Transit

by Anna Seghers

  With such dreams I retired to my room on the Rue de la Providence. The odd, sweetish, barbershop smell of my earlier visitor, the silk merchant, still hung in the air.

  8

  I

  MEANWHILE the day of my final appearance at the United States Consulate was approaching. I had definitely decided to secure a transit visa for myself. Back then it was all a game for me. Not so for the others waiting in the lobby to be allowed to enter the upstairs waiting room. Their faces were pale with fear and hope. You could tell that those who, like me, had appointments for today, had brushed and tidied their best clothes and warned their children to behave as if they were going to their First Communion. They had done everything possible to look their best, to prepare themselves to face the implacable consul of the United States, in whose country they wanted to settle down or through which they wanted to travel to reach another country where they would settle in the event they ever reached it. And they were all discussing hurriedly and for the last time, in voices hoarse with nervous trepidation, such matters as whether it would be better to hide one’s pregnancy from the consul of the United States or to admit it. After all, this child, depending on the will of the consul who decided whether or not to award a transit visa, might be born on the ocean, on an island in that ocean, or in the new land—taking into account also that this unborn child, in case the date given the consul for its birth was not feasible, might never get to see the light of this dark world.—And whether it would be better to conceal the seriousness of an illness or to describe it in poignant detail because, in the long run, an illness might be reckoned as a burden to the American State. On the other hand, a person who according to a doctor’s testimony was sure to die soon would be no burden to anyone.—And whether you could really admit to being poor or if you should hint at some secret source of money, even if you’d arrived here with only the Committee’s ticket after your hometown burned down and with it all your goods and quite a few neighbors.—And whether it would be better to tell them that the German Commission might threaten you with extradition if the letter of transit was delayed, or whether it would be better not even to mention that you were a person threatened with extradition by the Germans.

  And yet although all this transit whispering made me feel quite miserable, it was amazing to think that even though thousands, no, hundreds of thousands, had died in the flames of the air raids and the furious attacks of the Blitzkrieg, there were many more who were born quite without being noticed by the consuls. They hadn’t asked for letters of transit, hadn’t applied for visas; they were not under the jurisdiction of this place. And what if some of these poor souls, still bleeding physically and spiritually, had fled to this house, what harm could it do to a giant nation if a few of these saved souls, worthy, half-worthy, or unworthy, were to join them in their country—how could it possibly harm such a big country?

  The first three who’d been called in came down the stairs smiling with joy—a short, stout man with two tall, well-dressed women. Each was holding an American visa, recognizable from afar by the little red ribbons drawn through the stiff paper, for what reason I have no idea. In a way you could look at the little red ribbon as a medal ribbon representing the American transit visa holder’s Legion of Honor medal.

  Right after these three came the bald-headed fellow I’d been running into for the last few weeks in consulate waiting rooms. He also had been processed on the upper floor, but he came down the stairs empty-handed and looking glum. I wondered about that since, in the course of our fleeting acquaintance, he’d seemed like a man who knew his way around and could get what he thought he needed. As he pushed through those still waiting, he caught sight of me and invited me to join him later at the Café Saint Ferréol.

  At that point the woman who had the room next to mine appeared on the stairs with both dogs. She looked happy. She waved to me and wrapped the leashes of the dogs around her wrist so that we could chat. I no longer thought of her merely as a peculiar, ugly, insolent woman with crooked shoulders, and two huge dogs. She’d become a familiar and yet at the same time a remote, mythical figure, a kind of Diana of the Consulates.

  “It turns out,” she said, “that these two animals need a certificate stating that they are dogs who actually belong to United States citizens. I’d really like to slaughter both of them at this point, because it’s their fault that I can’t leave yet. But as their owners would scarcely sign my certificate of good character if I chopped the animals up for goulash, I’ll have to go on taking care of them, brushing them and bathing them. Oh well, without them I wouldn’t have a visa at all.” With these words, incomprehensible to any casual bystander, she loosened their leashes and walked out to the Place Saint Ferréol.

  In the meantime, my turn had come. My appointment with the consul was for January 8th at 10:15 a.m. My heart was pounding in anticipation of this contest that I had to win. But not dully, fearfully; it was pounding with eager anticipation. The guard at the stairs allowed me to pass; I entered the second anteroom. It was crowded; I’d have to wait some more. I quickly realized that all these people waiting here, all these men, women, and children belonged to one family. I recognized some of them from a previous day’s waiting, and also the old shriveled woman. Today the entire family had come and they were all terribly upset, even the youngest of the children, trembling with shock and indignation. Whispering among themselves, they tried to keep their voices low, but there was always one who yelled out or sighed or sobbed. Only the old woman sat in their midst, without moving, as if mummified, showing all the symptoms of her debility and approaching end.

