I Confess

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "Very well, thank you," I said, but I could no longer hear my own voice. The face swam away.

  A nurse strapped my arms to the bed. Now I couldn't move anymore. My nose began to itch. It itched horribly. I tried to suppress the irritation, but couldn't. The itching became worse by the minute.

  "My nose," I said.

  "Yes?" said the nurse.

  "Please scratch my nose."

  She did.

  From aU sides now people in white came to look at me. "So let's go," said a voice.

  Instruments rattled. Something began to hum. Invisible hands grasped my head. No, I thought, no! I'm still conscious. I can hear and see and still feel everything. How can you start when I can still feel everything?

  My nose itched again.

  Perhaps, in an hour, I would be dead.

  Perhaps I was seeing this room for the last time. Perhaps my life was about to end. ...

  The faces wore masks. Somebody stroked something ice cold across my forehead. If I died, I thought, I would leave nothing behind me. No grief, no friends, nothing beautiful, no achievement, no memories. No hate. Also no love. It had not been a beautiful life, come to think of it.

  Or perhaps it had? There were times when it had been beautiful. A few hours here and there. I tried to think of such hours. But I couldn't think of any.

  My nose began to itch again. "Please, nurse," I mumbled.

  She scratched my nose with her left hand, with her right she injected a needle into my strapped arm. And that was the last thing I knew. In the very next moment, the light went out, the voices became silent, and I fell down into the ever widening darkness of the gigantic shaft of a well.

  19

  At the bottom of the well it grew light again.

  It was like a back yard. The walls all around were ruins, their windows dark holes. It was cold, the sky was grey. The yard was full of garbage and junk, and one bare chestnut tree was growing in it. Under it stood a bench. On the bench sat Yolanda. I saw her at once and went over to her. "I'm sorry I'm late."

  "It's all right," she said. "I've only been waiting two years."

  She was wearing a long, white robe, rather like a fancy nightgown. Now she got up and began to walk with me through the devastated yard. "We must hurry," she said. "The train leaves soon." After a while she said, "It's the last one."

  We moved fast, in spite of the fact that the ground was uneven. Our feet seemed barely to touch it, we floated over it as if in flight. We left the yard and passed through a low, dirty passage into the ruin itself.

  "Lool^" said Yolanda and pointed to the comer of what had once been a bathroom. Two big rosy rats were sitting there, lookmg at us seriously. "They'd Uke to leave too," said Yolanda, "but they couldn't get a visa."

  "Do we need a visa?"

  "Since a few days ago," she said and nodded to the rats.

  "Good luck!" cried the rats.

  "Thanks!" said Yolanda.

  We walked out into the street. It was an empty, bumed out street. Dead houses lined it on either side hke ghosts. In crumbling archways people were sitting on wicker chairs, the way one sees them sometimes on warm evenings, after work. The people on the street were in their Sunday clothes and all of them were dead. Their shattered eyes stared into space. As we hurried by, Yolanda greeted them. The dead made no move, but Yolanda went right on greeting them. "They have a lot of influence," she explained.

  "Where?"

  "With the station master," she said and dragged me on. Her white dress blew wildly about her. A strong wind had sprung up, and now it began to drizzle.

  The station; which we reached finally after wandering through similar streets, was also burned out. People were standing in long hues in front of the ticket windows. I wanted to get into Une too, but Yolanda dragged me on. We hurried through the station until we came to a small wooden door. Yolanda knocked on it. A giant in a white smock opened it. He seemed to know Yolanda, because he nodded and let us into a third class waiting room, after which he locked the door behind us, grabbed Yolanda, and with one swift motion tore off her evening dress. Underneath it she was naked. He kissed her. I stood there and didn't move. The kiss lasted a long time. Outside, on the platform, the locomotive let out a whistle. The giant let Yolanda go.

  "Come," he said and led us through the waiting room

  to an office. A big desk stood in it. Yolanda, naked, and I in an ordinary business suit, stepped up to the desk. Behind it sat Professor Vogt. He had on a light coat with the collar turned up. He nodded at us.

