by Anna Seghers
I waited, half amused, half bored. Then they called my name and, half amused, half bored, I entered the room of the consular official.
A short young man stood before me. He had extraordinarily intelligent, alert eyes. When he saw me, they flashed with pleasure. Not, to be sure, because he found my visit particularly pleasant. He was by nature inclined to find each visitor coming to his office stimulating—even if there were a thousand. He may have been unique in his profession. Everything that happened in this room made his eyes sparkle: the wiles used by petty black marketeers to skip to the front of the line, or former ministers and government officials who clearly expected preferential treatment. Shrewdly he scrutinized these petitioners, all hoping to go to Mexico, including the businessman from Holland whose Rotterdam warehouses has been burned to the ground but who still had enough money to offer to pay whatever security deposit was required, or the Spanish Civil War veteran who had dragged himself on crutches across the Pyrenees from one camp to another before finally reaching the Boulevard de la Madeleine. The bureaucrat’s eyes seemed to penetrate deep into each of the visa applicants. And once he decided a person met the criteria to enter his country, he did everything to close any gaps in the person’s file, to make sure he would qualify for a visa.
Coldly, he asked me what I wanted. I was abruptly pulled out of my lethargy. It was his look, his eyes, flashing with wit and perspicacity, which seemed to spark an awareness of my own wit and intelligence in me.
“I came here about the Weidel affair,” I said.
“Oh yes,” he replied. “That name is in my records.”
He called out the name to the fat man, adding his own curious inflection. While the man was rummaging through the files, he turned back to me and said, “Forgive me if I do something else in the meantime.”
I tried to interrupt him; I just wanted to put my package on the table and leave. But he waved me off, obviously hating interruptions. They were already calling in the next applicants. Four Spaniards came in together, but they left shrugging, apparently unsuccessful; the short official also shrugged. Then came the golden-haired young woman. She was looking for her beloved who had served with the Ebro Brigades. The official pointed out to her that he didn’t have a list of the brigade members, even as his alert eyes were assessing the young woman and the extent of her affection for the missing man. She was followed by a businessman exuding visa gratitude, the prestataire who had been refused a visa by the United States, a workman who was supposed to paint the consulate, and last of all, a young couple, hardly more than children, holding hands. Even though I didn’t know what was being arranged, I recognized the ceremony. They were getting visas. All three smiled. They bowed to each other. I envied them their hand-in-hand escape from here. I was the only one left, sitting there on a chair in the Mexican Consulate office.
In the meantime they’d given the Weidel file to the official. He said, “These are the Weidel documents.” I had a hazy recollection of a letter I’d read in Paris. I stared at the documents left by the dead man. Here they were, lying on the desk. Visa by visa, document by document, file by file. Arranged in perfect order with what must have been confident expectation.
I suddenly felt a tiny degree of superiority over the official. Had Weidel still been alive, the official would have had the advantage over him; he would have looked right through him, maybe would even have been amused by him. But now, watching the official carefully study the file with a rather excessive degree of attention, I was the one who was amused. A specter among the visa applicants, a shadow who readily relinquished all his rights. I decided that instead of immediately explaining things to him, I would leave him for the moment to his useless activity.
Suddenly the telephone rang—“No!” the official said, and even speaking on the telephone his eyes flashed, “My government’s confirmation has not yet come in.” Then he turned to me, “That case is very similar to yours.”
Surprised, I said, “Excuse me, you must be mistaken. My name is Seidler. I came only—” I wanted to explain everything in detail. But he, averse to long explanations, interrupted me angrily, “Yes, yes, I know.” The entire time he was holding the piece of paper with my name and my request clamped between two fingers. “As I just explained on the phone for the tenth time to one of your colleagues, you can only receive a visa once my government confirms that the name Seidler on your passport refers to the same person as the pen name, Weidel. If someone will vouch for your identity, my government can issue a visa.”
At this explanation my head began to hum like a wire struck by a gust of wind—my own alarm system, a kind of automatic alert signal that goes off inside my mind even before I realize I’m about to do something that might get me into trouble or even could, no would destroy my life.
I said, “Please listen to me! This is an entirely different matter. I already explained all this to your consul in Paris. Here is a pack of documents, of manuscripts, letters—”
He gestured impatiently, annoyed. “You can submit whatever you want,” he began, all the time looking me in the eye. His alert, shrewd glance stirred in me a strong feeling of my own alertness, of an irresistible desire to measure myself against an equal intelligence. “Let’s not waste time,” he continued. “Time, after all, is as valuable for you as it is for me. You must take the proper steps immediately.”
I got up, took my pile of papers. He didn’t take his eyes off me. I returned his gaze steadfastly. I asked, “So what are the steps I should take now? Please advise me.”