  A young man, standing apart, leaning against the doorframe, was fiddling with his beret and smiling. He knew what all the fuss was about, what was at stake, and he didn’t care. He was enjoying the situation. Then out of the consul’s office, like an angel dispatched from the throne of God, came the young creature with the small breasts and blond curls. She must have spent the entire war on a rosy cloud, protected from all its rigors. She went to stand in front of the door to the second anteroom and told the family in a soft but stern voice that they must come to a decision; it was the same tone of voice that an angel might have used to urge these souls to repent or depart from there. They all stretched out their hands, even the youngest children, sighed, and begged for an extension, a postponement. I asked the young man with the beret what was going on.

  “They’re the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and other relatives of that ancient woman,” he explained. “Their papers are all in order. The consul is ready to sign them on the spot. He’ll allow them all to enter the U.S. except for the old woman. The consulate’s doctor has determined that she has at most two months to live. And they won’t allow people like that on any American ship; and why should they? But the family is obsessed, the way such people can be. They want the old woman to go with them so that she can die with them, or they all want to stay here with her until she dies. Just think! If they all stay here, then the old woman will die anyway, but their visas will expire, the transit visas will expire, and you know that in France they intern people who have all their visas and transits and don’t get out. Anyway, they all ought to be interned, or at least locked up in an insane asylum.”

  At that point the consul’s golden-haired messenger appeared again. I noticed her soft skin, but her voice was severe. A short man stepped forward from the group. I’d never have picked him out as the head of the clan. He calmly announced their decision in a mixture of languages reflecting the many countries through which he’d come with his relatives. They had decided to stay with the old woman as long as she was alive. For if he, her eldest son, were to remain here and his wife left with their sons, what would they do in a foreign land without him? Or if his youngest sister were to remain behind, who had just recently been married and was expecting her first child, how could she give birth without the man who was his brother-in-law at her side? And if the brother-in-law were to stay in whose name the business was
registered...But by then the consul’s messenger was already calling out the next name. The family left, helping the old woman down the stairs, cautioning each other to be careful. They looked sad and upset, but showed no regret.

  Next, the young man whose name had been called out a moment before emerged from the office, announcing cheerfully that he’d been refused a visa because he had a prior conviction for a check forgery. He literally skipped down the stairs. Then they called out my name.

  For one moment I thought everything was lost; the police might already be there, ready to take me away, and I wondered how I could leave the building before they put their hands on me. Once outside on the street I’d be able to squirm free of them. Nadine’s room wasn’t far off.

  But all was not lost; Paul had apparently made the effort and given his colleague the best of testimonials on my behalf. His pride had conquered any other feelings he may have had. I mean, his pride in having the power to give a good character reference, having the power to advise the consuls of this world. In a way the character reference was of course an obituary. He could neither please nor hurt this man Weidel, who must have been an arrogant and taciturn fellow while alive.

  I was politely ushered into the room where they put the finishing touches on the affairs of those they finally permit to leave.

  I was asked to take a seat at the desk of the young person who had been assigned to issue my transit visa. I was sorry that it wasn’t the girl with the blond curls, but this guardian angel wasn’t bad-looking either with black curls and soft brown skin that must have felt like velvet. She looked me directly in the eyes, earnestly and severely, as if this were a preliminary examination for the Last Judgment. I was amazed at her questions. She carefully typed out my answers, all the facts of my past, my goal in life. The web of questions was so dense, so cleverly thought out, so unavoidable, that no detail of my life could have escaped the consul, if only it had been my life. I’m sure they’d never had a questionnaire so blank and empty on which they tried to capture a life that had already escaped this world and where there was no danger of getting tripped up by contradictions. All the details were in order. What did it matter that the entire thing wasn’t true? All the subtleties were there, giving a clear picture of the man who was to be given permission to leave. Only the man himself wasn’t there.

  She then took hold of my wrist and led me to the table with the apparatus that took the fingerprints of transit visa applicants. Patiently she instructed me to press down my left thumb, then all the fingers and the palms of both my hands—not too gently, not too hard. Except that these weren’t the fingers of the man whom they were granting permission to leave. How clearly I sensed through the richly ink-stained flesh of my hands the other man’s fleshless hands no longer capable of such pleasures! My guardian angel praised me generously for doing everything so carefully. I asked her whether I would get a little red ribbon too; she laughed at my joke. Finally, as a proper and approved transit applicant I was led to the consul’s table. He stood there very erect. Something in his face and gestures indicated that even though he’d performed the act he was about to perform as often as a priest performs baptisms, it was equally meaningful each time. The typewriters clacked away for a while longer, then came the pens. When everything had been signed often enough, the consul made a slight bow. I tried to emulate it.

  Once outside the door, I examined my transit visa, especially the little red ribbon drawn through the upper right-hand corner. It seemed to be purely decorative without any particular purpose. Now it was my turn to appear on the staircase with those below looking enviously up at me.

  II

  When I entered the Café Saint Ferréol, I saw my bald-headed fellow transitaire hiding in a remote corner. I thought at first he might have had second thoughts about having invited me. He certainly didn’t look like a man who was expecting company. I sat down in another hidden corner. From my seat I could see the entire room. The café had two entrances. One seemed to be used by people going to the Prefecture; the other by those applying for visas at the American Consulate. Gradually the café filled up.

