The Passenger Read online

  “That’s right, of course,” said Silbermann. The other man had turned to face him, but when Silbermann tried to look him in the eye he averted his gaze. “What line of business are you in, if I might ask?”

  I’m making him afraid, thought Silbermann. But I have to know! If he’s not trying to get out of the country, then he must be a criminal. And I don’t want to fall asleep in the same compartment as a criminal. After all, I have my entire fortune in my briefcase.

  “I deal in furniture,” said the other man quickly. Too quickly, it seemed to Silbermann, who had now grown suspicious.

  “Do you have good sales agents?” he asked.

  “They’re all right,” said the man, and looked out the window.

  “I was guessing that you’re the head of a firm…”

  The man gave Silbermann an anxious look. “What made you guess that?” he asked.

  “Well, I thought that since you were traveling first class. Not many agents can afford that. You must do very well.”

  I’m behaving like a perfect inquisitor, Silbermann thought. And how easily the situation could be reversed. But now he felt that he was the stronger person, and he was resolved to be merciless in his quest for information.

  “I usually travel second class,” the man answered, as though he had to explain himself. “But they told me there were no seats available in second class. That’s why I’m traveling first class.”

  This is exactly how people get trapped in lies, Silbermann thought to himself. If the man had any imagination he surely wouldn’t try to make me believe something as ridiculous as that. There are more open seats in second class than anyone could ask for. And why did he even answer my question? Why is he lying? Why is he taking something that requires no justification whatsoever and offering up an improbable explanation? He isn’t a crook, he’s far too clumsy for that. Only people who are used to speaking the truth give themselves away like that when they’re forced to lie. A Jewish tradesman, of course, my first impression was right!

  Silbermann fixed his gaze on the man and quietly asked, “Are you Jewish?”

  “What makes you think that?” the other asked back, distraught, and it was clear how much he wanted to get up and escape the interrogation. But he probably lacked the courage to do so.

  “So, I take it you are Jewish! Do you know where you want to go? Do you have a particular destination in mind?”

  For a moment, the other man was silent, then he again asked, “What leads you to think that I’m a Jew? Do I look like one?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Silbermann, who was now fully confident and secretly proud of his psychological prowess. He was so convinced of the validity of his premise that he returned to his sleeping position.

  The other man seemed emboldened by this movement, which was clearly not directed against him. “They stormed my store,” he began whispering. Then he jumped up and shut the door, even though the corridor was empty. “I had a cabinetmaking shop.” He resumed his report, then stopped and asked, “But please tell me what led you to believe I’m Jewish? You aren’t Jewish yourself?” The return question was inevitable, and his voice betrayed hope as well as fear.

  “I had the impression you were agitated,” said Silbermann.

  “Are you an Aryan?” the other asked, rephrasing the question. Silbermann’s lack of response to his first question had probably led the man to conclude that he was dealing with a comrade in misfortune.

  “I’m also Jewish,” Silbermann declared.

  “Thank God,” the other man said, relieved.

  “So where do you plan to go?” asked Silbermann.

  Now it was the other man’s turn to be suspicious.

  “I’m not planning to go anywhere,” he said evasively. “I’m just traveling. I was advised to travel first class because that was safer, but it wasn’t good advice. I can see how badly I stick out here. Tomorrow I’ll take a train back to Magdeburg. Things are bound to have calmed down by then.”

  “You don’t want to leave the country?” asked Silbermann.

  “No, no,” the other was quick to reply. “I’m staying in Germany. Despite everything I am a German!”

  “Good night,” said Silbermann.

  For a moment he had hoped his companion might give him a useful tip, but he realized that he couldn’t expect such confidence unless he himself was willing to open up, which he was not inclined to do. He tried to fall asleep, but after a few minutes the other man started talking again.

  “Did you manage to save your money?” he asked quietly.

  Silbermann muttered something incomprehensible.

  “Because if you had money,” the other man continued, “it would be easier…”

  “What would be easier?” Silbermann sat up, now interested, and lit another cigarette.

  “Well … you know…” the other man hesitated.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Silbermann, who thought he understood quite well and felt a new sense of hope.

  “I only kept a hundred marks. That’s not enough to get out of the country—assuming that’s what a person wanted to do.”

  “Do you want to get out?”

  “Do you?”

  “Perhaps. Do you know a way?”

  “We don’t know each other at all. I mean, even if I did know something … You understand what I mean?”

  Silbermann flicked the ash off his cigarette. “First I’d have to have a clear idea of what we’re talking about,” he said, businesslike. “The rest can all be sorted out.”

  The other man thought for a moment and looked at Silbermann, unable to decide. He had his doubts, but he realized that Silbermann would only show his cards after he did.

  “I was given an address. Supposedly it’s someone who can arrange something. From what I’ve heard he asks for a lot of money. And in addition to that he’s a Nazi.”

  “But basically you think he might be able to get someone out of the country? I’m not necessarily speaking for myself, of course, but in general the matter interests me.”

