by Anna Seghers
Her hand between my hands was now ice cold. I began to rub it, the way you rub a child’s hands in the wintertime, but my hands were too cold to warm hers. I felt I had to tell her everything, then and there. I was searching for the right words.
Then she said, quite calmly, “Maybe he got here before us. Maybe he’s already left. Yes, that’s probably the answer; he’s already left. After all when a consul says ‘a short while ago’ the words mean something quite different than when we say them. Time is different for consuls. A couple of months mean nothing to a consul. I didn’t dare ask them what they meant. Maybe for the United States consul ‘a short while ago’ means several months ago.”
I took a firm grip on her wrist and I said, “There’s no way you can catch up to him. You lost him a long time ago. You haven’t found him anywhere in this country, not even in this city. You have to believe me, he’s too far away for you to ever find again. He’s beyond your reach.”
A new, almost unbearable light gleamed in her soft gray eyes. “I know where he went. I’ll catch up to him this time. This time nothing will prevent me. If the consul won’t make out a transit permit for me, I’ll leave this country on foot, without a transit visa. I’ll go to Perpignan, and there I’ll get a guide to take me across the mountains like others have done before me. I’ll pay a boat captain to let me have some corner on a boat sailing to Africa.”
“You’re not going to do any such thing,” I cried. “They’ll arrest you and put you into a camp so that you won’t be able to leave at all. Do you have any idea what things are like out there? First they call out to you, they call out three times, then they shoot.”
She laughed and said, “You just want to scare me. It would be better if you’d help me the way you did before. You didn’t need a reason then, you just helped me.”
Letting go of her wrist, I said, “And what if you’re right, and the consuls have made a mistake? What if your husband is dead? What then?”
Her gray eyes lost their sparkle. “How could the consuls be wrong? They don’t miss a thing in your passport, not a line in your file escapes them. They’d be more likely to keep a hundred good applicants from leaving just because a letter’s missing somewhere, rather than take the chance that one bad guy leaves who shouldn’t. I only got this ridiculous idea that he’s dead because they’re forcing me to stay here. Once I can look for him, I’ll know that he exists. As long as I’m searching for him, I know that I’ll be able to find him.”
Suddenly her expression changed. “The doctor’s walking by outside. I’m going to ask him to join us. You know, he’s really a good man.”
“You don’t have to praise him to me. I know his good points.”
She ran to the door and called to him. He came in and greeted us in his usual calm way. “Sit with us,” Marie said. “We need to discuss my transit visa situation. My two dear friends.”
He took her hand and looked at her. He said, “You’re cold. Why are you so pale?” He rubbed her hands just as I had done a few minutes earlier. Marie looked straight at me with her all-too-clear eyes. She seemed to be saying, See, he’s holding my hands; it doesn’t mean anything. We just ran into each other. It was a coincidence.
I thought, Maybe he really is a good person. And probably just because he is a doctor he believes in healing. But I don’t, I don’t believe in healing. At least not by this doctor. I had no doubts about which hand she should be reaching for once the truth came out. In my mind I turned to the dead man: We’ll take her away from him soon. Rest assured, he won’t keep her long.
I said, “Give me that piece of paper with the date. I’ll see if I can do anything with it.” She rummaged around and found the little slip of paper.
When we got up, the doctor took me aside. He said, “You see now, don’t you, that the right thing is for Marie to leave now. I didn’t get mixed up in it. That would only have delayed things.” He added softly, “She’ll find some peace at last. I’ll make sure she gets across safely.” It wasn’t till later that I realized the full meaning of his words.
I didn’t follow them out. I stayed at my table and watched them as they walked down the Quai des Belges, not holding hands but in depressing harmony.
9
I
I SPENT the rest of the day running up and down the Canebière with Marie’s document in my pocket searching for someone who could help me. I knew now that Marie would no longer put up with any delay, coincidence, or trick. I finally understood the message I’d received in Paris that was intended for Weidel: “Join me any way you can, so that we can leave this country together!”
