The Passenger

by Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz

  Silbermann couldn’t help smiling. Of course, she hadn’t kept their rendezvous.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he then said.

  She shook her head. “And?” she asked.

  “It’s … I don’t know how to go on. I have no idea what to do. No idea! I’m done for. They stole my money in the train from Dresden to Berlin.”

  Her eyes widened, appalled. “Your money?” she asked.

  “Now I don’t know why I came … I wanted to see you … But … it doesn’t make any sense … it’s just that … I don’t know.”

  He stood up, took her hand, looked at her closely, and finally kissed her hand.

  “Good-bye,” he said.

  “But I don’t understand,” she said. “There was something you wanted. What was it? Can I help you … I mean.”

  “No, no, no,” he cut her off, almost testily, and shook his head. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do to help.” He sighed.

  Slowly he walked to the door. Then all of a sudden he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her and looked at her questioningly.

  “Do you want to stay here?” she whispered.

  He gazed at her with empty eyes.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think … perhaps it’s better … if I go.”

  “As you wish,” she answered calmly. “But what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to do anything anymore!” he answered. And then he left.

  TEN

  Silbermann was taking a walk with his family through the Tiergarten. He would have preferred to go to Potsdam and visit the park and palace at Sanssouci again, but Eduard had wanted to go rowing on the Neuer See and had persuaded his father to change plans.

  Because of that, and because now he’d even gotten his father to agree to go to the circus, Eduard was in a fantastic mood, and Silbermann was also happy to have stayed in Berlin, since he had set up some important meetings for Monday and wanted to get to bed early.

  The weather was very good, and they were discussing the trip they planned to take in the summer.

  “Eduard needs another new suit,” said Elfriede, looking in his direction.

  “When I was a boy,” Silbermann said, “I took better care of my things.” Then he turned to his son. “By the way, have you done your homework, Eduard?”

  “Right,” said Eduard, looking away.

  “Right isn’t an answer,” said Silbermann. “Don’t forget to show it to me tonight.”

  After a moment’s silence Eduard spoke up. “I didn’t completely understand the math assignment.”

  “That really is the limit.” Silbermann was indignant. “And you dare go out walking in the park? And tonight you want to go to the circus? Honestly? Until you’ve solved all your math problems, don’t even think about going with us to the circus.”

  “But he spends so much time on his schoolwork.” Elfriede tried to mediate.

  The doorbell rang. Silbermann gave a start.

  “Eduard really ought to…” he said, in a daze. Then he looked around. He was lying in his bedroom, but he was all alone.

  “So,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

  The doorbell rang again. Slowly he climbed out of bed, slid into his slippers, and went to the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  They certainly don’t waste any time, he thought, assuming the police had come to take him away. He opened the door.

  “I’m here to collect for the milk,” said a female voice.

  Silbermann studied the woman.

  “So,” he said slowly. “You’re here to collect for the milk.”

  “That’s right,” the woman answered. “I’ve already been by four or five times. But no one answered. Today I made a special point of coming to the front door, since I thought the doorbell in back might not be working.” She was eyeing him as though he’d committed some evil deed directed against her.

  “It comes to nine marks seventy-five,” she said firmly, and handed him the bill.

  “Please wait,” he said.

  He went to his bedroom to fetch the money.

  “Shall I keep delivering?” asked the milk lady, when he was back. “Because I see the bottles are still just sitting out by the back door. It’s been three days since I…”

  “We’ll no longer be needing any delivery,” he interrupted. “But you can give me that bottle there.”

  “Shall I go ahead and put the thirty-four pfennig for it on your next bill?” she asked. “Then again, if you’re not going to be having me…”

  “Thirty-four pfennig,” he said—“that’s a lot of money.”

  “Milk costs the same everywhere,” she responded. She sounded bitter, presumably aggrieved at the perceived challenge to her integrity.

  Silbermann was alarmed and said, “I don’t doubt that in the least.”

  Then he paid, closed the door, and took the milk bottle to his bedroom. The milk lady is deeply offended because she assumes that I think her milk is overpriced by one penny—and that’s something she won’t put up with. Whereas I … I …

  He opened the bottle and took a big swallow.

  Now I’d like to have a coffee, he thought as he wiped his mouth and headed to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water and mindlessly watched it fill the tub. Then he undressed and took a bath.

  I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed this, he thought, stretching out contentedly in the water. He stayed in the bath for half an hour, then shaved and slowly got dressed. No sooner had he tied his tie than he heard the doorbell ring again, this time in back.

  I suppose that’s the bread delivery bill, he thought, almost amused at the idea.

  It was the bread delivery bill. He paid and a few minutes later he left his apartment and went to the pastry shop across the street. He drank his coffee and took his time eating breakfast.

  When he was finished he decided to do what he couldn’t bring himself to undertake the previous evening. Outwardly he was completely calm when he stepped into the police station.

  “I want to file a report,” he explained, without returning the official’s “Heil Hitler.” He stood right at the barrier rail and propped himself up with both hands.

  “What’s it about?” asked a disapproving official voice.

