Flotsam

by Erich Maria Remarque

  The wife looked at him in alarm. “Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee?” she said.

  Kern had not had any coffee in a long time. “If you have some made,” he said.

  “Yes, yes indeed. Just one minute.”

  She lumbered out, as awkward as a lopsided keg, but quickly nevertheless. The sister stayed in the room.

  “A cup of coffee will taste fine,” Kern said to make conversation.

  The sister emitted a strangled laugh like a turkey gobbler and then was suddenly silent as though she had swallowed the wrong way. Kern looked at her in amazement. She bobbed her head and made a shrill piping sound through her nose.

  The wife came in and put a steaming cup on the table in front of Kern. “Take your time drinking it,” she said considerately. “There’s no hurry and the coffee is very hot.”

  The sister gave a sudden brief laugh and then ducked her head nervously.

  Kern never got to drink his coffee. The door opened and Ammers came in with short, springy steps, followed by a disgruntled-looking policeman.

  With a pontifical gesture Ammers pointed at Kern. “Officer, do your duty. Here is an individual without a country and without a passport—banished from the German Reich!”

  Kern stiffened. The officer looked at him. “Come with me,” he growled.

  For a moment Kern had the feeling that his brain had stopped working. He had anticipated everything but this. Slowly and mechanically, as though in a slow motion picture, he got his things together. Then he straightened up. “So that was the reason for your kindness and for the coffee,” he said awkwardly and with difficulty, as though he must at all costs make himself clear, “just to keep me here.” He clenched his fists and took a step towards Ammers, who recoiled. “Don’t be afraid,” Kern said softly, “I’m not going to touch you. I’ll just curse you. I curse you and your children and your wife with the whole strength of my soul. May all the unhappiness in the world fall on you! May your children revolt against you and leave you alone in poverty, sickness and misery!”

  Ammers turned pale. His beard trembled. “Protect me,” he ordered the policeman.

  “He hasn’t injured you yet,” the officer said phlegmatically. “Up to now he’s only cursed you. If, for example, he had called you a dirty informer that might perhaps have been an injury—principally on account of the word dirty.”

  Ammers looked at him in a rage. “Do your duty!” he snapped.

  “Herr Ammers,” the officer announced calmly, “it’s not your place to give me orders. Only my superiors can do that. You have denounced a man and I have come. You may leave the rest to me.” He turned to Kern. “Follow me.”

  The two went out. Behind them the door was slammed shut. Kern walked silently beside the official. He still could not get his thoughts in order. Somewhere inside him an indistinct voice said Ruth—but he simply did not dare think further.

  “My boy,” said the policeman after a while, “sometimes sheep go to call on hyenas. Don’t you know who he is? He’s the local spy of the German Nazi Party, and he has already denounced all sorts of people.”

  “My God!” Kern said.

  “Yes,” replied the officer, “that’s what you call a prize boner.”

  Kern was silent. “I don’t know—” he said dully after a moment. “All I know is there’s a sick person waiting for me.”

  The policeman looked down the street and shrugged his shoulders. “That doesn’t help a bit. And it has nothing to do with me. I’ve got to take you to the police station.” He looked around. The street was empty. “I can’t advise you to run for it,” he went on. “There’s no point. Of course I have a game leg and couldn’t run after you, but I would shout at you and then if you didn’t stop I’d draw my revolver.” He looked Kern up and down for a couple of seconds. “Naturally that would take some time,” he explained. “You might even get away from me, particularly at a place we’re just coming to, where there are all sorts of alleys and corners and where shooting is out of the question. If you were to escape, I couldn’t really do anything. Unless I had put you in handcuffs first.”

  Suddenly Kern was wide awake and filled with an unreasoning hope. He stared at the officer.

  The officer walked on indifferently. “Do you know,” he said thoughtfully after a pause, “sometimes people are too decent for their own good.”

