girl. Then the two party members continued their argument.

  “So how can you say,” the stout man asked, “that one shouldn’t concern oneself with politics? That’s out and out defeatism!”

  “I never said anything of the sort. Who knows what you might have heard? The gentleman is absolutely right: if you listen in on other people’s conversations you’re bound to mishear things. I have no idea what makes you think that…”

  “You said…”

  “First prove to me that you really are a member. Anyone can say that, and anyone can play detective. But whether he has the right to snoop around is another matter!”

  “I’m not snooping. I’m simply fulfilling my duty, as every German should.”

  “Are you saying it’s your duty to listen in? What kind of strange profession is that? I thought you ran a shop, or am I mistaken?”

  “I don’t owe you any explanation.”

  “But I owe you one, eh?”

  “Indeed you do,” said the portly gentleman. “And now show me your party card!”

  This last sentence came as a sharp command. Reluctantly, the worker pulled his membership card out of his pocket and handed it to the other man.

  He examined the document carefully. “It’s good,” he said then, and stood up, “but in the future you should control yourself better, my friend! And I would give you the same advice!” he said to the girl. Then he took his briefcase and left the compartment.

  For a moment everyone was uneasily silent.

  By a hair, thought Silbermann, just by a hair. His heart was pounding. And always when you least expect it …

  The old worker stared sullenly ahead for a while and then said, “I’d like to open the window. The air in here is a bit…”

  The young girl said nothing. She had turned pale and kept running her hands nervously over her sandwich paper.

  “Some people are simply overzealous,” Silbermann said, in a distinctly calm voice.

  “Just anyone try and tell me what’s what,” said the worker. “I’ve been in the party for ten years. Just let them try!”

  “See what happens when you go and open your mouth,” said the young worker who had kept quiet until then. “You wind up having to deal with an ass like that!”

  Silbermann stepped back out into the corridor. He gazed out the window for a few minutes, then went to the toilet to wash his hands. He hadn’t shut the door properly and all of a sudden he heard the stout man’s voice saying: “Let’s see your papers.”

  Silbermann spun around. But the words couldn’t be addressed to him. The man was probably speaking to someone just outside the toilet.

  “Why should I show you my papers?” asked a nervous young voice. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Police. You see the badge? Let’s go, show your ID.”

  “I don’t have it on me.”

  “Of course not! Where are you heading?”

  “I’m heading … to Aachen.”

  “What’s your name? Out with it! Just don’t lie. I’m warning you!”

  “My name is Leo Cohn.”

  “Of course! What are you doing here on this train? Well, little Jew boy? Out with it! Or do you expect me to have to beg for half an hour?”

  “My father was arrested and…”

  “Serves him right. What’s in your backpack? Money? To smuggle it across the border, right?”

  “No. You can look for yourself. All I have is a suit and some underwear.”

  “You bet I’ll have a look! And woe to you if you’ve deceived me. So now, let’s go.”

  “But…” Silbermann heard the boy swallow.

  “Let’s go, boy, get a move on,” said the voice of the portly man.

  “Am I going to be sent to a concentration camp?” asked the boy.

  “We’ll have to see about all that. Come on, Cohn, forward march, Cohn.”

  “But I haven’t done anything…”

  “Are you trying to play one of your little Jew-tricks on me? You can still manage that, eh? Come on, I’m not going to eat you, you little garlic-head … come on, hop to it.”

  The steps faded. Silbermann opened the door and just managed to see the stout man pushing the dark-haired boy he had noticed earlier around the corner into the next corridor.

  SIX

  The headlamps cut a large swath of white light through the darkness, and the forest, which reached right up to the road, seemed full of shadows. Trees suddenly loomed tall, then merged with the darkness and disappeared.

  Franz was driving at near maximum speed. He was nervous and agitated. I definitely have to be back within the hour, he thought. This is the first time I’ve taken the car on my own and it’s going to be the last time, too. I’ve never even had Gertrud out for a spin. But a thousand marks … a thousand marks!

  A car came from the other direction and he quickly lowered his beam.

  He was worried. I’m risking everything, he thought. All on account of a rich Jew. But a thousand marks. Besides, Gertrud would have considered me a coward, and God knows I’ve already been through enough. If everything works out we’ll be in good shape. That girl has more courage than a lot of men. And the poor fellow in back? He may be a rich Jew, but these days things aren’t exactly rosy for him, either. I might even feel sorry for him if I had the time. For now the thing to do is take the thousand marks and marry Gertrud. It’s almost enough to make me want to take a rich Jew to the border every week! For a thousand marks!

  And if I get caught? Then it’s all over. They’re not going to let me off a second time. Still, I’ve risked my neck so often for nothing except the cause, so why shouldn’t I dare to do something for myself, just once?

  He stopped the car. Then he turned to Silbermann, who was sitting in back: “Here’s the best place to get out. I know the area a little. Earlier I helped some comrades get across. I didn’t take money for that.”

  “Naturally,” said Silbermann as he got out.

  “That’s right,” said Franz. “Frankly, I’m not so keen on the Jews myself. I had a Jewish boss earlier on. And he didn’t exactly make me jump for joy, let me tell you. Believe me, this is the first time that I’m taking money for helping someone. And if it hadn�
�t been for Gertrud and if she hadn’t twisted my arm, we wouldn’t be here…”

  “It’s all right,” said Silbermann. “You don’t have to hold it against me that you’re helping me.”

  “I don’t hold it against you. But Gertrud, she has a way of getting you to do things…”

  “Franz,” Silbermann said, trying to calm him down, “just be glad. Here’s your money. And give your fiancée my greetings and tell her I wish her all good luck.”

  “You better wish that for yourself,” said Franz sullenly, as he pocketed the money without counting the bills. “Because frankly this isn’t going to be easy! Just keep heading straight. You’ll come across a fire lane, but keep going until you reach the forest path. That’s where the border is, but you have to keep going! Eventually you’ll come to a road, but just keep on going straight ahead across the fields! If you hurry you’ll be in Belgium in half an hour.

  “Watch out for the Belgian gendarmes, and be sure you get to the nearest larger town as fast as you can. If they call out to you while you’re still on German soil then stop, otherwise they’ll shoot, you can bet your suitcase on that. Speaking of which, you really should have left it at home. Who on earth tries to cross the border with a suitcase—I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m surprised you’re not hauling a furniture van as well!”

  After carefully absorbing his grumpy driver’s observations, Silbermann asked, “Do you think I’ll make it?”

  “That’s a question I can’t answer,” said Franz. “I’ve already told you how things are. One person gets through and another doesn’t. But if you’re going to piss your pants right here there’s no way you’re going to make it. I’ve heard that they’ve beefed up the border patrols on the Belgian side. If they catch you you’ll get sent right back, that’s for dead sure! Now hurry up and good luck! And if you get caught please say you came all this way on foot. But I bet you’ll rat me out first thing, am I right! You upstanding citizens are all alike.”

  “Have you ever crossed the border?”

  “Have I ever crossed it?” Franz laughed.

  “I’ll give you another thousand marks if you take me across. I’m afraid I’ll lose my way. I don’t have any experience…”