  I picked up a newspaper and held it up in front of my face. Marie appeared. We had sat in this very place, she and I, after my first visit to the American Consulate. It was here that she told me about the husband she couldn’t find. And I had shaken my head at her difficult situation. Now I realized how easy it was to make oneself unfindable. How clumsy she was in her search! How superficially she looked in all the likely places! How easy it was for me to deceive her, simply by switching my seat behind her back to another table between two curtains behind two potted palms. It seemed her happiness at her friend’s return had already evaporated. It was me she needed now. It didn’t matter to me that she needed me only to give her advice about some visa problem. I knew she’d invented the problem as a pretense to see me again, to start the game all over again. But she was looking for more than just visa advice with her searching eyes, her restless hands, her white face. I was glad to give up seeing her face light up at the sight of me jumping up and calling out her name in exchange for being allowed to witness this stubborn search of hers.

  There was only one thing that bothered me, and it bothered me a lot. How long would she keep it up? I had no doubt she was searching intensely now, but how long would she keep it up? Another five minutes? Till lunchtime? For the rest of the week? For another year?

  She couldn’t possibly keep looking for the man whom she’d met purely by chance on a bench in Cologne, or for me whom she might have seen on the Cours d’Assas outside the Mexican Consulate. How was she going to fill the interim period, not knowing whether it would be hours or forever, always with the same game played so convincingly that it seemed serious. I might be able to endure seeing her walking on the arm of her friend the doctor, once, ten times. I might not feel good about it, but I could take it. What I couldn’t bear was seeing this game being played out to the end, on good days and on bad, until death would part the two of them too.

  Marie had left the café. She was already crossing Place Saint Ferréol. To go on with her search? Or to give it up once and for all?

  My view was suddenly blocked by a man stepping up to my table. It was my bald-headed friend. He said, “I saw you come in, but you didn’t look exactly hungry for company.”

  I asked him to sit down. At that moment, of course, it was only so I could get a more complete view of the square. It was empty. In spite of the newspaper kiosks and freezing trees, the place seemed filled by an immense emptiness and immeasurable time. The wind seemed to be sweeping along vast blasts of time along with the usual dust. Marie, I thought, was not only gone without a trace, but timelessly, for now and forever. I became aware that the man was speaking to me, “I see you have a transit visa.”

  I flinched. All this time I’d been holding on to the stiff paper with the silly red ribbon in the upper right-hand corner.

  My friend went on, “I have one too, but it doesn’t do me any good.” He brought his glass over to my table and ordered cognac, one for himself and one for me. He looked at me more closely with his cold, light gray eyes and then followed the direction of my gaze. A bunch of people came out of the Prefecture and scattered over the square, where time suddenly stood still. There seemed to be no intermediate stage between the chase and complete standstill. Yet all at once I felt that with this man at my table I was no longer sitting alone here, whatever sort of man he might be. And it was a kind of consolation. I turned to him, “Why isn’t your transit visa any help to you? You don’t look like the kind of man who doesn’t know how to make use of his documents.” I took a sip of my drink and waited until he felt like talking.

  “I was born in a region that belonged to Russia before the World War,” he said. “It became Polish after the war. My father was a veterinarian. He was good at it. Even though he was Jewish he was appointed to a semi-official position at an experimental farm on an estate. I was born on the estate. Wait, you’ll soon see how
all this relates to my present transit visa. This large estate was combined with two smaller estates as well as a mill and the miller’s house. The millstream flowed between the mill and the apartment we were assigned. To reach the nearest village you had to cross the stream and two little hills. They were small hills, but so steep that they seemed to touch the sky.”

  Because I thought he had stopped at these recollections of his homeland, I said, “It must have been beautiful.”

  “Beautiful? Well, it probably was beautiful. But that’s not why I’m describing the landscape for you. Our estate, the two other farmsteads, and the miller’s house didn’t have enough people living on them to count as a village. So we were counted as part of the next village, Pjarnitze. I gave all this information to the consul. I was being very precise; I thought I was being as precise as he was. I wrote: ‘Formerly part of the community of Pjarnitze.’

  “But the consul was even more precise, the map he had was more exact. It turned out that my home village, which I’ve never gone back to, increased in population so that now, twenty years later, it’s become a town in the country of Lithuania. So my Polish identity papers are of no use to me anymore. I need to be recognized by the Lithuanians. And on top of that, the Germans have been there for quite a while already. The entire territory is under German occupation. So now I also need a new certificate of citizenship, and for that I need a birth certificate from a town that no longer exists. All this takes time. If there’s a delay in getting my change of citizenship then I have to cancel my booking on the ship.”

  I said, “Why rush to cancel it? In your case there’s no rush. You’re not in any danger. You aren’t one of those people who think this continent is going to blow up because armed hordes are once more on the march and burning cities. There’ll be other ships. You’ll be able to catch a boat.”