Flotsam

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “On duty,” the detective replied.

  The yodeler eyed Kern with contempt. “What offal!” he growled in a suddenly deep voice. “Then our quartet’s shot to hell for this evening?”

  “Not a bit of it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Good. We’ve got to get that double yodel right tonight, understand. Don’t catch cold.”

  “I won’t.”

  They walked on. “Then you’re not going to ride to the border?” Kern asked after a time.

  “No. We have a new patent device for you.”

  They arrived at the station. The detective found the conductor of the train. “Here he is,” he announced and pointed to Kern. Then he gave the conductor the order of deportation. “Have a good trip, sir,” he said, suddenly very polite, and stamped off.

  “Come with me.”

  The conductor took Kern to the caboose on one of the freight cars. “Get in here.”

  The little cabin contained nothing but a wooden bench. Kern pushed his bag under it on the floor. The conductor closed the door and locked it from the outside. “There! They’ll let you out in Basle.”

  He walked off along the dimly lighted platform. Kern looked through the window of the caboose. He tried cautiously to see whether he could squeeze his way through it. It wouldn’t work; the window was too narrow. A few minutes later the train pulled out. The bright waiting rooms slid past with their empty tables and their blank senseless lights. The stationmaster, with his red cap, was left behind in the darkness. A few crooked streets glided by, a parking lot with waiting automobiles, a small café in which a few people were playing cards—then the city had disappeared.

  Kern sat down on the wooden bench. He put his feet on his bag. He pressed them close together and looked out of the window. The night outside was dark and unknown and windy, and suddenly he felt very miserable.

  In Basle he was fetched by a policeman and taken to the customs house. He was given supper. Then an officer took him by streetcar to Burgfelden. In the darkness they went by a Jewish cemetery. Then they passed a brickyard and turned off from the main road. After some time the officer stopped. “Go on from here—straight ahead.” Kern went on. He knew just about where he was and he walked in the direction of St. Louis. He made no attempt to hide himself; it didn’t matter if he were arrested immediately.

  He had made a mistake in the direction. It was almost morning when he arrived in St. Louis. He reported immediately to the French police and explained that he had been put across the border from Basle the night before. He had to avoid being put in prison. And he could only do that by reporting each day to the police or to the customs officials. In that way he was not subject to any punishment and could only be sent back.

  The police held him in detention during the day. In the evening they sent him to the border customs house.

  There were two customs men there. One was sitting at a table writing. The other was sprawled on a bench beside the stove. He was smoking cigarettes of heavy Algerian tobacco, and he glanced at Kern from time to time.

  “What have you got in your bag there?” he asked after a while.

  “A few things that belong to me.”

  “Open it up!”

  Kern raised the top. The customs man got up and strolled over indifferently. Then he bent over the bag with a show of interest. “Toilet water, soap, perfume! See here, did you bring these things with you from Switzerland?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not going to pretend you need all this yourself—for your own personal use?”

  “No. I have been peddling it.”

  “Then you’ll have to pay duty,” the customs man announced. “Empty it out! Now this rubbish”—he pointed to the needles, shoelaces and other small things—“I’ll let pass.”

  Kern thought he was dreaming. “Pay duty?” he asked. “You want me to pay duty?”

  “Why naturally! You’re no diplomatic courier, are you? Or did you think I wanted to buy these bottles? You have brought dutiable goods into France. Come on, dump it out!”

  The customs man reached for the list of tariffs and pulled up the scales.

  “I have no money,” Kern said.

  “No money?” The customs man stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from the knees. “All right, then, we’ll just confiscate your things. Hand them over!”

  Kern remained crouching on the floor and held onto his bag. “I did not enter France voluntarily,” he said. “I reported when I got here in order to get back into Switzerland. I don’t have to pay any duty.”

  “See here! Are you trying to teach me what’s what?”

  “Leave the youngster alone, François,” said the customs man who was writing at the table.

  “I wouldn’t think of it! A boche who knows all about everything. Just like the rest of that crowd over there. Come on, out with those bottles!”

  “I’m no boche,” Kern said.

  At that moment a third customs man came in. Kern saw he was of a higher rank than the other two. “What’s going on here?” he asked curtly.

  The customs man explained what was happening. The inspector examined Kern. “Did you report to the police at once?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to go back to Switzerland?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

  The inspector thought for a moment. “Then it’s not his fault,” he decided. “He’s no smuggler. He was smuggled in himself. Send him back and make an end of it.”

  He left the room. “Look here, François,” said the customs man at the table, “what’s the idea of always getting so excited? It’s bad for your blood pressure.”

  François made no reply. He stared angrily at Kern. Kern stared back. It occurred to him suddenly that he had spoken French and had understood French, and he silently blessed the Russian professor in the prison in Vienna.

  Next morning he was in Basle again. Now he changed his tactics a little. He did not go to the police immediately. Not much could happen to him if he stayed in Basle for the day and did not report until evening, and for Basle he had Binder’s list of addresses. It was, to be sure, more overrun with emigrees than any other place in Switzerland, but he determined nevertheless to try to make some money.