Her new friend, the doctor, was wrong; actually, she had never hesitated. We were the ones who had hesitated, the doctor and I, quarreling about this woman who had been determined to leave all along. She only stayed as long as she wanted to, and now that she wanted to leave, it would all go enormously quickly, so quickly that I’d never be able to catch up if I didn’t immediately arrange things for both of us. I even wondered if I should go back to see the American consul again. I wracked my brains for a way to strike a spark of understanding in that consular brain. Nothing useful came to mind except the realization that I’d never before come up against such an incorruptible official. In his own way, he was a just man. He carried out his difficult duties as a Roman official might once have done, in that same place, listening to the emissaries of foreign tribes with their dark and to him ridiculous demands from gods unknown to him. The summons, once it was registered and signed by him, was unalterable. God himself, if there was one, would sooner take back a judgment, would sooner give the lie to His own inscrutable wisdom. In any event, if He existed, it would all end with Him anyway. Moreover, He didn’t have to fear that He would lose the little bit of power by which He still held fast to this struggling world.
I spent the next morning as well reflecting on the goodness of God. It was the day alcohol could be served. At the Café Source I caught sight of Paul and his girlfriend, along with Achselroth, the man who’d left Paul in the lurch, the thin girl for whom he’d left the other girl, the other girl, and the man who was going to Cuba and his wife. They were all sitting around a table in the café having an aperitif. They were quite content to be among themselves. To them I was probably just a pesky unavoidable hanger-on from the old concentration camp days. They didn’t seem at all happy to see me when I sat down at their table.
Achselroth said, “How’s your friend, Weidel? The last time I saw him he seemed offended and depressed.”
“Offended and depressed? Weidel?”
“Why do you look at me like that? You shouldn’t be offended if I tell you he seemed offended when I spoke with him yesterday.”
“You spoke with him yesterday?”
“On the telephone.”
“On the telephone? Weidel?”
“Oh, good God, no. Excuse me. Hundreds of people call me every day. I’m a sort of vice consul. Everybody needs advice. It wasn’t Weidel at all who called; it was Meidler. For the last fifteen years I’ve been confusing the two. Yet they fight like cats and dogs when they’re together. I’ll never forget Weidel’s face in Paris when I congratulated him on Meidler’s film premiere. Incidentally, I saw Weidel’s wife this week at the Mont Vertoux. I’d never get her mixed up with anyone else! She looked a bit frazzled and upset, though still very lovely.”
“I always wondered,” Paul said, “at Weidel’s luck in getting that woman.”
Achselroth answered him slowly, his handsome face hardening somewhat, “He probably picked her up when she was still a very young girl. At an age when children still believe in Santa Claus. He probably convinced her of all sorts of things, such as that men and women love each other.” Turning to me he said, “Please give the young woman my sincerest regards.”
I was surprised and somewhat disturbed that this man had retained such a clear picture of the real Marie. The man’s mind, his memory, probably worked in such a way that he recorded everything clearly, even th
e most subtle things so that he could later write it all down, the same way a short-sighted or half-blind person can use some gadget to record everything in precise detail, like those cameras used in astronomy; whereas a sighted person is confused by fogginess and spots that eventually dissolve anyway. Achselroth had probably mentally recorded the most improbable and secret events, and this time it just happened to be Marie’s turn. I began to feel apprehensive, but I tried immediately to figure out some way to get this man to help. He’d never do anything if he didn’t think it would be worth his while, just like my poor, shabby Portuguese friend. He, at least, had done something selfless once. Achselroth, on the other hand, would never do something like that, never. He would keep drawing new people into his infinite emptiness, enticing them in, and never, ever find one over whom his own abyss would close. Did he know himself? I wondered. I didn’t think so. Nature which had equipped him with a handsome face and good mind had played him a dirty trick. In this respect he was like an amoeba, an algae. Even my little shabby Portuguese was far superior to him in this regard.