He said, “I’ll tell you for the last time: Have the same friends who appeared for your visa, vouchsafe to my government that the name on your passport, Seidler, is the same as the pen name Weidel.”
I thanked him for his advice. It took some effort to break eye contact with him.
II
Deep in thought, I walked home. That is, I went back to the hotel I’d been staying in since the previous night. For the first time I looked at it carefully in daylight. The street was narrow and lined by tall houses. I liked it. I also liked its name: Rue de la Providence. The hotel was named after the street. Once in my room, I stepped over to the window and looked down. They had just begun flushing the street and the powerful stream of water swilled a veritable flotilla of rubbish along the pavement.
What was I supposed to do now? I’d been very glad to get a room to myself, but now I realized I had to learn all over again how to be alone. What if there was a raid by the police? What use would its four walls be to me then? I felt profoundly that the one thing on earth I was still afraid of was the loss of my freedom. Under no circumstances would I let them lock me up a third time, no way. That old fool last night, the conductor from Caracas, had been right. You had to get away from this place, and if not, then you needed the unambiguous right to stay. But I certainly wasn’t one of the chosen; I had no visa, no letter of transit, and on top of that, no residence permit. My head was buzzing with images that I tried to push aside: the darkened coat of arms, the little official’s excessively alert, shrewd look. I couldn’t bear being by myself anymore. No matter how cool my reception had been last night, I decided to have another go at George Binnet, the only man I knew here. I walked to the Rue du Chevalier Roux. I took hold of the bronze fist, let it drop.
Although I’m about to bore you some more by talking about the Binnet family, I assure you, we’re getting close to the heart of the matter. Then you’ll see how some ghosts can slip in through any doors.
George Binnet was the only person who didn’t ask me where I was going but rather where I’d come from. I told him what I’ve told you so far. There was only one thing I omitted completely: the Weidel matter. After all, why should Binnet care that some stranger had taken poison when the Germans invaded? George listened attentively to my story. He was of medium height, a strong man with gray eyes, the Northern French kind. He’d ended up in Marseille because of some stupid arrangements made by his factory. They had kept him on, and when the plant was e
vacuated, he was evacuated, too. Later the business was dissolved, leaving the workers in the lurch. He now had a poorly paid job working the night shift at a mill. When not at his job, he lived a free, cheerful, and relaxed life. He cherished his girlfriend, that marvelous Madagascar creature, and her son, treating the boy gently so as not to hurt his feelings, for the child was very proud.
That evening Binnet’s girlfriend invited me to stay for dinner. From the very outset I felt an aching affection for the boy. He would sit at the table silently listening to my stories. I made a special effort on his account. What made his eyes shine so eagerly? They would never get to see anything beyond this world. Why was his skin such a dark gold? The girl he would some day put his arms around would surely be made of different stuff. Why was he following our conversations so avidly—so tense that his lips quivered?
We were telling stories of this year’s tumultuous experiences, of betrayal, and confusion.
We all ate from a large bowl of spiced rice. I felt they were putting up with me, and I was grateful. It’s things like the security of a few hours, the quite unexpected feeling of safety at a table where people have made room for you—it’s things like that which keep you from going under.
That evening at the Binnets I felt that I’d become calmer. After living by yourself for a long time, it’s calming to have people ask you about yourself. My anxiety returned only once I was surrounded again by my four walls on the Rue de la Providence.
I had just lain down on my bed when a hellish racket broke out in the room to the right of mine. I went over to ask if they could quiet down and I found a dozen people, split into two groups, playing cards. From their tattered uniforms and outlandish Arabic headgear I gathered they were Foreign Legionnaires. Almost all of them were drunk, or pretending to be, just so they could yell at the top of their lungs. Even though there was no real brawl, there was an undertone of threat in everything they did or said, even if it was only to ask for a glass or call out their cards—as if this was the only way to get what they wanted. I sat down on a suitcase even though no one had invited me to stay. Instead of asking them to tone it down, I began to drink, too. I wasn’t alone anymore—that’s what mattered. And the men didn’t interrupt their rowdy and feverish gambling; they just let me sit there on the suitcase because they understood why I’d come. That is to say, they knew what mattered most.
A small man whose uniform was in somewhat better shape and who was wearing a clean burnoose looked at me with intense, serious eyes. He had a lot of medals glittering on his chest. The stuff they were drinking was pretty strong, and I began to feel hot.
“What are you doing here?” I asked the fellow with all the medals.
“We’re on leave from the transit camp Les Milles. We rented this room together for all the guys on leave. It’s our room, you understand? It’s our room.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Germany,” answered a dwarf who was trying to de-emphasize his small stature by means of an elaborately wrapped headdress. “We’re going home next week.”