  Kern felt his hands wet with excitement. “Listen,” he said, “there’s a person waiting for me who is helpless without me. Let me go. We are on our way to France. We want to get out of Switzerland. It won’t make any difference one way or the other.”

  “I can’t do that,” the officer replied phlegmatically. “It’s against the service regulations. I must take you to the police station. That’s my duty. Of course if you were to escape from me there would naturally be nothing I could do about it.” He stopped. “For example, if you were to run down that street, turn the corner and keep to the left—you’d be off before I could shoot.” He glanced at Kern impatiently. “Well then, I’ll just put you in handcuffs. Damnation, where did I put the things?”

  He turned halfway round and began a thorough search of his pockets. “Thanks,” Kern said and ran.

  At the corner he took a quick look back. The officer was standing there, both hands on his hips, grinning after him.

  * * *

  Kern awoke and listened to Ruth’s quick, shallow breathing. He felt her forehead; it was hot and damp. She was sleeping deeply but restlessly and he did not want to wake her. The smell of the hay was overpowering, although they had spread blankets and bed covers on top of it. After a while she awoke of her own accord and in a plaintive, childish voice asked for water. Kern brought her the pail and a cup and she drank thirstily.

  “Are you hot?”

  “Yes, very. But perhaps it’s only the hay. My throat is parched.”

  “I hope you haven’t a fever.”

  “I mustn’t have a fever. I mustn’t get sick. I’m not sick, either. I won’t be sick.”

  She turned over and pushed her head under his arm and went to sleep again.

  Kern lay still. He wished he had a light to see how Ruth looked. He recognized from the damp heat of her face that she was feverish. But he had no flashlight. So he lay still, listening to her quick short breathing and watching the infinitely slow progress of the hand around the illuminated dial of his watch, which gleamed through the darkness like some pale and distant diabolical engine of time. Beneath them the sheep jostled each other, grunting from time to time, and it seemed to take years for the circle of the window to grow brighter, announcing the day.

  Ruth awoke. “Give me some water, Ludwig.”

  Kern handed her the cup. “You have a fever, Ruth. Will you be all right alone for an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m just going to run down to the village and get some medicine.”

  The shepherd came and opened the sheepfold. When Kern told him what had happened he made a wry face. “She must go to a hospital. She can’t stay here.”

  “We’ll see if she isn’t better by noon.”

  Despite his fear of meeting the policeman or a member of the Ammers family, Kern ran to the drugstore and begged the druggist to lend him a thermometer. The assistant let him have one after he had put up money as a deposit. Kern bought a bottle of arcanol and ran back.

  Ruth’s temperature was 101.5. She took two tablets and Kern wrapped his jacket and her coat around her where she lay in the hay. By noon, despite the medicine, her temperature had risen to 102 degrees.

  The shepherd scratched his head. “She needs nursing. If I were in your place I’d take her to the hospital.”

  “I won’t go to the hospital,” Ruth whispered hoarsely. “Tomorrow I’ll be well again.”

  “It doesn’t look like it to me,” said the shepherd. “She ought to be in bed in a room and not here in a hayloft.”

  “No, it’s warm and nice here. Please let me lie here.”

  The shepherd cli
mbed down the ladder and Kern followed. “Why doesn’t she want to leave?” the shepherd asked.

  “Because then we’d be separated.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You could wait for her.”

  “That’s just what I couldn’t do. If she’s admitted to a hospital they will find out she hasn’t a passport. Perhaps they might keep her there, although we haven’t enough money; but afterwards the police would take her to the border and I wouldn’t know where or when.”

  The shepherd shook his head. “And you haven’t done anything? You haven’t committed any crime?”

  “We haven’t passports and can’t get them, that’s all.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You haven’t stolen something somewhere, or swindled someone or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “And nevertheless they chase you as though they had a warrant for your arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  The shepherd spat. “Perhaps someone can understand that. A simple fellow like me can’t.”

  “I understand it,” Kern said.