  "Good morning. What can I do for you?'*

  He didn't know us. The giant whispered something in his ear. Vogt's face expressed astonishment. "Is that so?" he said slowly.

  "Yes," said Yolanda, nodding.

  "And what is your reason for this application?"

  Suddenly I remembered that we were applying for a visa. The giant had promised to intercede for us if Yolanda gave herself to him. She had given herself to him and this was the moment of his intercession. All this suddenly came back to me.

  Vogt shook his head as he looked at us, waiting for an answer that was not forthcoming. He said again, "You must state your reason. That's the law."

  "We want to leave," said Yolanda.

  "That doesn't suffice as a reason," said Vogt.

  "We can't live in this city any longer," I said.

  "That doesn't suffice as a reason," said Vogt.

  The giant seemed to feel he had to do something for us and whispered in Vogt's ear again. Vogt shrugged and looked up. "When did you die?" he asked

  "Long ago," I said.

  "Please give the exact date."

  "May 7, 1945," said Yolanda. She noticed that Vogt was staring at her and covered her breasts with her hands. Vogt cleared his throat and looked away.

  "Then you've been here a long time."

  "We're one of those who've been here longest," I said. "And it wasn't our fault that we died."

  "I'm only a minor civil servant," mumbled Vogt, "so it isn't my fault. I'm simply not allowed to hand out more visas than there are seats on the train."

  "Do you still have seats?"

  "Yes, but not for you."

  "Then for whom?"

  "For the children. We still'^have a lot of chUdren here. They have to go first. They can't stand the climate."

  "Perhaps they could travel on the sleeper," said the giant.

  It was the first time he spoke aloud, and as he did so he looked at Yolanda sadly and hopelessly, as if apologizing for the fact that he couldn't help us.

  "That makes no difference," said Vogt. "They'd still have to fulfill the regulations.

  "What regulations?"

  "A positive answer to the question."

  "To what question?"

  Vogt sighed and got up. He walked to the window and looked out at the platform on which the train was standing. Then he turned around and looked at me. "You," he said. "Do you love this woman?"

  "No," I said. "I can't love anybody."

  Vogt nodded and turned to Yolanda. "Do you love this man?"

  Yolanda shook her head. "No," she said calmly. "I don't love him." Then she turned to me and said softly, "Kiss me, darling."

  I kissed her.

  Vogt went back to his desk.

  "The question was answered negatively. I can't give you a visa."

  We stood before him silently. The train whistle blew again.

  "May I please remind you of the escape clause," the giant said to Vogt. He spoke humbly, pleadingly. Vogt looked sad. He got up with a hopeless gesture and called me over. "Come with me," he said.

  "I?"

  "Yes, you," he said impatiently. I looked at Yolanda and she let go of my hand.

  "You stay here," the giant told Yolanda.

  I followed Vogt out onto the dirty platform. Men sell-

  ing refreshments were hurrying alongside the train. They were wearing gas masks.

  "The escape clause," said Vogt, as soon as he had closed
the door of his office behind us, "permits me to let one of you travel. But you're the one who has to decide who it's to be. You or the woman. The other person stays here."

  "I'll go," I said at once.

  "Very well," he said, 'Tiere is your passport." He handed it to me. "Go. And don't turn around. A bed is reserved for you on -the sleeper. It's the car behind the locomotive."

  "Thank you," I said, but he had already disappeared.

  I walked along the platform to the sleeper. A conductor greeted me. "This way," he said and led me to my compartment. The train wasn't fuU. Nobody was standing in the corridor. "Here you are," said the conductor and opened the door. "I hope you have an undisturbed trip."

  I walked into the compartment. Both beds had been made up. In the top one lay Yolanda.

  "Good evening," she said. She was smoking and didn't look at me.

  "Good evening." I closed the door. "EHd they ask you too?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "I betrayed you."

  "I betrayed you too."

