Flotsam

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “Fine. The more worthless the merchandise, the greater the profit. As a matter of principle, I don’t sell anything at all. I simply ask people to help me out. In this way I avoid the statute against illegal work and am only guilty of begging and vagrancy. How about addresses? Have you any?”

  “What kind of addresses?”

  Binder leaned back and looked at Kern in amazement. “For heaven’s sake,” he said, “that’s the most important thing of all! Addresses of people you can go to, of course. You can’t just run around at random from door to door. You’d be laid by the heels in three days.”

  He offered Kern a cigarette. “I’ll give you a number of reliable addresses,” he went on. “Three series—pious Jews, mixed, and Christian. No charge. I myself had to pay twenty francs for my first list. Some of the people, of course, are dreadfully pestered; but at least they won’t get you into trouble.”

  He examined Kern’s suit. “Your clothes are all right. You have to be especially careful about that here in Switzerland. On account of the detectives. Your coat at least has to be good; on occasion it can cover a tattered suit, which might arouse suspicion. Of course there are a lot of people who will refuse to help you if your clothes are any good at all. Have you a likely story you can tell?”

  He glanced up and noticed Kern’s expression. “My friend,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. I used to think the same thing. But take my word for it: to support yourself, even in misery, is a fine art. And charity is a cow that gives little milk and gives it grudgingly. I know people who have three different stories on tap—a sentimental story, a story of persecution, and a matter-of-fact story—according to what the man who’s going to shell out a couple of francs wants to hear. They lie, of course, but only because they have to. The basic truth is always the same—want, flight and hunger.”

  “I know,” Kern replied. “And I wasn’t thinking of that at all. I was just amazed that you have so much precise information.”

  “It’s the concentrated experience of three years’ service in the fight for life. Yes, I’ve become tough. More than most. My brother couldn’t take it. He shot himself a year ago.”

  For an instant Binder’s face was twisted with pain. Then it became calm again. He stood up. “If you don’t know where to sleep you can spend tonight with me. For a week I have a safe place, a room that belongs to a Zürich acquaintance of mine who is away on vacation. I’ll be here from eleven o’clock on. Twelve o’clock is the police hour. Be careful after twelve. From then on the streets swarm with detectives.”

  “Switzerland seems damned hot,” Kern said. “Thank God I met you. Otherwise I’d probably been nabbed the first day. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. You’ve helped me a lot.”

  Binder waved aside his thanks. “That’s a matter of course with people who are at the very bottom. Comradeship of those outside the law—almost like that among criminals. Each one of us may be in the same fix tomorrow, and need help, himself. Well, then, till twelve!”

  He paid for the coffee, gave Kern his hand and went out, self-assured and elegant.

  Kern waited in the Café Greif until dark. He asked for a map of the city and traced out the way to Ruth’s house. Then he left the place and strode along the street, restless and impatient. It took him about a half-hour to find the house. It was in a quiet section, full of crooked streets; the house stood high and white in the moonlight. In front of the door he stopped. He looked at the big brass knocker and his impatience suddenly died. All at once he had ceased to believe that he only had to climb one flight of stairs to find Ruth. It was too easy after all those months. He was not used to easy things. He stared up at the windows. Perhaps she wasn’t in that house at all. Perhaps she wasn’t even in Zürich any more.

  He walked past the house. A few blocks farther on he came to a tobacco store and went inside. A surly woman came out from behind the high counter.

  “A package of Parisiennes,” Kern said.

  The woman gave him the cigarettes. Then she reached into a box under the counter, brought out some matches and laid them on the package. There were two books that had stuck together; the woman noticed it, pulled them apart, and threw one back into the box. “Fifty centimes,” she said.

  Kern paid. “May I use your telephone?” he asked.

  The woman nodded. “The instrument’s there in the corner to the left.”

  Kern looked up the number in the book. Neumann—there seemed to be hundreds of Neumanns in this city. Finally he found the right one. He picked up the receiver and gave the number. The woman stood at the counter watching him. Kern angrily turned his back on her. It was a long time before anyone answered.