  He began with the clergymen. It was fairly certain they would not denounce him. The first one immediately threw him out; the second gave him a sandwich; the third five francs. He went on working and luck was with him—by noon he had earned seventeen francs. He made an especial effort to get rid of the last of his perfume and toilet water in case he should meet François again. That was hard to do in the case of the clergy—but he had some luck at the other addresses. During the afternoon he earned twenty-eight francs. He went into a Catholic church. It stood open and it was the safest place to rest. He had gone two nights without sleep.

  The church was dim and empty. It smelled of incense and candles. Kern sat down in one of the pews and wrote a letter to Dr. Beer. He enclosed a letter for Ruth and money for her. Then he sealed the envelope and put it in his pocket. He felt very tired. Slowly he slipped forward onto the prayer bench and rested his head on the rail. He only wanted to rest for a moment; but he fell asleep. When he woke up he had no idea where he was. He blinked his eyes in the feeble red glow of the eternal light, and gradually regained his bearings. At the sound of footsteps he was suddenly wide awake.

  A priest in black robes was coming slowly down the middle aisle. He stopped beside Kern and looked at him. Kern prudently folded his hands.

  “I had no wish to disturb you,” said the priest.

  “I was just about to go,” Kern replied.

  “I saw you from the sacristy. You have been here for two hours. Were you praying for something in particular?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Kern said, somewhat surprised but recovering himself quickly.

  “You’re not a re
sident of this place?” The priest looked at Kern’s bag.

  “No.” Kern looked at him. The priest’s appearance inspired confidence. “I’m a refugee. Tonight I must cross the border. In that bag I have the things I sell.”

  He had one bottle of toilet water left over from his afternoon’s work, and he was suddenly possessed with the fantastic idea of selling it to the priest in the church. It was most improbable; but he was used to improbable occurrences. “Toilet water,” he said, “very good, very cheap. I am just selling the last of it.”

  He started to open his bag.

  The priest restrained him. “Let it be. I believe you. We won’t imitate the money-changers in the temple. It pleases me that you have prayed here so long. Come with me into the sacristy. We have a little fund for the faithful who are in need.”

  Kern was given ten francs. He was a little ashamed but not for long. It meant fare for part of the way to Paris, for him and Ruth. My run of bad luck seems to have stopped, he thought. He went back into the church and actually did pray this time. He didn’t know exactly to whom. He himself was a Protestant, his father was a Jew, and he was kneeling in a Catholic church—but he thought that in these times there would probably be a good deal of confusion in Heaven too, and he assumed that his prayer would find the right path.

  That evening he took the train to Geneva. He suddenly had a feeling that Ruth might have been released from the hospital earlier than was expected. He arrived in the morning, checked his bag at the station and went to the police. He explained to an officer that he had just been deported from France. Since he had his order of deportation from Switzerland with him and since it was only a couple of days old, they believed him, kept him for the day, and that evening put him across the border in the direction of Coligny.

  He at once reported to the French customs. “Go inside,” said a sleepy official. “There’s someone else there now. We’ll send you back about four o’clock.”

  Kern went into the customs house. “Vogt!” he said in amazement. “What brings you here?”

  Vogt shrugged his shoulders. “I’m still laying siege to the Swiss border.”

  “Since then? Since they took you to the station in Lucerne?”

  “Since then.” Vogt looked ill. He was thin and his skin was like gray paper. “I’ve had a run of bad luck,” he said. “I can’t succeed in getting into jail. Besides, the nights are already getting so cold I can’t go on much longer.”

  Kern sat down beside him. “I was in prison,” he said, “and I’m happy to be out again. That’s the way life is.”

  A policeman brought them bread and red wine. They ate and went to sleep immediately on a bench. At four o’clock in the morning they were awakened and taken to the border. It was still quite dark. The ripe fields gleamed palely at the edge of the road.

  Vogt shivered from the cold. Kern took off his sweater. “Here, put this on. I’m not cold.”

  “Are you sure you’re not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are young,” Vogt said, “that’s why.” He pulled on the sweater. “Just for a couple of hours until the sun comes up.”

  A little way from Geneva they parted. Vogt was planning to get deeper into Switzerland, by way of Lausanne. As long as he was near the border they simply sent him back and he couldn’t count on getting into jail.

  “Keep the sweater,” Kern said.

  “That’s out of the question. Something like this is a fortune.”

  “I have another one. A present from a priest in the Vienna jail. In the baggage room in Geneva.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Of course. It’s a blue sweater with a red band. Now do you believe me?”

  Vogt smiled. He drew a small book out of his pocket. “Take this in exchange.”

  It was Hölderlin’s poems. “That will be much harder for you to get along without,” Kern said.

  “Not at all. I know most of them by heart.”

  Kern went into Geneva. For two hours he slept in a church and at twelve o’clock he was standing in front of the Main Post Office. He knew Ruth couldn’t possibly be there so soon, but nevertheless he waited until two. Then he consulted Binder’s list of addresses. Once more his luck was good. By evening he had earned seventeen francs and thereupon he went to the police.