  "We betrayed each other. That's why we're here."

  "But only one of us is supposed to be on the train," I said, startled.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and a conductor walked in without waiting for permission.

  "Passports please."

  "Listen," I said, excitedly. "I know only one of us is supposed to be on this train."

  He looked at our passports, put them in his pocket and

  handed me a new one. "There is only one person on this train."

  "But..."

  "I hope you betrayed each other?" he asked suspiciously.

  "Of course we did.'*

  "Then everything is in order. You are one." And with that he walked out and closed the door.

  I stared at Yolanda. Then I opened the passport. Its pages were empty and there was no name.

  "Go to bed," said Yolanda. Suddenly she didn't have a face. I undressed slowly. As I did, I could feel the train begin to move. I turned out the light and lay down on the lower bed.

  "Yolanda?"

  "Yes."

  "When do we arrive?"

  "I don't know," her voice replied.

  The car rocked rhythmically on its axles. We were moving fast.

  20

  I was thirsty. My lips were burning. My tongue was heavy in my mouth. My head ached. Two hammers were pounding in my temples. When I opened my eyes cautiously, the daylight hit me like a blow.

  I was lying in my bed. Margaret was sitting beside me. The tears were coursing down her cheeks. Now she smiled. "Darling," she said softly and drew a deep breath.

  "What is it?" I asked. I tried to move, but I couldn't. I

  felt very weak. "Why am I here? When are they going to operate?"

  "It's all over," she said.

  "Over?" Suddenly I felt very hot, then very cold, after that I felt sick. I vomited and nearly choked. Margaret wiped the sweat from my forehead and put the small kidney basin away.

  "Was it a tumor?"

  "No."

  "So what was it?"

  "A benign growth."

  "So?"

  "Darling," she said, and laughed hysterically with the tears still coursing down her cheeks. "All they did was bore two little holes and examine the growth and saw it was harmless. They didn't have to operate at all."

  That was the last I heard before I lost consciousness again.

  21

  I stayed two more days in the clinic.

  On the evening of the first day I was able to hear and see clearly again and was fully conscious. On the morning of the second day only- my head still ached and I was a Uttle weak in the legs. But in the meantime I had begun to realize that I didn't have a tumor on the brain, nothing but a harmless growth, and I began to feel optimistic. My spirits rose.

  "It's a growth that we can eliminate with ten or twenty x-ray treatments," said Vogt when he came to see me and

  give me the final diagnosis. "You can have the x-ray treatment here or anywhere you Uke."

  "How long does it take?"

  "A few weeks. The x-rays should take place at intervals of two or three days."

  "When can I have the first?"

  "In a week or two. Your brain has to calm down. The examination was a great exertion. Try to rest now, relax, and then, in about ten days, come back to see us, Mr. Chandler. Is that all right with you?"

  "Fme," I said.

  During this time Margaret was with me almost constantly. She looked dreadful and had a way of bursting into tears suddenly which made me realize she must be suffering from nervous exhaustion. I called Yolanda on the morning of the second day and told her I had, so to say, got away with murder. I said I would come to her as soon as I had left the sanatorium. She seemed curiously indifferent and I only spoke to her briefly.

  On the second day I had visitors. Clayton appeared, Hellweg brought flowers and the Baxters came to wish me well. When they left, Margaret began to cry again and it took a long time before she calmed down. For the first time in ages I felt something akin to pity for her.

  But the event that triggered the final catastrophe had nothing to do with her. She behaved admirably. Everybody concerned behaved admirably. And the occasion that first gave me an inkling of the truth was something ridiculously trivial. Under certain circumstances I wouldn't even have been conscious of it. Only my irritated, over-active brain registered the true reason for Dr. Renter's visit.

  She came just before I left the clinic, to say goodbye. She looked as fascinating and immaculately groomed as ever. She had a few minutes time and sat down with me. After she had congratulated me on the diagnosis, we got to talking about motion pictures. She had seen two in the last days: Heaven Can Wait, by Lubitsch, and The Silver

  Net, a crime picture. She had loved the Lubitsch. The Silver Net was running in Germany under the title The Net of Death, and she went on to talk about it.

