Flotsam

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “But, man alive,” Waser broke out, “I want to hear the motor. That’s music when a nervous beast like that starts.”

  “Then buy yourself a tractor! That’s even louder.”

  Waser glared at him wild-eyed. “Listen to me,” he said, controlling himself with difficulty. “I propose a compromise: take a Mercedes Compressor! Heavy, but with breeding too. Agreed?”

  Rosenfeld waved aside the suggestion. “Not for me, thanks. Don’t waste your words. A Cadillac or nothing.” He lost himself again in contemplating the black elegance of the huge car on the turntable.

  Waser looked around and caught sight of Kern and Ruth. “Listen, Kern,” he said in despair. “If you had a choice between a Cadillac and one of the new Talbots, which would you take? It would be the Talbot, wouldn’t it?”

  Rosenfeld swung around. “The Cadillac, of course. There’s no doubt at all about that.”

  “I’d be satisfied with a little Citroën,” Kern grinned.

  “With a Citroën?” The car fanciers looked sadly at the black sheep.

  “Or with a bicycle,” Kern added.

  The two experts exchanged a quick glance. “Aha,” Rosenfeld commented in disgust, “so you don’t know much about cars, eh?”

  “Or about motor transport in general?” Waser asked coldly. “Well of course there are people who are interested in postage stamps.”

  “I’m one of them,” Kern announced cheerfully. “Especially if the stamps are uncanceled.”

  “Well, then, we beg your pardon.” Rosenfeld turned up the collar of his coat. “Come along, Waser, we’ll step over there and take a quick look at the new models of the Alfa Romeo and the Hispano.”

  They went away together, reconciled through Kern’s ignorance, two friends in shabby suits on their way to quarrel about the merits of racing cars. They had time enough, for they had no money to buy supper.

  Kern looked after them in amusement. “Aren’t human beings wonderful, Ruth?” he said.

  Ruth laughed.

  Kern could not find work. He tried everywhere, but could get no employment even at twenty francs a day. At the end of two weeks, their money was gone. Ruth received a small allowance from the Jewish committee and Kern from the Jewish-Christian one; altogether it amounted to about fifty francs a week. Kern had a talk with the landlady and arranged for them to keep the two rooms for this price and to get coffee and rolls in the morning as well. They were not especially unhappy about it. They were living in Paris and that was enough. They kept hoping for what the next day would bring and they felt safe. In this city, which had assimilated all the migrations of the century, a spirit of toleration prevailed; one could starve to death in it but one was harried only as much as was absolutely necessary—and this meant a great deal to them.

  One Sunday afternoon when there was no admission charge Marill took them with him to the Louvre. “In winter,” he said, “you need some way of passing your time. The emigree’s problems are hunger, a place to live, and time, which he doesn’t know how to use because he can’t work. Hunger and a place to live are the two mortal enemies he has to fight against—but unprofitable and unused time is the slinking enemy that destroys his energy, the waiting that exhausts him and the shadowy fear that takes away his strength. The others attack from the front and he has to fight them or succumb—but time creeps up from behind and poisons his blood. You are young; don’t sit around cafés; don’t complain, don’t lose your zest. When things get tough, go to the great waiting room of Paris—the Louvre. It is well heated in winter. It’s better to be sad in front of a Delacroix, a Rembrandt, or a van Gogh, than in front of a glass of brandy or a circle of angry, impotent and whining people. It is I who tell you this—I, Marill, who prefers to sit facing a glass of brandy. Otherwise, of course, I wouldn’t deliver these instructive lectures.”

  They wandered through the dim corridors of the Louvre—past the centuries, past the stone Pharaohs of Egypt, the gods of Greece, the Cæsars of Rome, past Babylonian altars, Persian rugs and Flemish tapestries, past the great works of human genius, Rembrandt, Goya, El Greco, Leonardo, Dürer—through endless galleries and corridors until they came to the rooms in which hung the paintings of the Impressionists. They sat down on one of the sofas that stood in the middle of the room. On the walls shone the landscapes of Cézanne, van Gogh and Monet, the dancers of Degas, Renoir’s pastel portraits of women, and the bright scenes of Manet. It was quiet and no one else was there. Gradually it seemed to Kern and Ruth as though they were sitting in an enchanted tower and the pictures were windows opening on distant worlds: on gardens of placid joy, on generous feelings, on magnificent dreams—an eternal country of the soul beyond caprice, fear and injustice.