  “I was robbed.”

  “That’s not my jurisdiction. I only handle residence registrations.”

  Silbermann waited a moment, then said, “Nevertheless, you might take it upon yourself to advise me who is in charge of that jurisdiction?”

  The official bristled. He was familiar with that tone. He studied Silbermann, presumably wondering whether the latter was in a position to get away with such high-handedness. But he evidently accepted it, and then said in a significantly more polite manner, “Room 3 if you please.”

  “And where may I find Room 3?” asked Silbermann.

  The official stood up, stepped to the barrier, pointed to a door, and said, “The first door there in the hall.”

  Silbermann thanked him and a moment later was standing in front of Room 3.

  He knocked.

  “Come in,” said a gruff voice.

  Silbermann stepped inside. Sitting behind a desk was a thickset man in civilian clothes, who put down the newspaper he was reading and picked up a dossier.

  “I’ve come to file a report,” said Silbermann, coming closer.

  “Heil Hitler,” said the inspector, and looked at him expectantly.

  “Good morning,” replied Silbermann. “As I said, I’ve come to file a report.”

  “Are you a German?” asked the inspector, looking at a document.

  “Of course,” Silbermann replied.

  “Then kindly use the official German greeting. That’s obligatory here!”

  “I’m a Jew.”

  “So then you’re not a German!” The inspector closed the dossier and looked at him.

  “Let’s deal with that another time,” answered Silbermann, making an effort to stay co
mposed. “I’ve come to file a report!”

  The man stroked his chin. “Are you aware that filing a false report is a punishable offense?”

  “I have no intention of filing a false report.”

  “In any case I advise you to carefully consider what you say.”

  “Won’t you first hear my report?” asked Silbermann.

  “So, you’re a Jew!” the inspector stated, nodding his head at his own remark.

  “I came here to file a report!” Silbermann repeated for the fourth time.

  “It is my duty to inform you that you’ll be liable for punishment if you…”

  “Someone stole my briefcase on the train,” Silbermann interrupted, and his face started changing from pale to red. “It contained thirty thousand marks. Will you take my statement?”

  The inspector placed a large paper form in front of him. “How did you come to have the thirty thousand marks?” he asked. He dipped his pen in the ink, carefully tapped it against the inkwell to knock off a small blob, and relaxed back into his chair. He observed Silbermann awhile, then leaned forward again and began writing.

  “Name?”

  “Otto Silbermann.”

  “Do you have an ID?”

  Silbermann handed him his passport.

  “Good,” said the inspector and wrote down the number of the passport and various dates.

  “The address that’s listed is still valid,” Silbermann explained.

  The inspector registered that without comment. Then he looked up and said in a sharp voice: “I asked you how you came to have the money. Are you refusing to answer?”

  “That money is what’s left of my estate,” Silbermann answered. “I was once a rich man.”

  “And you go lugging it around inside a briefcase? That’s a little odd, I’d say! In which train is this supposed to have occurred?”

  “In the train from Dresden to Berlin. In a smoking compartment in the second class.”

  “Did you file a report with the railway police?”

  “No, but I informed the conductor.”

  “Why didn’t you file a report with the railway police?”

  “Because I wanted to do it here.”

  “Strange. So, you allege that on the train from Dresden to Berlin, in a second-class smoking compartment, you were robbed of a briefcase along with its contents of thirty thousand marks.”

  “I’m not alleging, that’s exactly what happened.”

  “I can’t know that for sure. Do you have a particular suspect in mind?”

  “I was traveling with an elderly lady and two gentlemen. One of them had a blond mustache.”

  The inspector laughed or coughed, it was impossible to tell. “Is that all you can tell me?” he asked. “Would you recognize them?”

  “I believe so.”

  “What did the briefcase look like?”

  “It was brown leather with a steel lock. Here, this is the key.”

  “Did you note the number of the train?”

  “No, unfortunately I didn’t think to do that.”

  “At what time did this supposedly occur?”

  “It was the last train to Berlin, I think.”

  “You think! What time did the train arrive in Berlin?”

  “Toward one AM.”

  “Is that all the information you can provide? You claim that on the last train from Dresden to Berlin you lost a briefcase…”

  “It was stolen!” Silbermann cut him off.

  “Don’t be so rude! I’m not deaf.”

  “What do you intend to do?” asked Silbermann.

  “We’ll have to see.”

  “I’d like to add a finder’s fee of ten percent of whatever amount I receive when the perpetrators are apprehended.”

  “First you have to get your money back, second you have to have lost it, and third…”

  “You don’t seem to be taking my report seriously. Do you think I’m joking? Is that it?” Silbermann interrupted the inspector. As he did so, he sat down in the chair opposite the desk, having waited in vain to be offered a seat.

  The inspector viewed this uninvited gesture as disrespectful, but didn’t exactly know how to respond. “Kindly let me finish,” he snapped. “My opinion on the matter is not at all up for discussion. You have filed a report, and my job is to examine it and pass it on. Will you now please explain why you were traveling around with thirty thousand marks in your briefcase?”

