Transit

by Anna Seghers

  I asked, “How did you happen to get discharged?”

  He said, “I was wounded. I’m going to be demobilized now. Then I can pack up my jacket along with all my medals. In the meantime my father died in Brazil. Before his death he ordered a large quantity of gloves. I have two unmarried older sisters, but they can’t manage the glove business without me. So, as soon as possible, I have to go over there to give them a hand.”

  As we left we passed by Marie’s table, but she didn’t see me. “That woman over there,” I said, “is waiting for a man who won’t ever come back.”

  “I came back,” he said with a sad note in his voice, “but no one’s waiting for me. Only two old sisters. I’m not lucky in love. And as for Nadine, you don’t seriously think she’d fall for me, do you?”

  V

  Early the next morning my landlady sent someone to my room to tell me to come downstairs. At first I thought the silk merchant had come back to ask for another installment on his traveling expenses. But once I went downstairs, I immediately recognized the young man leaning against the landlady’s window and winking at me as an officer of the secret police. I expected the worst. I noticed my landlady watching with barely concealed malicious joy.

  The man’s lips curled as he demanded to see my papers. His tone of voice was quite nasty. I placed the documents neatly on the sill of the landlady’s window. He was astonished. “You have a visa? A letter of transit? You’re planning to leave?” He exchanged a look with the landlady whose expression of malicious joy had changed to one of disappointment. I guessed from their mutual vexation that in their minds they’d already split the reward for my successful capture—for which my landlady had denounced me to him. All so that she could start her grocery store a bit sooner. The official went on, “You told this lady you definitely wanted to remain in this city, that you weren’t intending to leave.”

  I said, “The things I told my landlady are not sworn statements. I can tell her whatever I feel like telling her.”

  In a grim fury he told me that the Bouches du Rhône Département was overpopulated, and the regulations required me to leave the country as soon as possible, and that I could retain my freedom only on condition that I at once book passage on a ship, any ship whatsoever. I should understand, he said, that French cities aren’t there for me to live in, but for me to leave from.

  In the meantime, my neighbor the legionnaire had come out of his room. He was standing on the stairs, listening to the officer’s harangue. After the man left, he took me by the arm and dragged me down to the Belsunce, telling me I had to go with him to the Brazilian Consulate at once. He’d heard a rumor that a Brazilian ship was sailing today, and the rumor seemed to be quite credible; by tomorrow it would be a sure thing.

  At his words I suddenly envisioned a ship, in a mist of rumors on some ghostly dock, being built in great haste by the spirits of those anxious to depart. I asked, “What’s the name of the ship?”

  “The Antonia,” he said.

  VI

  I thought that Marie and I could board this new, just-materialized ship together. And so I went with the legionnaire to the Brazilian Consulate. There we found ourselves in a throng of transit visa applicants I’d never seen before, all crushed against the railing. On the other side of the railing was a green room rendered more spacious by a large map. There were two desks. The room was empty. At first no one came. Everyone was anxiously waiting for the consul to appear, or at least someone from the consular staff, an official, a typist, anyone who would listen to them. They’d been told at the offices of the shipping company that a ship was leaving shortly for Brazil. Probably many of them felt as little like going to Brazil as I did. But in any event, a ship was leaving, and once on board a ship you’d escaped and could hope for better things.

  We pushed our way toward the railing. The consul’s office remained empty, but from some remote room hidden from our view came the faint aroma of coffee, as if the consul had vanished in a cloud of coffee. This unaccustomed smell was exciting. We could imagine a sack of coffee, in fact, a cellar stocked with supplies for the invisible staff. After we’d been waiting for several hours, a slim, well-dressed, well-groomed man came into the room. He gazed at us in amazement, as if we were a desperate, feverish gang of people who’d forced their way into his living room, begging for some unintelligible thing. We all raised our voices to plead with him, but he withdrew in horror. So we continued to wait; several more hours passed. Finally he reappeared, pushed some papers around on one of the massive desks, then stepped to the railing, hesitantly, as if afraid we’d grab him and drag him over into our world.

  My friend, in his dearly won desert calm, was the only one who’d been waiting silently. Now he suddenly banged on the railing. The slender young man looked up startled. His eyes were attracted to the glittering medals. Hesitantly he stepped toward them. My friend quickly handed him his visa application. I wanted to press mine into the young Brazilian’s hands as well, but with a gesture of exhaustion to all the others waving their papers at him, he left the room holding only my friend’s documents. I had the impression he’d be gone for years.

  VII

  I was walking past the pizzeria without looking inside, when someone came up behind me and took hold of my arm. It was the doctor, more exited than usual. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he was out of breath.

  “So Marie was right after all,” he said. “I could have sworn you’d be gone by now. I almost persuaded Marie that you had disappeared as suddenly as you had come, that it was useless to keep looking for you.”

  “No, I’m still here. People like you, with your calm and self-assured manner, are good at convincing others.”

  He bridled at that and said, “You didn’t even go to see the Binnets, and they’re really good friends of yours.”

  I thought, Yes, the Binnets are old, true friends. I had ignored them. But I’m sick. I’ve been infected with the departure sickness.