  “You know, that might be a case of inflammation of the lungs, up there.”

  “Inflammation of the lungs?” Kern looked at him in terror. “Why that isn’t possible! That might be fatal.”

  “Of course,” said the shepherd. “That’s why I’m arguing with you.”

  “I’m sure it’s grippe.”

  “She has fever, high fever. And what it really is only a doctor can say.”

  “Then I’ll get a doctor.”

  “Bring one here?”

  “Perhaps I can get one to come. I’ll see whether there’s a Jewish doctor in the directory.”

  Kern went back to the village. In a tobacco store he bought two cigarettes and asked for the telephone book. He found the name of Dr. Rudolf Beer and went to him.

  The consultation hour was over when he arrived and he had to wait for more than an hour. He occupied himself looking at papers and magazines; he stared at the pictures in them, unable to understand how there could still be tennis matches and receptions and half-naked women in Florida and happy people, while he sat there helpless and Ruth was sick.

  Finally the doctor arrived. He was a young man and he listened to Kern in silence. Then he put some things in a bag and picked up his hat. “Come along. My car’s downstairs. We’ll drive out.”

  Kern gulped. “Couldn’t we walk? It costs more in a car. And we have very little money.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Beer replied.

  They drove to the sheepfold and the doctor examined Ruth. She looked anxiously at Kern and silently shook her head. She did not want to leave.

  Beer stood up. “She must go to the hospital. Congestion of the right lung. Grippe, and the danger of pneumonia. I will take her with me.”

  “No, I won’t go to the hospital. We can’t pay for it either.”

  “Don’t concern yourself about the money. You have to leave here. You’re seriously ill.”

  Ruth looked at Kern. “We’ll talk it over,” he said. “I’ll come right away.”

  “I’ll come to get you in half an hour,” the doctor announced. “Have you warm clothes and blankets?”

  “We have only this.”

  “I’ll bring some things with me. See you in half an hour.”

  “Is it absolutely necessary?” Kern asked.

  “Yes. She can’t stay here lying on the hay. And there’s no point either in putting her in a room. She belongs in a hospital—right away too.”

  “All right,” Kern said. “Then I’ll have to tell you what that means for us.”

  Beer listened to him. “You don’t believe, then, that you’ll be able to visit her?” he asked.

  “No. In a couple of days word would get about and all the police would have to do would be to wait for me. But this way I have a chance of staying near her and of hearing from you how she is getting on and what is happening to her, and so of making my plans accordingly.”

  “I understand. You can come to me to inquire at any time.”

  “Thank you. Is her condition dangerous?”

  “It might become dangerous. It’s absolutely necessary for her to leave here.”

  The doctor drove off. Kern climbed slowly up the ladder to the loft. He had lost all power of feeling. The white face, with dark shadows where the eyes were, turned toward him out of the twilight of the low room. “I know what you’re going to say,” Ruth whispered.

  Kern nodded. “There’s nothing else to do. We must be thankful that we have found this doctor. I’m sure you are going to get into the hospital for nothing.”

  “Yes.” She stared straight ahead. Then she suddenly sat bolt upright in panic. “My God, where will you stay when I’m in the hospital? And how shall we meet again? You can’t come there, perhaps they’d arrest you.”

  He sat down beside her and took her hot hands comfortingly in his. “Ruth,” he said. “This is a time for us to be very clear-headed and reasonable. I have thought it all over. I shall stay here in hiding. The shepherd has told me that I may. I shall simply wait for you. It’s better for me not to go to the hospital to visit you. That would be talked about and they might grab me. But there’s something else we can do. I’ll come to the hospital every evening and look up at your window. The doctor will tell me where you are. That will be like a visit.”

  “At what time?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “It’s dark then and I won’t be able to see you.”

  “I can only come when it’s dark; otherwise it would be too dangerous. I mustn’t let myself be seen during the day.”

  “You mustn’t come at all. Just leave me; everything will be all right.”