  “They say that he takes anything of value at the border. You’re completely at his mercy, but he’ll see that you get across!”

  “Who is this he?”

  “I don’t know exactly, and even if I did, as I said before, I don’t know you at all…”

  Silbermann nodded. “Of course,” he admitted. “Of course I could easily prove to you who I am and that I’m Jewish, but I don’t know…”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “If there’s any point.”

  “Oh,” the other said eagerly, and it was clear that he, who had disclosed so much, was now also asking for some show of trust. “Surely we could help each other out somehow. You obviously have money, and I have a way out, but not the money it requires. We could complement each other.”

  “But if, as you say, your man robs people at the border, I don’t find the prospect very enticing.”

  “So is it a lot of money you’re carrying around?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “I’ve told you everything. But you’re not telling me anything! Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do, but as you rightly pointed out earlier: we don’t know each other, and it’s also debatable if we’d be of any benefit to each other even if we did.”

  “My name is Lilienfeld, Robert Lilienfeld.”

  “Silbermann.”

  “So, Herr Silbermann,” said Lilienfeld, now grown bolder. “I trust you, even if just because I very much need you. Listen: we could get off together in Dortmund and look up the man together. I would introduce you, and in exchange you would pay my way.”

  “We could do that. And I’m happy to give you the money. But you’ll have to pay him yourself.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And assuming a person had a little more money that he needed to have sent on very quickly, do you also know how that can be arranged?”

  “You’re not allowed to take anything,” Lilie
nfeld insisted. “In no case are you permitted to have more than ten marks on you. Otherwise if we get caught we might be accused of smuggling currency. Besides, I already told you that you have to expect the man to pat you down at the border. If you’re lucky, all he’ll do is take your money.”

  “You don’t know any other way to…?”

  “I have no idea! Just don’t tell the man that you have money, and under no circumstances should you hide the money on your person. Or any valuables!”

  “But…”

  “We simply have to be glad if we manage to make it across with our bare lives.”

  “Even out of the country you need more than a bare life to survive. You need money! Or do you think they feed Jews there for free?”

  “I’ll find some work,” Lilienfeld assured him hopefully.

  “As far as I know, immigrants aren’t allowed to work without a special permit, and by the time you get one of those you’ll have long died of starvation.”

  “That remains to be seen!”

  “No,” said Silbermann emphatically. “For me it’s out of the question.”

  Lilienfeld jumped up. “And how am I supposed to pay the man?” he asked, agitated. “I’m short two hundred marks. My life depends on two hundred marks! If I’d only traveled third class…”

  “Calm down.” Silbermann interrupted him. “You’ll get your two hundred marks! And in exchange you’ll give me the address of the man. I may come back to the idea.”

  Lilienfeld tore a page from his notebook and wrote out the name and address in large, clumsy letters. He genuinely seemed to have come to trust Silbermann. In any case, he handed Silbermann the paper even though he hadn’t received any money for providing it.

  “Hermann Dinkelberg, Bismarckstraße 23,” Silbermann read in a low voice. “Is that enough?” he asked. “Or do I have to refer to someone?”

  “That isn’t necessary. Just tell him that you want to leave the country, and if he asks how much money you have, say: two hundred marks. You can give that to him right away, because he’ll get you over the border!”

  Silbermann stuck the note in his pocketbook and handed Lilienfeld three hundred-mark bills. “You might need a little extra after all,” he said. “If you like you can give me back the hundred marks at some later date.”

  “No, no.” The cabinetmaker declined. “All I need is two hundred marks exactly! What am I supposed to do with the rest? Tomorrow afternoon I’m leaving Germany. Then I won’t be able to get rid of the money and that will be my downfall. I know you mean well, that’s very generous, and I thank you, but please just keep it!”

  He handed the extra hundred marks back to Silbermann.

  “That’s never happened to me before in my life,” said Silbermann, shaking his head.

  “Me neither! But now let’s really try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I have a pretty strenuous hike ahead of me. I’m just happy that I met you. It looks like there really is such a thing as a silver lining.”

  “Only because the cloud is as dark as it is,” said Silbermann pessimistically.

  “You shouldn’t despair,” Lilienfeld replied, gently running his hand over his billfold. “You see how things are going with me…”

  “You’re also in an enviable position! You can move about freely. But I have to haul my money wherever I go. Under the circumstances, that’s a real millstone around my neck.”

  “Just leave it in Germany.”

  “And what am I to live off abroad?”

  “You’ll have to work!”

  “I’ve worked my entire life, my friend. I’m a merchant, and a merchant has to have capital. These days a tradesman is a lot better off.”

  “Then you just have to start all over again once you’re there.”

  “That’s easy to say. I’m no longer young, and I also have my wife and son to take care of!”

  “You’re right,” sighed Lilienfeld, almost with a note of contentment, “it’s a bad situation…”

  Silbermann realized he wasn’t going to fall asleep again so soon. He pulled aside the window curtain and for a while looked out at the pale dawn, gazing at the landscape, the bare fields, small forests, isolated houses, the monotonous autumn tableau of the flat countryside. He stretched a bit, then turned out the light since it was already bright enough.