  “Marie’s been looking for you everywhere, for weeks already. There’s a real possibility that we’ll be leaving on the next ship for Martinique, the Montreal.”

  “Does she have a visa?”

  “She doesn’t actually have it in hand yet, but it could arrive any moment.”

  “Do you have money for the passage?” I asked, and for the first time I saw a spark of amusement in his eyes. It made me want to hit him in the eyes.

  “Money for the passage? I had that money in my wallet when we crossed the Loire already—enough traveling money to take both of us to our destination.”

  “And Marie’s transit visa?”

  “The consul will give that to her when she presents her visa. Except...”

  “Another except!”

  He laughed. “Nothing important. No, this time it’s a modest except. Marie doesn’t want to leave until she’s seen you again. She considers you the most loyal friend she’s ever had. Your sudden invisibility has only increased her esteem for you. I think it would be good if you’d join me for a glass of rosé while we wait for her together, here in the pizzeria.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “I can’t go in there with you now, I can’t ever again drink a glass of rosé with you, I can’t wait for her with you.”

  He took a step back, frowned, “You can’t? Why not? Marie is set on seeing you. I’m sure we’ll be sailing this month. It’s all arranged. Marie wants to see you just once more before the departure. You can surely give her that small reassurance.”

  “Why should I? I can’t stand farewell ceremonies, those last and next-to-the-last good-byes. She’s leaving with you; it’s all set. She may feel a little troubled. But, well, we can’t give her everything.”

  He looked at me carefully, as if to understand better what I’d just said. But I walked away, not even giving him the chance to reply. I felt his eyes on my back, following me.

  My landlady was lying in wait for me when I returned to the hotel. She gave me a nasty look, a nasty smile. It seem
ed to me that her teeth had grown longer overnight, sharper and brighter. She pressed her large bosom to the sill, “Well?”

  I asked in return, “Well, what?”

  “Where’s your ship passage? By the way, your room has been rented starting the fifteenth of the month. You’re supposed to have left by then anyway.” She’d probably only been pretending all these months to be a landlady. In reality she was working in disguise for some secret authority as an exorcist. I had strong doubts about her appearance except for those vulgar breasts in the window. Below that her body might end in God knows what, maybe a fishtail. I turned around on the spot.

  VIII

  I ran out of the hotel and went to the Rue de la République, to the Transports Maritimes. People were crowded around the counter. The next ship was scheduled to leave on the eighth. All berths had long ago been booked. So I booked a place on the ship after the next one. They emphasized that they could only make out my ticket after I showed them my exit visa.

  I went outside and looked at the ship’s model in the window of the Maritimes. They issued exit visas only to those who could prove they had money enough to pay for both the voyage and the security deposit. The Corsican would have to help me with my treasure in Portugal. I had to go at once to ask for his advice. Just then someone touched my hand. It was Marie.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you decide to leave after all? We’re used to your magic tricks. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you crept out of one of the smokestacks on our boat once we were out at sea.”

  I looked down at her brown hair. She continued: “Then you’d always be there to give me advice and help. I’d never be alone.”

  I picked up her word. “Alone?”

  She turned away as if I’d caught her in a slip of the tongue. “I mean, of course, alone with the doctor. Where have you been all this time? I looked for you everywhere. You can never find anybody in this damned city when you’re looking for them. You only find them by coincidence, by chance. A lot has happened in the meantime and I need your advice again. Come with me.”

  “I have no time.” I put my hands in my pockets. But she took hold of my thumb and pulled me across the street into the big, ugly café on the corner of the Rue de la République and the Old Harbor. The fat, gluttonous woman who evidently hadn’t yet devoured all her travel money was sitting near one of the windows of the café. The Czech who’d wanted to enlist with the English ever since my arrival walked over to stand at the counter. His face was dark and determined. Through the glass door, walking by outside, I saw the fellow who’d been refused an American transit visa because of a prior conviction.

  All these casual chance encounters, these senseless, repeated meetings depressed me with their stubborn unavoidability.

  Marie was sitting with her head propped in one hand. With the other she was still holding on to my thumb. I had to admit that I wanted above all to be with her, to be with her anywhere. I stopped fighting it and asked her, “Is something wrong, Marie? Can I help you in any way?”

  She put her head on my shoulder. There was a look in her eyes I’d never expected, a look I’d never seen there before. It was a look of infinite trust. I took her hand in both of mine. I had a feeling she was about to tell me something new, something surprising. But my premonition was wrong. She said, “You don’t know it yet, but I actually have a visa now. The Mexicans really gave me a visa. All I need now is a letter of transit.”

  “For that you don’t need my advice. Just go to the American consul, he’ll give it to you.”

  “I’ve already been to see the American consul. He said he’d give me one and made an appointment for me to pick it up. Here’s the appointment slip. I’m supposed to receive the transit visa on the twelfth of this month, but the ship is scheduled to sail on the eighth. Do you think my friend the doctor, who didn’t wait for me to get my visa, would now be willing to wait until I get my transit visa?”