  “I will come. I couldn’t stand it otherwise. Now you must get dressed.”

  He moistened his handkerchief with water from the tin pail and washed and dried her face. Her lips were parched and hot. She laid her face on his hand. “Ruth,” he said, “we must think things out. When you get well, if I’m not here any more, or if they deport you—make them send you to Geneva on the border. We’ll agree to write each other care of General Delivery in Geneva. In that way we can be sure of meeting again. We’ll write to each other care of General Delivery, Main Post Office, Geneva. And we’ll give the doctor our addresses too, in case I’m arrested. Then he can always see that each gets the other’s. He has promised me to do it. I’ll hear all about you through him and he’ll give you the news about me. That way we can be quite sure of not losing each other.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be worried, Ruth. I’m saying this only if worse comes to worst. This is only in case they catch me. Or in case they don’t just let you go from the hospital. I really think they’ll let you out without telling the police anything, and then we’ll just start on together.”

  “And if they do find out?”

  “All they can do is send you to the border. And I’ll be waiting for you in Geneva at the Main Post Office.”

  He looked at her encouragingly. “Here is some money for you. Hide it, for you may need it for the trip.”

  He gave her what little money he had left. “Don’t let them know at the hospital that you have it. You must keep it for the time afterward.”

  The doctor called to them from below. “Ruth,” Kern said, and took her in his arms, “will you be brave, Ruth?”

  She clung to him. “I will be brave. And I’ll see you again.”

  “General Delivery in Geneva, if anything goes wrong. Otherwise I’ll wait for you here. Every evening at nine o’clock I’ll be standing outside and wishing you the best.”

  “I’ll come to the window.”

  “You must stay in bed. Otherwise I won’t come. Laugh just once now.”

  “Ready?” shouted the doctor.

  She smiled through her tears. “Don’t forget me.”

  “How could I? You’re all I have.”

  He kissed her parched lips. The doctor’s head
appeared through the opening in the floor. “All right,” he said, “but now let’s go.”

  They helped Ruth down and into the car and tucked her in. “Can I come to inquire this evening?” Kern asked.

  “Of course. Are you going to stay here now? Yes, it’s better. You can come to see me any time.”

  The car drove off. Kern remained where he was until he could no longer see it. He stood motionless, but he felt as though a great wind were pushing him backward.

  At eight o’clock he went to Dr. Beer’s. The physician was at home and reassured him; Ruth’s temperature was high but at the moment there was no grave danger. It seemed to be an ordinary case of inflammation of the lungs.

  “How long will it last?”

  “If things go well, two weeks. And then a week of convalescence.”

  “How about money?” Kern asked. “We haven’t any.”

  Beer laughed. “For the present she’s in the hospital. Later on some charity will probably pay the expenses.”

  Kern looked at him. “And your fee?”

  Beer laughed again. “Keep your couple of francs. I can live without them. You can come again tomorrow to inquire about her.” He got up.

  “Which room is she in?” Kern asked. “Which floor?”

  Beer laid a bony index finger against his nose. “Wait a minute—Number 35, on the second floor.”

  “Which window is that?”

  Beer blinked. “The second from the right I think; it won’t do any good, though, she’ll be asleep.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Of course not,” Beer replied.

  Kern inquired the way to the hospital. He found it easily and looked at his watch. It was quarter of nine. The second window from the right was dark. He waited. He would never have believed that nine o’clock could come so slowly, but suddenly he saw a light go on in the window. He stood, tense in every muscle, watching the luminous rectangle. Once he had read somewhere about thought transference and now he tried to concentrate in order to send strength to Ruth. “Let her get well. Let her get well,” he thought urgently and did not know to whom he was praying. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, for he remembered that breathing played an important part in the book he had read. He clenched his fists and tensed his muscles, he rose on tiptoe as though about to spring from the ground, and he whispered again and again, up toward the square of light: “Get well! Get well! I love you!”