  “What time is it?” he asked his companion, who had also not yet fallen asleep and who’d been watching Silbermann with his big brown eyes, following every movement with drowsy interest.

  “Six thirty,” said Lilienfeld.

  “I’m dead tired but I can’t fall asleep,” Silbermann explained. “I feel a sense of looming catastrophe in my stomach.”

  “That’s because you haven’t had any coffee yet,” Lilienfeld said, and turned around to go back to sleep.

  Silbermann continued looking out the window. I’ve passed this way before, he thought. On our honeymoon. To distract himself, he tried recalling the time and circumstances. He’d just been promoted to corporal and had received eight days’ leave to get married. Five days were taken up with wedding preparations, and they hadn’t been able to leave until the evening of the sixth day. He still remembered all the details fairly exactly, down to what his wife was wearing and how she looked. Elfriede had been very excited. Never again did he see her laugh and cry as much as she had on that trip. They had held on to each other in a way that now seemed to him more clenching than clinging. But the conditions hadn’t been favorable for a simple, innocent honeymoon, because the country was at war.

  And then there were the fantastic plans she’d concocted! She suggested they flee to Switzerland because she didn’t want to let him return to the front. Deep down she probably realized this was impossible, but she refused to accept that and had to be consoled. He promised her that the war wouldn’t last much longer, and then she sighed and said: yes it will. Which prompted him to explain why the enemies of Germany were on the verge of collapse and how life in a dugout was relatively safe.

  In the end she believed him, and then everything was wonderful once more, although the fear of separation gnawed away at every happy minute. Finally, as if by mutual agreement, they only spoke about the two days they had left, about what they had planned to do but wound up not doing because the wedding had been more important than the honeymoon.

  We were so happy and so unhappy at the same time that we couldn’t even tell the difference, Silbermann reflected—that was how jumbled all their feelings and sensations had become.

  Of course the last day had been a terrible ordeal, and ultimately all they ended up doing was waiting for the moment when they had to part. Looking back, Silbermann didn’t think it was all that bad, since they’d been young and could believe in the future, and despite everything they’d been able to live in the moment.

  How happy I was, Silbermann thought, with a quiet feeling of self-envy.

  He stepped out of the compartment and walked down the corridor, then came back, sat down, and observed the cabinetmaker, who had fallen asleep and was shifting fretfully as Silbermann watched until he finally woke up. Before he opened his eyes, he felt for his breast pocket, where he’d hidden the money and most likely his passport as well.

  “Are we close to Dortmund?” he asked quietly.

  “You still have a long time,” Silbermann replied. “Get some sleep.”

  But Lilienfeld sat up. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m so restless. I have such a strange feeling. I need a glass of brandy. I don’t think I can take being hounded like this. Normally by this time I would have already swept out my shop and rolled up the shutters. I had to let go of my journeyman assistant, the business was doing so poorly, and my apprentice never showed up before eight. There’s someone for you—completely inept!”

  He looked at Silbermann. “I talk too much, don’t I?”

  “Not at all,” Silbermann replied. “Keep going. It does me good to listen to you.”

  “I told the boy a hundred times,” Lilienfeld continu
ed, “not to hold the board with his hand when he’s using the plane. But no matter how often you say it, he doesn’t hear it. And as you can guess, one day the thing slipped and then the lout couldn’t work. So for a whole month all he did was stand around. Apart from that he was a good kid! I wonder if he’s found a new apprenticeship. I still have to send him his certificate. When I told him I was leaving, he wanted to come with me. He’s Jewish, too, you see … I’m so anxious. I dreamed about the war for the first time in years. I was just hanging there, stuck in the barbed wire and freezing. That’s a feeling, let me tell you!”

  “I turned off the heat earlier,” Silbermann explained. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the war too for the past few days. It’s no wonder.”

  “Do you think we should move to second class?” Lilienfeld asked. “That might be safer.”

  “And when the conductor comes and sees you have a ticket for first class, that will really look fishy!”

  “But it’s always less nerve-racking to be around a lot of people. At least for me. Do you think there are Gestapo officers on the train?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe we should get off and take third-class seats on the next train?”

  “What do you think that will do? You won’t be any safer there. You might get involved in a conversation that I wouldn’t wish for you, and besides…”

  “… and besides, I chose to pay for first class, too, you were going to say,” Lilienfeld interrupted, finishing Silbermann’s sentence. “Except I’ve never traveled first class in my life. If only I’d been able to go on traveling third class in peace for the rest of my days!” He looked around admiringly at the compartment. “All very finely done,” he concluded. “But it’s plenty expensive! Probably nothing new for you, am I right?”

  “I usually travel second class,” said Silbermann. But listening to Lilienfeld about traveling third class made him wonder exactly why he had done so all those years. Then he added, almost apologetically, “Also on account of my business associates.” He wrinkled his forehead, surprised at his own explanation.