I said, “I’ll give her your regards today. By the way, you could prove your devotion in another way. The young lady is in a bad way at present.”
He said, very polite, “What’s the matter?”
“She needs a transit visa. She already has her appointment at the American Consulate. But the date doesn’t work. The appointment has to be sooner, because the ship is leaving earlier.”
He said, perking up, “From Lisbon? On the twelfth? Is it the Nyassa? I’m booked on her too. I’ve decided to pull up stakes here.”
“Yes, on the Nyassa,” I lied. I probably looked at him too closely, for his face turned expressionless. I added, “That’s of course if she gets the letter of transit in time.”
“That can be arranged,” he said. “We’ll make the most charming traveling companions. And if there’s a storm and they need a scapegoat, they can throw Weidel overboard.”
“You’ll get him mixed up with Meidler,” Paul said.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mix them up. I’ll throw the right one overboard.” Achselroth went on, beaming, “I did try once to leave Weidel in the lurch, but it was futile. It didn’t work. We both got here. And I’m sure Weidel’s going to be swallowed by a whale this time too and get there at the same time the rest of us do.”
“I think he’ll actually get there before we do,” I said. “But right now, his wife needs a transit visa. And since you’re a friend of the consul’s...”
“It’s precisely because I am a friend of his that I can’t bother him with such requests.”
“But you’re smart,” I said. “People like you. If anyone knows the ropes, it’s you. Isn’t there someone who can get a consul to change a date?”
He leaned back in his chair. For a moment he said nothing. Then he said, “There is one man in Marseille who has some influence with the consul. He just happens to be in the city this month and will probably also be sailing on the Nyassa. He heads a commission that’s investigating the effects the war is having on the civilian population. His commission is bringing over boatloads of food for French children. An excellent fellow. He’s a friend of the consul’s. And at the same time a sort of spiritual advisor to him. The consul will do what he asks, what he says carries moral weight with him.”
“Moral weight?”
“Right,” Achselroth said, utterly serious, “moral weight. If he’s convinced that it makes sense, then he’ll convince the consul to act. But he himself has to approve; he’ll never do something that goes against his conscience.”
“Well, let’s hope that his conscience will allow him to change the date on Marie’s transit visa to a few days earlier,” I said. “And let’s hope, too, that the consul will listen to this man of God. There are cases in the Bible—”
Achselroth broke in coldly, “We’re dealing here with the American consul.”
I was afraid he might take back his offer to help, and hastily said, “Forgive me! I don’t know anything about such things. You know best.”
He took a fountain pen out of his pocket. I was intrigued by it. You could see the ink through the yellowish glass. He wrote two notes and put them into separate envelopes, saying, “Please give both of these to the young lady today. Ask her to keep me informed. The best time to reach me is in the morning between eight and nine. I’m an early riser.”
As soon as I was alone, I ripped open the envelope addressed to Marie. She mustn’t know about this; I’d take care of it all. Achselroth’s handwriting was straightforward. The contents of the note were straightforward, too: “I’ve heard of your troubles. I shall try to help you. Professor Whitaker will agree to see you after you give him my letter. Please keep me informed.”
I tore up the note. The other envelope was addressed to Professor Whitaker at the Hotel Splendide. I went there at once.
II
A couple of policemen were idling near the revolving door of the Splendide, and on either side were some fellows conspicuously sucking on cigars. I must have looked all right to them as they let me go in. It was warm in the spacious lobby. Once inside, I realized how cold it had been outside these past months. I sat down in an armchair to wait while a bellboy took my letter upstairs.
In the camp by the sea it was the barbed wire that had united us. We were all filthy and crawling with lice. Heroes and thieves, physicians, writers, and rogues—we were all in the same boat along with the poorly paid spies who were the most bedraggled of all. The people here in this large, warm hall, made even larger by reflecting mirrors, were all united in being well-groomed and neatly pressed. These were the gentlemen from Vichy, the members of the German Commission, Italian agents, the heads of the Red Cross Committee, the leaders of the large American I-don’t-know-what committee, and in the corners of the mirrored hall, among the potted palms, stood the world’s best-dressed, best-paid spies, suspiciously inconspicuous, sucking on the best cigars of their respective nations.