A man sitting astride the open window, smoking with one leg outside, his handsome, insolent head leaning against the window frame, casually told me their story. “A German commission had arrived in Sidi-bel-Abbès. They ordered all German nationals in the Foreign Legion to go home. They’d been granted a general amnesty! All sins were forgiven!”
“Do you like Hitler?” I asked.
“It’s all the same to us,” one man said. His face was so strangely disfigured that I had to lean forward to see whether it was the haze in front of my eyes that made it look as if neither his mouth nor his nose were in the right place, as if they were flattened over his face. “Hitler’s the same as all the others. Just more so.”
The man in the window said over his shoulder, “Better to be lined up against the wall back home than buried here with the Foreign Legion.”
“They’re not lining people up against the wall anymore,” the dwarf said. “Back home they’re beheading people.”
The man in the window grabbed his own head by the ears, “You can use it as a bowling ball.”
The man with the distorted face began to sing: “In der Heimat, in der Heimat...” The little song coming from his grotesque face with the twisted mouth sounded simple and beautiful. Either I hadn’t been dreaming last night or I was dreaming now, too.
The short man with the many medals sat down next to me on the suitcase. “Me, I’m not going home; I’m heading in the opposite direction. Hitler does matter to me. And what about you?”
“I’m staying here,” I said. “You’ll see. In the end I’ll be staying after all.”
He said, “You’re saying that because you’re drunk. No one can stay here.” He clinked glasses with me in his earnest, levelheaded way.
I would have liked to put my arms around him, but the gleaming, golden impenetrable fog in front of his chest prevented me from doing it. “Why did they hang that medal around your neck?”
“I was brave.”
I curled up on the suitcase. I’d spent most of my money just so that I could be alone in a room. Yet now I felt like going to sleep here. But the short man with the serious eyes pulled me to my feet and with practiced moves led me out of the room. He even laid me down on my own bed.
III
The week had almost come to an end. It was early in the morning when someone pounded wildly on my door. The legionnaire with the many medals rushed into my room. “It’s a raid!” he said, dragging me through a small door at the end of the corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs to the attic. Then he ran back to my room and got into my bed with his furlough papers. I discovered a second stairway that led from the attic out onto the roof. I squatted down behind one of the small chimneys.
The wind was so strong up there that I had to hold on to the chimney. I could see the entire city, the hills, the Church of Notre Dame de la Garde, the blue square of the Old Harbor with its iron bridge, and a little later, once the fog lifted, the open sea with its islands. Forgetting everything probably happening below—the police searching all the floors of the hotel—I slid down the roof a few more yards. I could see La Joliette with its innumerable piers and moles. But all the piers were empty. No matter how hard I looked I couldn’t find one ship. It occurred to me that yesterday the people in the cafés had all been chattering about a ship leaving for Brazil one of these days. A Noah’s Ark, I thought! Not enough room to take all of us! Only two of each animal. Way back then that must have been enough. The arrangement seems to have been a wise one. After all, we’re back in full numbers.
I heard a slight noise and started. But it was only a cat. It stared at me angrily. We stared at each other, both of us rigid with fear. I hissed, and it leaped to the next roof.
The sound of a car horn came up from the street. Peering over the edge of the roof, I saw a couple of police officers climbing into their car. Another two came through the hotel door, dragging a man into the street; I could tell from the way they were pulling at him that he was handcuffed to them. And as the police car sped off I reflected happily and wickedly on the fact that it wasn’t me.
I clambered down to my floor. In the room to the left of mine a group of hotel guests were gathered around the crying and screaming wife of the man who’d been taken away, trying to console her. Her face was puffy and red as a goblin’s from crying. In answer to their questions she sobbed, “My husband just came from the Var. We were going to Brazil tomorrow. He came with a safe conduct. He had no residence permit for Marseille. After all, why would he need one since we were leaving tomorrow. And what if we had applied for a resident permit? We would have been crossing the ocean long before we got an answer from them! Now we’ll forfeit our tickets, and our visa is going to expire.” You could tell from the impassive faces of the legionnaires standing around her, how many screaming, weeping women they had seen lining the roads on their travels. I couldn’t understand a word that was said. Nor was it worth my
understanding—a thicket of gibberish, dry and impenetrable.
IV
In the days that followed, my life seemed to have calmed down somewhat. Yvonne sent me a safe conduct, and I took the document to the Office for Aliens on the Rue Louvois. This was my second time there, and this time my visit was official. I was registered and my document was stamped. The official asked me why I was here, for what purpose. By now I was more savvy, and I said I had come to Marseille to prepare to leave. He granted me a four weeks’ residence permit for the purpose of preparing my departure. It seemed like quite a long time to me. I was almost happy.