  "I saw the Lubitsch first," she said, "then The Net, and I must say ..."

  "I wrote the script for The Net,'' I interrupted her, grinning in expectation of an unfavorable attack. I was looking forward to it Uke to a wrestling match with a friend. Frau Dr. Renter, with her hatred of men and her predilection for saying unpleasant things to me, amused me. I had no idea that my interruption of her sentence was about to change my entire life.

  "Oh," she said and stared at me.

  "Didn't you see my credit Une?"

  "I came too late for the credits," she said. She seemed embarrassed, and to my boundless astonishment she blushed suddenly, a deep red.

  "Go on, say it," I told her. "Tell me that the picture is -the worst crap you've ever seen."

  She shook her head, the color faded from her cheeks and she smiled happily. "Not at all. I loved the picture. I really did, Mr. Chandler. Especially the story. At last I can say something nice about you."

  And that was the moment in which my suspicions were aroused, when cold fear shot through me like a spring freshet. She had hked the picture? That was why she had spoken first of the Lubitsch and then, in a contrast that had been perfectly clear, had been about to start criticizing The Net, Derogatorily. I thanked her for the friendly words with which she now followed up her protest, but I didn't listen to them. She was lying. She had been going to say something quite different. And she would Have said it, if I hadn't interrupted her. She had been about to say that she'd hated the picture, that she'd found it awful. Now she was declaring the opposite. Now, after I'd told her something she hadn't known—that I'd written the picture.

  Why was she domg this? What was going on in her

  mind? Three days ago this would have been an occasion for her to heap friendly scorn upon me. I recalled my first meeting with her. Now another woman was sitting here, a different person. Frau Dr. Renter was lying. Frau Dr. Renter was making me compliments. Suddenly my head was bursting. I sat up in bed, thanked her for her effusiveness and didn't give any indication of what was beating a tattoo i
n my head, the one word: why?

  When she finally left I sat quite still, leaning against the headboard, my eyes closed. I couldn't have explained to a soul what I sensed. I had no intention of telling anyone what I now knew, what I had grasped thanks to Frau Dr. Renter's unnatural behavior. An instinctive certainty bored its way into my consciousness, deeper and deeper with every passing second. I knew: she had lied to me. I knew: I did not have a benign tumor. I knew: my case was hopeless. That was why they hadn't operated. And no one knew that I knew. I knew it on this autumn afternoon, a few hours before I was to leave the clinic after having been pronounced healthy. That was when I knew I was lost

  22

  I have just read what I have written and come to the conclusion that it sounds absurd. The incident doesn't seem to have any realistic relationship to the conclusions I drew from it, so that on rereading, I couldn't help feeUng a httle uneasy. But that's the way it was. Ridiculously exaggerated, absolutely senseless and without any adequate justification, this incident and the idee fixe bom of it determined everything I undertook from then on. I saw and

  judged everything that happened from here on in the light of my sudden conviction.

  The friendliness of everyone who came to see me, Margaret's tears, her fearful worry about my comfort—all were proof presented daily. Proof that I was going to die and that nothing could save me. That was what I was thinking of, stretched out in the autumn sunshine in Joe Clayton's garden in Griinwald; that was what I thought of in the night, with Margaret sleeping beside me; that was what I thought of with every breath I took, with every bite I ate, in the days following my release from the hospital.

  I lay in the lounge chair while there was daylight; when it was dark I rested on a comfortable couch in my room. I rarely did anything but rest during those September days of last year, and I rarely thought of anything but of how to find out for sure, how to be certain. For I was still sane enough to realize that my idee fixe was not actual proof. But I became suspicious, terribly suspicious. And I had never been suspicious before. Now I trusted nobody. I had the feeling that everybody was lying to me, that no one was going to tell me the truth anymore if I asked a question. I therefore asked no questions.