  “May I speak to Fräulein Ruth Holland?” he said into the black mouthpiece.

  “Who is that?”

  “Ludwig Kern.”

  The voice at the other end was silent for an instant. “Ludwig—” it came again as though breathless. “You, Ludwig?”

  “Yes—” Kern suddenly felt his heart beating hard as though it were a hammer. “Yes—is that you, Ruth? I didn’t recognize your voice. We’ve never talked to each other on the telephone.”

  “From where are you calling?”

  “I am here. In Zürich. In a cigar store.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. In the same street as you.”

  “Then why don’t you come here? Is there anything wrong?”

  “No, not a thing. I got here today. I thought perhaps you weren’t here any more. Where can we meet?”

  “Here! Come here right away! The second floor. Do you know which house it is?”

  “Yes, I know. But is it all right? I mean on account of the people you’re staying with.”

  “There’s no one here. I am alone. They’ve all gone away for the week end. Come!”

  “Yes.”

  Kern put down the receiver. He looked around absently. It no longer seemed to be the same store. Then he went back to the counter. “How much was that call?” he asked.

  “Ten centimes.”

  “Only ten centimes?”

  “That’s dear enough.” The woman picked up the coin. “Don’t forget your cigarettes.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, to be sure.”

  Kern went out on the street. I’m not going to run now, he thought. Anyone who runs is likely to be suspected. I’m going to keep hold of myself. Steiner wouldn’t run in my place either. I’m going to walk. No one will notice anything unusual about me. But I can walk fast. I can walk very fast. That’s just as quick as if I ran.

  Ruth was standing on the stairs. It was dark and Kern could only see her indistinctly. “Look out,” he said hurriedly in a hoarse voice, “I am dirty. My things are still at the station. I haven’t been able to wash or change my clothes.”

  She made no reply. She stood on the landing leaning forward waiting for him. He ran up the steps and suddenly she was beside him warm and real—life and more than life.

  She lay quiet in his arms. He heard her breathe and felt her hair. He stood motionless and the vague darkness around him seemed to tremble. Then he realized she was crying. He started to move. She shook her head against his shoulder without letting go of him. “Don’t pay any attention to me. This won’t last long.”

  A door opened downstairs. Kern turned cautiously and almost unnoticeably to one side in order to look down the stairs. He heard steps. Then a switch snapped and the lights went on. Ruth was startled. “Come, come in here quick!” She pulled him through a doorway.

  They were sitting in the Neumann family’s living room. It had been a long time since Kern had been in a home. The room was middle-class and decorated without much taste, with massive oak furniture, a modern Persian rug, a few chairs covered in rep and some lamps with bright-colored silk shades. But to Kern it appeared a vision of peace and an island of security.

  “When did your passport expire?” he asked.

  “Seven weeks ago, Ludwig.” Ruth took two glasses and a bottle from the sideboard.


  “Did you apply for an extension?”

  “Yes. I went to the Consulate here in Zürich. They refused. I didn’t expect anything else, of course.”

  “Nor did I really. Although I always keep hoping for a miracle. After all we’re enemies of the State. Dangerous enemies of the State. That ought to make us feel important, oughtn’t it?”

  “It’s all right with me,” Ruth said, placing the glasses and the bottle on the table. “I have no advantage over you now and that’s something.”

  Kern laughed. He put his arm around her shoulders and pointed to the table. “Now what’s that, cognac?”

  “Yes. The Neumann family’s best cognac. I’m going to drink it with you because you are here again. It was awful without you. And it was awful to know you were in jail. They struck you, those criminals, and it was all my fault.”

  She looked at him. She smiled and Kern noticed that she was excited. Her voice was angry and her hands trembled as she filled the glasses. “It was hideous,” she said once more, handing him his glass. “But now you’re back again.”

  They drank. “It wasn’t so bad,” Kern said. “Really it wasn’t.”