  “Who said I was traveling around?”

  “In any event you were in Dresden.”

  “Don’t I have the right to travel to Dresden?”

  “I’m the one asking questions here! And what I want to know from you is”—he paused and glanced at the paper he had just filled out, then suddenly looked up and asked—“were you planning to take the money out of the country?”

  “Do you want to look for the thief or cast suspicion on the victim?” Silbermann retorted, having anticipated that particular line of attack.

  “As I’ve already told you, what I want or don’t want isn’t the issue. Here in this office I am not who I really am, but a public official. Otherwise you might be surprised at who you’re dealing with!”

  “I am not who I really am,” Silbermann repeated sarcastically, no longer able to suppress his rage. “Who are you then, if you’re not who you really are? Since when do German officials suffer from split personalities?”

  Furious, the inspector pounded his fist on the table. “How dare you!” he roared. “Do you think you can get away with your Jewish jokes here?”

  Silbermann jumped up.

  “Perhaps it’s also a Jewish joke,” he shouted, “that I’m reporting a theft to the very people who are stealing all my rights. Because the German reality is that instead of looking for the thief you presume to treat the victim with such insolence. You … Herr Inspektor … I want to get my money back … my thirty thousand marks … and I want it immediately … So see to it … I’ve filed one report … Now I wish to file a second … A gang of bandits broke into my apartment, destroyed my furniture, hurt my friend Findler … here…” He reached into his pocket and held out the swastika pin. “The criminals forgot to take this … Kindly take my statement. What are you waiting for?… This second report is even more important than my first, it’s much, much more important. Go ahead, start writing … don’t just stare at me like that. Or perhaps you think I wrecked my own apartment? Write this down: Findler, Theo Findler … he’s my witness, he was there … They injured him … He was there to squeeze what he could out of me … What are you waiting for? Why aren’t you writing? After all you’re the official here, that’s what you told me. It’s your job to protect the rights of all citizens, Herr Inspektor … Crimes were committed: burglary, home invasion … bodily harm to Findler … on November ninth of this year a vast gang of criminals perpetrated crimes not only in my house … but everywhere … why aren’t you writing? I’m telling you: murderers, Herr Inspektor, intruders, highwaymen…”

  He was talking himself more and more into a rage.

  “Does the fact that I have traveled make me suspicious? Does it? I was fleeing from criminals, Herr Inspektor, kindly don’t forget that. Doesn’t a citizen have the right to flee from criminals? And doesn’t he also have the right to take his money with him? Or is that not the case? And yet evidently he’s allowed to file a report? Ask Findler, just ask Findler … He was there … he’ll corroborate everything … he’s a witness … Set up a meeting in my apartment … establish the facts … conduct an investigation … at other people’s homes, too … not just mine … unlawful detention … bodily injury … And what about the police? Isn’t their job to intervene? So why don’t they? I’ll tell you why, it’s because…”

  He glared at the inspector as if he were going to pounce on him at any moment. His mouth was foaming, and spittle was dribbling down his chin. Two policemen took hold of him and dragged him off to a holding cell.

  “Thieves,” he shouted. “I want my
money back!… Accessories after the fact! Receivers of stolen goods, all of you!… Bribed … Corruptible … Criminals … Accomplices … Thirty thousand marks … You’re divvying up my money … my money!… I demand the police … This is … there are laws…”

  The policemen locked the door of the cell behind him. Silbermann drummed against it with his fists.

  “Open up,” he roared, completely beside himself. “I demand to speak to the inspector. I have a report to file … I have witnesses … I have witnesses!” he kicked the door. “Give me my money back!” he cried. “I’ll leave the country! I promise you … I’ll leave the country … but I want my briefcase back!”

  The door was torn open.

  “Shut your mouth for once,” said a guard, who, losing his temper, grabbed Silbermann and shook him. Silbermann went silent. The guard let go of him and left the cell. Silbermann staggered against the wall, threw himself onto the bunk, and cried. He lay there for about ten minutes. Then he jumped back up, ran to the door, and roared, “There are laws! There are laws!”

  He kept repeating these three words. Finally the door was yanked open once again.

  “Have you gone completely out of your mind?”

  “There are laws!” Silbermann repeated, intimidated to speak in a much quieter voice.

  “They’ll haul you off to the asylum, if you don’t shut up!”

  The next day Silbermann was taken to the same inspector who had received his report and who had witnessed his fit of rage. As a precaution the officer had retained two policemen in the room.

  “You realize,” the inspector began with a dry voice, without looking up from his files, “that yesterday you were guilty of directing the grossest slander not only against me but against the entire service. Moreover, you made defamatory statements that are offensive to the German people as a whole.” At this point he looked up. “What do you have to say to that?” he asked.

  Silbermann said nothing.

  “Do you want to be sent to a concentration camp?”

  Silbermann said nothing.

  “You’ll be put on trial!”

  Silbermann said nothing.

  The inspector jumped up. “What on earth are you thinking?” he roared. “I advise you to open your mouth!”