  “Emigrees!” Marill said. “All of those men were emigrees too! Driven about, laughed to scorn, booted out, often without a place to stay, hungry, many of them abused and ignored by their contemporaries, living in misery and dying miserably—but just see what they have created! The culture of the world, that’s what I wanted to show you.”

  He took off his glasses and polished them thoughtfully. “What is the strongest impression you get from these pictures?” he asked Ruth.

  “Peace,” she replied promptly.

  “Peace? I thought you would say beauty, but it’s true—today peace is beauty. Especially for us. And yours, Kern?”

  “I don’t know,” Kern said. “I would just like to own one of them so that I could sell it and get some money to live on.”

  “You’re an idealist,” Marill replied.

  Kern looked at him suspiciously.

  “I’m being serious,” Marill said.

  “I know it’s stupid, but it’s winter and I would like to buy a coat for Ruth.”

  Kern appeared dull in his own eyes; but actually he could think of nothing else and this idea had been in his mind the whole time. To his amazement he suddenly felt Ruth’s hand in his. Her face was radiant and she pressed close against him.

  Marill put his glasses on again, then he looked around. “Man is magnificent in his extremes—in art, in stupidity, in love, in hate, in egotism and even in sacrifice; but what the world lacks most is a certain average goodness.”

  Kern and Ruth had finished their supper. It consisted of cocoa and bread and for a week had been their single meal aside from the cup of coffee and the two brioches that Kern had arranged to have included in the price of the rooms.

  “Today the bread tastes like beefsteak,” Kern said. “Like good juicy beefsteak with fried onions.”

  “It seems to me it tastes like chicken,” Ruth replied, “like a young broiler with fresh green salad on the side.”

  “Possibly it does on your end. Give me a slice of it. I could easily manage some chicken too.”

  Ruth cut a thick slice from the long loaf of white French bread. “Here,” she said, “this is a second joint. Or would you rather have some of the breast?”

  Kern laughed. “Ruth, if I didn’t have you I’d be ready now to quarrel with God.”

  “And without you I’d lie down on the bed and howl.”

  There was a knock. “Brose,” Kern said gloomily. “Of course, right in the middle of a tender love scene.”

  “Come in,” Ruth called.

  The door opened. “No,” Kern said. “That’s not possible! I’m dreaming!” He got up cautiously as if he were trying not to frighten away a phantom. “Steiner!” he stammered. The phantom grinned. “Steiner!” Kern cried. “God in heaven, it’s Steiner!”

  “A good memory is the basis of friendship and the ruin of love,” Steiner replied. “Excuse me, Ruth, for marching in with a maxim—but I have just run into my old friend Marill downstairs. And so something like this was almost inevitable.”

  “Where did you come from?” Kern asked. “Straight from Vienna?”

  “From Vienna. Round about by way of Murten.”

  “What?” Kern took a step backward. “By way of Murten?”

  Ruth laughed. “Murten was th
e scene of our disgrace, Steiner. I got sick there—and this veteran of the borders was picked up by the police. That name has a cheerless sound for us—Murten.”

  Steiner grinned. “That’s why I went there. I avenged you, children.” He produced his wallet and took out of it sixty Swiss francs. “Here you are. This is fourteen dollars, or about three hundred and fifty French francs. A gift from Ammers.”

  Kern looked at him in bewilderment. “Ammers?” he said, “three hundred and fifty francs?”

  “I’ll explain it to you later, my boy. Put it in your pocket. And now let’s have a look at you!” He scrutinized them. “Hollow cheeks, undernourished, cocoa and water for supper—and you haven’t said a word to anyone, eh?”

  “Not yet,” Kern replied. “Every time we were on the point of it, Marill would invite us for a meal. As though he had some sixth sense.”