  Ruth put down her glass. She had emptied it in one gulp. She put her arms around Kern’s neck and kissed him. “Now I’m not going to let you go away again,” she murmured, “ever!”

  Kern looked at her. He had never seen her this way before. She was entirely changed. Something alien that formerly had often stood between them like a shadow, something enigmatic, a sort of faraway sadness for which he had no name, had disappeared. Now she had unfolded and was wholly there, and for the first time he felt that she belonged to him. He had never been sure of it before.

  “Ruth,” he said, “I wish this ceiling would open to let in an airplane that we could fly away to an island with palms and coral where no one had ever heard of a passport or a residential permit.”

  She kissed him again. “I’m afraid they know all about them there, Ludwig. They’re sure to have forts and cannon and men-of-war among the palms and coral and to be even more on guard than here in Zürich.”

  “Yes, of course. Let’s have another drink.” He took the bottle and poured. “But even Zürich is too dangerous. We can’t hide here for long.”

  “Then let’s leave.”

  Kern looked around the room, at the damask curtains, at the chairs, at the yellow silk lampshades. “Ruth,” he said, motioning toward these things, “it will be wonderful to go away with you; it’s the very best I’ve been able to imagine. But you’ve got to understand that we’ll not have anything like this. There’ll be country roads, haystacks and hiding places and dingy little boardinghouse rooms, with always the fear of the police, if we’re lucky. And jail.”

  “I know all that and it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to worry about it. I have to leave here anyway. I can’t stay any longer. My friends are afraid of the police because I have not registered. They’ll be glad when I’m gone. I still have some money, Ludwig. And I’ll help you peddle. I won’t cost you much. I believe I’m quite sensible.”

  “So you even have money,” Kern said, “and you’re going to help me sell things! One more word from you and I’ll begin howling like an old woman. Have you many things to take with you?”

  “Not many. Anything I don’t need I’ll leave here.”

  “Good. What are we going to do with your books? Especially the thick ones about chemistry? Shall we leave them here for the time being?”

  “I’ve sold my books. I followed the advice you gave me in Prague. You oughtn’t to keep anything from your former life. Nothing at all. And you oughtn’t to look back. That just makes you weary and useless. Books have brought me misfortune. I sold them. Besides they were much too heavy to carry around.”

  Kern smiled. “You’re right, Ruth. You are sensible. I think we’ll go first to Lucerne. George Binder, an expert on Switzerland, recommended it to me. There are a lot of foreigners there, so you’re not so conspicuous and the police aren’t so strict. When shall we leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow early. We can stay here till then.”

  “Fine. I have a place where I can sleep. The only thing is I’ve got to be back at the Café Greif by twelve.”

  “You’re not going back to the Café Greif at twelve! You’re going to stay here, Ludwig. We’ll not let you go out on the streets until day after tomorrow. Otherwise I’d die of fear.”

  Kern stared at her. “But can we do that? Isn’t there a maid or someone who might give us away?”

  “The maid has time off until noon Monday. She’s coming back on the 11:40 train. The others get here at three in the afternoon. We have until then.”

  “God in heaven!” Kern said. “We have this whole apartment to ourselves until then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we can live here as though it belonged to us? With this living room and bedroom, a dining room of our own, and a lily-white tablecloth, and china, and probably silver knives and forks, and fruit knives for apples, and coffee in demitasses, and a radio?”

  “All of it! And I’ll cook dinner and put on one of Sylvia Neumann’s evening dresses for you.”

  “And I’ll put on Herr Neumann’s dinner jacket this evening. No matter how big he is. While I was in prison I learned from the World of Fashion how one should dress.”

  “It will just about fit you.”

  “Magnificent! We must have a celebration.” Kern leaped to his feet eagerly. “And I can even have a hot bath, can’t I, with plenty of soap? That’s something I haven’t had in a long time. In prison there was only a kind of Lysol shower.”