A bellboy came over to tell me that Mr. Whitaker could see me in an hour. Would I be kind enough to wait or, if I preferred, I could come back later.
I waited. At first I enjoyed watching, but pretty soon I got bored. The warmth began to bother me too; I would have liked to take off my jacket. I had become a kind of amphibious creature in the constant cold of the hotel rooms, cafés, and official waiting rooms I’d been frequenting. I watched the people going up and down the stairs or coming out of the elevator and crossing the lobby, walking briskly or stiffly, imperceptibly greeting or ignoring one another, dead serious or smiling, but all true to their roles—expressing so precisely who they thought or wanted others to think they were that it looked as if someone were sitting in the hotel attic pulling the strings.
Just to drive away my boredom, I began to speculate about the profession of a short, delicate white-haired American with a large head. He was complaining about something to the porter who listened to him patiently. Then the American went up the stairs, not taking the elevator, and I assumed it was to get a couple of committees to do something.
Behind me I heard indistinctly the sound of German being spoken. I moved to another chair to get a better view. In one of the dining halls behind a glass door at a table covered by a white tablecloth sat a group of Germans. Some wearing dark suits, some in uniform. In the haze of smoke, mirrors, and glass I saw flashes of swastikas. My blood runs cold at the mere sight of swastikas, and I always notice them immediately wherever they are, much like a man who’s terrified by spiders is always aware of them. But here, in this warm room on the Boulevard d’Athènes, those symbols were especially frightening, even more so than back home in Germany in the prison interrogation rooms or during the war when I saw them on the soldiers’ uniforms. I was wrong to make light of the terror people felt as the swastika cars roared by—a terror so great they were ready to walk into the sea. Those cars had stopped here, on the Boulevard d’Athènes. Here the Germans had gotten out to negotiate with the lesser m
asters of the world. And once the negotiations were done—at a price set by the masters—a few thousand additional people would die behind barbed wire, a couple of thousand more people would be lying in the streets of cities with shot-up bodies.
On the wall across from where I sat, a large clock with gilt hands showed me I had twenty more minutes to wait before I could go upstairs to see the man of God. I closed my eyes. If the consul listened to this man of God, the matter of Marie’s transit visa would be decided. She would have to leave. I would have to get on the same ship. I would have to leave this world that was dear to me and join those shadowy swarms as if I really were one of them, only to catch up to Marie. How had she gotten me to do what I feared most? I was filled with shame and regret. As a child I used to forget my mother when I went fishing. All it took then was for a log driver to whistle, and I’d climb up onto his log raft, forgetting my fishing tackle. He would take me along on the river only a little way, and already I would have forgotten my hometown.
It’s true, I realized. Everything just passes through me. And that’s why I was still roving about unharmed in a world in which I didn’t know my way well at all. Indeed, even the fit of anger that had decided my life back then in my own country was only temporary. I didn’t stay angry; I wandered around afterward, my anger gone. What I really like is what endures, that which is different from me.
I felt sad and anxious standing outside this man’s door, this man who could shake the conscience of consuls. I wondered what he looked like. But here, too, there was first a waiting room, a waiting period.
Then the last door opened. The little man sitting behind a desk was the same delicate, large-headed American who had a little while ago complained to the porter and had used the stairs instead of the elevator. Despite the large head his face was small. It was a bit wrinkled. He looked at me sharply, from head to toe. The letter of recommendation from Achselroth that I’d sent up was lying on his desk. He read it with enormous attention as if the few lines could give him some spontaneous knowledge and understanding of all the connections. Then he looked me in the face, so keenly that I felt a stab. He said, “This letter has nothing to do with you personally. Why are you here instead of the woman?”