  “He has another beside that. For pictures. Did he drag you off to the museum after the meal? That’s the usual penalty.”

  “Yes, to Cézanne, van Gogh, Manet, Renoir and Degas.”

  “Aha! To the Impressionists. Then you had your midday meal with him. After dinner he takes one to Rembrandt, Goya and El Greco. But come along now, children, put on your things! The restaurants of the city of Paris are blazing with lights and waiting for us!”

  “We’ve just—”

  “So I see!” Steiner interrupted grimly. “Put on your things at once! I’m dripping with money.”

  “We’ve got our things on already.”

  “Is that so! Sold your coats to a fellow believer who unquestionably swindled you—”

  “No,” Ruth said.

  “My child, there are dishonest Jews too. Holy though your people appear to me at the moment as a race of martyrs! Well then, come along! We’ll investigate the racial problems of roast chickens.”

  “Well, spill it. What’s up?” Steiner said after the meal.

  “There’s been a kind of jinx,” Kern said. “Paris is not only the city of toilet water, soap and perfume, it is also the city of safety pins, shoelaces, buttons and apparently holy pictures as well. Peddling is almost impossible here. I’ve tried a lot of different jobs—I’ve washed dishes, carried market baskets, addressed envelopes, traded in toys—none of it was any real good. It was all in-and-out stuff. Ruth had a job for two weeks cleaning an office; then the company went bankrupt and she got nothing for her pains. For sweaters made of cashmere wool, she was offered exactly as much as the wool cost. As a result—”

  He opened his jacket. “As a result I’m going around like a rich American. Marvelous when one hasn’t a coat. Perhaps she’ll knit this kind of sweater for you, too, Steiner—”

  “I still have enough wool for one,” Ruth said. “Black, to be sure. Do you like black?”

  “And how! Black’s the right color for us.” Steiner lit a cigarette. “Well, that’s clear enough! Did you sell your coats or pawn them?”

  “Pawned them first, then sold them.”

  “Sure. The usual way. Have you ever been to the Café Maurice?”

  “No. Only to the Alsace.”

  “Good. Then we’ll just go to the Maurice. There’s a man named Dickmann there. He knows everything. All about coats too. I want to ask him about a more important matter as well. About the International Exposition that’s coming this year.”

  “The International Exposition?”

  “Yes, Baby,” Steiner said. “There’s supposed to be work. And I hear they’re not too fussy about papers.”

  “How long have you actually been in Paris, Steiner, to have found out all this?”

  “Four days. Before that I was in Strassburg. There was something I had to look after there. I found you through Klassmann. Ran into him at the Prefecture. I have a passport, children. In a couple of days I’m going to move into the Hotel International. I like the name.”

  ———

  The Café Maurice was like the Café Sperler in Vienna and the Café Greif in Zürich. It was a typical emigrees’ exchange. Steiner ordered coffee for Kern and Ruth and then went across the room to speak to a middle-aged man. They conversed for a time, then the man glanced appraisingly at Kern and Ruth and went out.

  “That was Dickmann,” Steiner said. “He knows everything. I was right about the Exposition, Kern. The Foreign Pavilions are being built now. They are being paid for by the foreign governments. They bring some of their own workmen with them, but for day laborers’ jobs, digging and that sort of thing, they hire their people here. And there’s our big chance! Since the wages are paid by the foreign Committees, the French don’t pay much attention to who works there. We’ll have a try at it tomorrow morning early. There are a lot of emigrees working already. We’re cheaper than the French—that’s our advantage!”

  Dickmann came back carrying two coats over his arm. “I think these will fit.”

  “Try on this coat,” Steiner said to Kern. “You first. Then Ruth will try the other. Resistance is useless.”

  The coats fitted perfectly. Ruth’s even had a shabby little fur collar. Dickmann smiled faintly. “I’ve a good eye,” he said.

  “Are these the best of your cast-off junk, Heinrich?” Steiner asked.

  Dickmann looked offended. “The coats are all right. Not new, as you can see. The one with the fur collar used to belong to a countess. In exile, of course,” he added, catching Steiner’s eye. “It’s genuine raccoon, Josef. Not rabbit.”