  “Couldn’t you think of anything to tell them at the consulate to make them change your appointment to an earlier date?” I asked. “Some special plea, some reason, even a lie? Wasn’t seeing you enough to move the consul to help you?”

  “Don’t make fun of me. He wasn’t at all moved by my looks. And I couldn’t think of anything on the spur of the moment. The consul saw from my file that the visa had been granted to me as the companion of a writer named Weidel. He asked why, if I was in such a hurry, I hadn’t come earlier. Weidel, he said, had been there himself just a little while ago. I said that I’d received my own visa now. I was glad I could say that much at least. I was scared to death. My husband had been there a little while ago! Just a little while ago!”

  Hearing her say that made me blurt out, “He may have left in the meantime.”

  “On what ship? If he went to see the consul only a short while ago? He couldn’t have sailed on a ghost ship. Or maybe he went via Spain? He was here recently. He was here, and I was here. Yet there’ve been moments during the last few weeks when I even thought that he was dead.”

  I cried out, “Marie, what are you saying? I told you as much once, and you just laughed and gave me an angry answer.”

  “Did I really laugh back then? I wonder how many years it’s been since I actually laughed. I may be young, but look at me in the mirror over there!”

  I turned to look. And started in amazement at the sight of us sitting at the same table, holding hands.

  She went on: “I see that I still look young. How can it be that I’m still so young, so very young? How can it be that my hair’s still brown? I feel a hundred years have gone by since we first heard that the Germans were outside Paris. You never asked me about that. Here, in Marseille, everybody asks, ‘Where are you going?’ They never ask, ‘Where are you from?’

  “When the war started, my lover—I mean the first one, the real one—he took me to a house in the country so that they wouldn’t put me into a detention camp. You’re wondering why he didn’t keep me with him?—I told you before that he was sick, that he wasn’t always nice to me, that he wanted to be by himself most of the time. So then another man, the one who’s now my friend, came to the house where I was staying. He was a doctor and he came there to take care of a child. He was kind to everyone. He came often; I was alone; we liked each other. By that time the Germans were getting closer. I was afraid to stay there, so I went to Paris, and suddenly the Germans were just outside Paris. I looked for my friend, the first one, the real one, but he was no longer at his old address. The house where he used to live was boarded up. No one knew anything of his whereabouts. By then the windows had been removed from Notre Dame and everyone was leaving. I saw a woman wheeling a cart with a dead child out of Paris. I was alone, running through the streets, looking into cars. Then suddenly on the Boulevard de Sébastopol someone called to me from a car. It was the doctor. It was like a miracle. Like the hand of God. But it was no miracle, not the hand of God. It was sheer coincidence. Still, at the time it seemed like destiny itself and I behaved accordingly. I got into his car. He said, ‘Calm down; I’ll take you across the Loire.’

  “That’s how it started. I felt I had to get to the other side of the Loire, and because back then I had to get across the Loire, I now have to cross the ocean. I should have stayed where I was and continued looking for him. It was my own fault. Can you tell me why I had to cross the Loire, no matter what? Oh, what a trip that was! When the German planes came swooping down low over us, we got out and crawled under the car. At one place we picked up a woman whose foot had been shot up. We had to dump some of our luggage so we could get her into the car, but it was too late—she bled to death. We left the dead body by the side of the road and drove on. Finally we arrived at the Loire. The first bridge we came to had been blown up; cars and trucks were scattered on the riverbank and some still hung in the ruins of the bridge. People trapped inside them were screaming. We held each other close, he and I. And I promised to follow him to the ends of the earth. At that point I thought
the end was near, the distance short, and the promise easy to keep, but we crossed the Loire and arrived here in Marseille. Suddenly coincidence did indeed turn into a stroke of fate. I was alone with the man who had found me instead of with the man I’d been looking for. That which had been a shadow was now flesh and blood; what should have been just for a little while now had permanence; and what was intended to be forever was—”

  “Stop that nonsense!” I said. “You know it’s all nonsense. A coincidence never becomes fate; a shadow never becomes flesh and blood; and something that has real permanence never turns into a shadow. Anyway, you’re lying. You told me a completely different story before. You wrote a letter to your husband...”

  She cried, “I? A letter? How do you know anything about that letter? Yes, I did write a letter, but that letter could not possibly have reached him, such a terrible letter. I wrote it while I was fleeing. I wrote it right after we left Paris, on the lap of that other man. Back then no mail was ever delivered. I wrote other letters too, right after we got here. And those letters did reach their destination. They must have been delivered; my husband must have come here. At the consulates they say he was there. I was sure that if and when he comes, once he’s actually here, he’ll have to look for me and find me, no matter whether I’m unfaithful, beautiful, or ugly. Then when he sees me, he’ll call out to me, ‘Marie, Marie,’ even if I was suddenly old or disfigured or unrecognizably changed in some way. In my heart I know that it’s not possible for him to be here without his having called out to me. The consuls say he’s here, but in my heart I know he must be dead. If he were alive he’d come and get me. They’re wrong, those consuls. They’ve issued a visa and a letter of transit to a dead man.”