  It was Saturday night and noisy. At eleven o’clock two drunks were brought in; they immediately vomited all over the place and then began to sing. Toward one o’clock there were five of them.

  At two Vogt was brought in.

  “It must be a jinx,” he said in a melancholy voice. “But never mind, at least we’re together.”

  An hour later they were taken out. The night was cold. The stars twinkled and looked very far off. The half-moon was as bright as molten metal.

  The policeman stopped. “You turn to the right here, then—”

  “I know,” Kern interrupted him, “I know this road well.”

  “Good luck then!”

  They walked on across the narrow strip of no man’s land between border and border.

  Contrary to their expectation, they were not sent back that night but taken to the prefecture. There a deposition was taken down and they were fed. The following night they were deported again.

  It was windy and overcast. Vogt was very tired. He scarcely spoke and seemed almost ready to give up. When they had gone a way beyond the border they rested in a haystack. Vogt slept until morning like a dead man.

  He woke up as the sun was rising. He did not stir, he simply opened his eyes. There was something strangely moving for Kern about this slender, motionless figure under the thin overcoat, this bit of humanity with its great, calm, wide-open eyes.

  They were lying on a gentle slope from which they could look out at the city and Lake Leman, bathed in the morning light. Smoke from the chimneys of the houses was rising into the clear air, awakening memories of warmth, security, beds and breakfast. The sun sparkled on the wrinkled surface of the Lake. Vogt quietly watched as the thin drifting mists were sucked up by the sun and vanished, and the white massif of Mont Blanc slowly emerged from behind tattered clouds, gleaming like the bright walls of a lofty heavenly Jerusalem.

  Toward nine they started on. They came to Geneva and took the road along the Lake. After a while Vogt stopped. “Just look at that!” he said.

  “What?”

  Vogt pointed to a palatial building standing in a large park. The vast edifice shone in the sun like a stronghold of security and well-ordered life. The magnificent park was resplendent with the red and gold of autumn foliage. Automobiles were parked in long rows in the broad entrance court, and crowds of contented people were walking in and out.

  “Marvelous!” Kern said. “Looks as if the Emperor of Switzerland lived here.”

  “Don’t you know what that is?”

  Kern shook his head.

  “That’s the Palace of the League of Nations,” Vogt said in a voice tinged with sorrow and irony.

  Kern looked at him in amazement.

  Vogt nodded. “That’s the place where our fate has been debated for years. Whether we are to be given identification papers and made human beings again or not.”

  An open Cadillac pulled out of the row of cars and glided toward the exit. A number of elegantly dressed young people were in it, among them a girl in a mink coat. She laughed and waved to a second car, making an engagement to lunch beside the Lake.

  “Yes,” Vogt said presently. “Do you understand now why it takes so long?”

  “Yes,” Kern replied.

  “Hopeless, isn’t it?”

  Kern shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think those people are in any great hurry.”

  A doorman approached and suspiciously examined Kern and Vogt. “Are you looking for someone?”

  Kern shook his head.

  “Then what do you want?” the doorman asked.

  Vogt looked at Kern. A weary spark of humor gleamed in his eyes. “Nothing,” he said to the doorm
an. “We’re just tourists. Simple pilgrims on God’s earth.”

  “In that case it would be better for you to move on,” said the doorman, thinking of crackpot anarchists.

  “Yes,” Vogt said. “Probably that would be better.”

  They went along the Rue de Mont Blanc looking in the shop windows. Vogt stopped in front of a jewelry store. “I’ll say good-by here.”

  “Where are you going now?” Kern asked.

  “Not far. I’m going into this store.”

  Kern did not understand; he looked through the plate glass at the display of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds arranged on gray velvet.

  “I don’t think you’ll have any luck,” he said. “It’s well known that jewelers are hard-hearted. Perhaps because they constantly associate with stones. They never give anything.”

  “I don’t expect them to. I’m just going to steal something.”

  “What?” Kern looked doubtfully at Vogt. “Are you serious? You won’t get away with it in your condition.”

  “I don’t expect to. That’s why I’m doing it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kern said.

  “You’ll understand in a minute. I’ve thought it over carefully. It’s my one chance of getting through the winter. I’ll get at least a couple of months for this. I have no choice. I’m in pretty bad shape. Another few weeks of the border would finish me. I must do it.”

  “But—” Kern began.

  “I know everything that you’re going to say.” Vogt’s face sagged suddenly as though the threads that had held it together had been torn. “I can’t go on—” he murmured. “Good-by.”

  Kern saw it was useless to say anything more. He pressed Vogt’s limp hand. “I hope you’ll get well soon.”

  “Yes, I hope so. The prison here is all right.”

  Vogt waited until Kern had gone some distance and then entered the shop. Kern stopped at the corner and watched the entrance, pretending that he was waiting for a trolley. After a while he saw a young man dash out of the store and presently return with a policeman. I hope he gets some rest now, he thought as he went on.

  * * *