  “All right. We’ll take them. I’ll be back tomorrow morning and fix things up with you.”

  “You needn’t. You can just take them. I’ve got a lot more than that to pay you back for.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Yes, I have. Take them and forget about it. I certainly was in a hell of a mess that time. Good God!”

  “How are things otherwise?” Steiner asked.

  Dickmann shrugged his shoulders. “I make enough for the children and me. But it’s disgusting to live on rubbish.”

  Steiner laughed. “Don’t get sentimental, Heinrich. I’m a forger, cardsharp, vagabond; I’ve been guilty of assault and battery and resisting the police and a lot more beside—and nevertheless my conscience is all right.”

  Dickmann nodded. “My youngest is sick. Grippe. Fever. But fever doesn’t mean much with children, does it?”

  He looked imploringly at Steiner. The latter shook his head: “Speeds up the healing process, that’s all.”

  “I’ll just go home a little earlier tonight.”

  Steiner ordered a cognac. “Baby,” he said to Kern, “have one too?”

  “Listen, Steiner—” Kern began.

  Steiner silenced him. “Don’t talk. These are Christmas presents that cost me nothing, as you just saw. A cognac, Ruth? You’ll have one, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “New coats! Work in sight!” Kern drank his cognac. “Existence is beginning to be interesting.”

  “Don’t fool yourself.” Steiner grinned. “Later on, when you have enough work, it will be the time when you didn’t have to work that will seem the interesting part of your life. Wonderful stories for your grandchildren playing about your knees. ‘In those days in Paris—’ ”

  Dickmann went by. He bowed wearily to them and walked toward the door.

  Steiner looked after him. “He was once a Social Democratic burgomaster. Five children. Wife’s dead. He’s a good beggar. Dignified. Knows everything. Does everything. Trades with everyone. His specialty is secondhand clothes. His soul’s a little too tender, as often happens with Social Democrats. That’s why they’re such bad politicians.”

  The café began to fill up. Those who intended to sleep came in and began to jockey for corner places for the night. Steiner finished his cognac. “The proprietor is a splendid fellow. Lets anyone sleep here who can find a place. Free. Or for the price of a cup of coffee. If dives like this didn’t exist things would look bad for a lot of people.”

  He got up. “We’ll be moving, children.”

&
nbsp; They went outside. It was windy and cold. Ruth turned up the raccoon collar of her new coat and drew it close around her. She smiled up at Steiner. He nodded. “Warmth, little Ruth! Everything in the world is dependent on just a little warmth.”

  He motioned to an old flower woman who was shuffling by. She came trotting up. “Violets,” she cackled. “Fresh violets from the Riviera.”

  “What a city! Violets in the middle of the street in December!” Steiner selected a bunch and gave them to Ruth. “Violets for luck! Useless flowers! Useless things! They’re what give the greatest warmth.” He winked at Kern. “A lesson in living, Marill would say.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THEY WERE SITTING in the canteen of the International Exposition. It had been pay day. Kern arranged the thin paper notes in a circle around his plate. “Two hundred and seventy francs!” he said. “Earned in a single week! And this is the third time it’s happened! It’s like a fairy tale.”

  Marill looked at him for a moment in amusement. Then he raised his glass to Steiner. “We’ll shudder and drink a toast to paper, my dear Huber. It is astounding what power it has gained over people. Our ancient forefathers trembled in their caves for fear of thunder and lightning, tigers and earthquakes; our more recent forebears trembled at swords, robbers, epidemics and God; but we tremble at the printed word—be it on a banknote or a passport. Neanderthal man died by the club; the Roman by the sword; the man of the Middle Ages by the plague; and all it takes to extinguish us is a few scraps of printed paper.”

  “Or to bring us to life,” Kern added and looked at the notes of the Bank of France lying around his plate.

  Marill looked at him askance. “What do you make of this boy?” he asked Steiner. “Turning into something, isn’t he?”

  “You bet! He thrives on the raw winds of exile. Now he’s even able to kill the point of a story.”