  “Of course you can! A hot bath with the world-famous Kern-Farr perfume in it.”

  “I’ve just sold the last of that.”

  “But I still have a bottle. The one you gave me in the movie house in Prague. On our first evening. I’ve been saving it.”

  “That’s the final touch,” Kern said. “What a blessed spot Zürich is! Ruth, you overwhelm me. Things are starting to go right for us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE VILLA THAT BELONGED to Arnold Oppenheim, Councilor of Commerce, lay close to Lucerne. It was a white house perched like a castle above the Lake of the Four Cantons. Kern laid siege to it for two days. In the list of addresses that the expert Binder had given him there was a note after Oppenheim’s name: “German. Jew. Gives, but only under pressure. A nationalist. Say nothing about Zionism.”

  On the third day Kern was admitted. Oppenheim received him in a large garden full of asters, sunflowers and chrysanthemums. He was a good-humored-looking, powerful man, with stubby fingers and a small, thick mustache. “Have you just come from Germany?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve been away for more than two years.”

  “And where are you from originally?”

  “Dresden.”

  “Oh, Dresden.” Oppenheim ran his hand over his gleaming bald head and sighed nostalgically. “Dresden is a magnificent city. A jewel. Nothing can compare with the Brühl Terrace. Can it?”

  “No,” Kern said. He felt hot and he would have liked to have a glass of the wine that stood on the stone table in front of Oppenheim. But it did not occur to Oppenheim to offer it. He stared into the clear air, lost in thought. “And the Zwinger—the Castle—the galleries—I suppose you know all that well?”

  “Not so very. I know it from the outside, of course.”

  “But my dear young friend!” Oppenheim looked at him reproachfully. “Not to know something like that! The noblest example of German Baroque! Haven’t you ever heard of Daniel Pöppelmann?”

  “Oh yes, of course!” Kern had never heard the name of the great architect of Baroque, but he wanted to please Oppenheim.

  “Well, that’s better,” said Oppenheim, mollified, and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, our Germany! No one can copy it, eh?”

  “Certainly not. And a good thing too.”

  “What’s that—good? What do you mean by that?”
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  “Simply this—it’s a good thing for the Jews. Otherwise they’d be done for.”

  “Oh, that! You’re bringing politics into it. Now listen to me—‘done for, done for,’ those are big words! Believe me things aren’t so bad. There is a great deal of exaggeration. I have it on the best authority, conditions aren’t nearly so bad as they’re painted.”

  “Really?”

  “Most certainly.” Oppenheim bent forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “Let me tell you. Just between us, the Jews themselves are responsible for much of what is happening today. They have a huge responsibility. I tell you it’s true and I know what I’m saying. Much of what they did wasn’t necessary; it’s a subject I know something about.”

  How much is he going to give me? Kern wondered. Perhaps enough to get us as far as Berne.

  “Now just take the East Jews for example, the immigrants from Galicia and Poland,” Oppenheim explained, taking a sip of cool wine. “Was there any good reason for letting all of them in? What business have such people in Germany anyway? I am just as much opposed to them as the government is. People keep saying Jews are Jews—but what is there in common between a dirty peddler, wearing a greasy caftan and those ridiculous earlocks, and an old aristocratic Jewish family that has been in the country for centuries?”

  “The one migrated earlier than the other,” Kern said thoughtlessly and stopped in alarm. The last thing he wanted to do was to irritate Oppenheim.

  But the latter paid no attention; he was busy with his own problem. “The latter have been assimilated. They are valuable and important citizens, an asset to the nation—the others are just foreigners. That’s it, my friend. And what have we to do with such people? Nothing, nothing at all! They should have been left in Poland!”

  “But they’re not wanted there either.”

  Oppenheim made a sweeping gesture and looked at him irritably. “That has nothing to do with Germany! That’s something entirely different. We must be objective. I hate these wholesale condemnations. You can say what you like against Germany, the people there are active and accomplishing something! You’ll have to admit that, won’t you?”