The Passenger Read online

  “I filed a report,” Silbermann said, in a husky voice. “I was robbed of thirty thousand marks! They broke into my apartment!”

  The inspector sat back down. “Why won’t you listen to reason?” he asked more quietly. “Surely you realize this stubbornness will get you nowhere.”

  Silbermann looked past him out the window.

  “If I want, I could have you sent immediately to a concentration camp. You’re practically forcing me to. There they’ll teach you some manners!”

  “Did you follow up on my report?” asked Silbermann. “Have they recovered the money?”

  “Are you starting again? Don’t speak unless you’re asked a question!”

  He picked up Silbermann’s service record, which had been taken from him along with his other papers when he was put in the cell.

  “So you were a soldier,” said the inspector, more mildly. “I’m guessing of course you were rear echelon, am I right?”

  “Is that what it says in the papers?” asked Silbermann.

  “Papers can be falsified.”

  Without answering, Silbermann shrugged his shoulders.

  “I didn’t say that they are falsified. I just said they can be falsified,” the inspector explained. “So, what should I do with you? What do you suggest?”

  “I demand an investigation into the whereabouts of my briefcase.”

  “Of all the nerve,” said the inspector, not without a note of respect. “So, I will have you sent to the concentration camp! There you’ll recover your senses and learn how a Jew is expected to behave these days! Don’t think for a minute they won’t have their own ways of dealing with you.”

  “On the contrary,” Silbermann answered. “I’m quite convinced of that.”

  “So why are you acting like this?”

  “I lost a briefcase with thirty thousand marks. I came here to file a report.”

  “You behaved outrageously and you … Now I really am going to place you under arrest!”

  “That’s what I thought,” Silbermann said calmly. “I knew that before I came here.”

  “So why did you come here?” the inspector asked, curious.

  “Because I no longer care what happens to me. Because I have dutifully paid my taxes year after year and now I’m requesting that the police also fulfill their duty to me as a citizen.”

  “The police aren’t here to serve you!” The inspector studied him thoughtfully. “Western front?” he then asked. “How long?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  The inspector laughed. “Go to the devil,” he said, in a strong voice. “But don’t ever show your face here again. Now move, get out of here!”

  “They stole thirty thousand marks from me along with my briefcase.”

  “So it’s no, then, is it!” said the inspector. “You simply can’t keep your trap shut. Meier, take him away. And here I wanted to put mercy before justice…”

  “Let’s go, Jew, come here,” said the guard, grabbing Silbermann by the arm.

  Silbermann brushed his hand away. “Do you mean me?” he asked. “My name is Silbermann. I will not tolerate…”

  “Ha ha ha,” the inspector laughed. “He got you there, Meier! So just throw the man out. Let him go. He fought on the front line and … well something of that always stays, even with a Jew.”

  The guard ushered Silbermann to the door.

  “Just keep your dirty trap shut,” he recommended. “You won’t be so lucky a second time.”

  Silbermann looked at him fiercely.

  “Tell your master he should kindly attend to my report. I’ll be back.”

  And with that he gave one more sullen glance at the guard and left.

  “What bad luck,” he muttered to himself. “Now I’ll have to kill myself with my own hands, while they could have easily done it for me.”

  He wandered aimlessly about the city for an hour. Suddenly he found himself in front of the building where his lawyer lived. He went inside, took the elevator up to the third floor, and rang the doorbell.

  Löwenstein himself opened. “It’s you,” he observed. “I assumed it was the police…”

  “I thought you’d been arrested,” Silbermann replied grumpily.

  “So why did you come here?” Löwenstein asked, inviting him in. “As it happens they just let me go today.”

  “And what are you doing now?” asked Silbermann, and started to take off his coat.

  “I’m leaving the country. My train goes in one hour.”

  “Do you have a visa?”

  “No, but I have the address of a man who can take me across the Dutch border. You should come with me, Silbermann.”

  “I’ve already done that! Besides, all I have left are two hundred marks. They robbed me in the train and stole thirty thousand marks. When I passed by here, I thought: maybe Löwenstein knows how I could come by some money.”

  “But if you were robbed … God forbid. How can anybody let thirty thousand marks get stolen! A person has to be careful. On the other hand, everyone’s going to lose his money sooner or later. At least you don’t have to die on that account. Be glad you’re in one piece. So, are you coming?”

  “I’m sick of travel,” Silbermann said slowly.

  “Do you think I enjoy it? You have to decide right now though, please. I don’t have any time. I have a hundred things to take care of, and my train leaves in an hour. Well?”

  “I don’t have enough money.”

  “I’ll loan you some. After all, you’re still good for two hundred marks.”

  “Very nice of you. Good-bye.”

  Löwenstein took hold of him. “So?” he asked. “What is it?”

  “I wish you the best of luck,” Silbermann replied. “But I’ve had it up to here with traveling. It bores me.”

  The lawyer looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “It bores you! Did I hear that right? It’s a matter of life and death, my man. Don’t you realize that?”

  Silbermann stared back at him.

  “I want my money back!” he said. “Thirty thousand marks! I demand … I … have to think it all through again … Don’t let me detain you.”

  “Something’s no longer right with you,” said Löwenstein.

  “Yes,” Silbermann said calmly. “I often have that feeling these days … the world has gone mad … that is to say I no longer know what to make of it … Which really means that I myself…”

  “Oh come on.” Löwenstein interrupted him. “A sensible man like you. So are you coming? I’m afraid you have to decide right away.”

  Silbermann shook his head, then held out his hand and said good-bye.

  As he slowly went down the stairs, he wondered what he should do. I have no choice but to keep moving, he thought. But on my own … Löwenstein talks too much for my taste. I’ll simply go to Hamburg. That was always a nice ride. I always felt best in the compartments on the train to Hamburg. Although I could go back to Dortmund. At least then I could get some sleep.

  He stopped outside the entrance to the building.

  Löwenstein will make it, he thought. He’s a capable soul … not easily intimidated. I really ought to join him … but what about my money? What will happen to that? What if they find it … and then I’ll be out of the country and won’t have a penny!

  He boarded a streetcar.

  I’ll go to the office, he thought. I have to check to see what mail has come in the meantime. I haven’t been paying any attention to my business … that’s practically criminal negligence.

  He hopped off the streetcar.

  What business? It no longer exists, he remembered.

  He hailed a taxi and gave the driver Becker’s address.

  Maybe he’ll give me some money, a few thousand marks, who knows?

  After just one block he had the driver stop and he got out.

  It’s pointless, he felt. Everything is pointless.

  He
jumped onto a passing streetcar.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked the conductor.

  “Adolf-Hitler-Platz.”

  He paid for a ticket.

  What am I supposed to do there? he asked himself.

  He got off two stations later.

  Where to? he thought anxiously. Where to? I’m insane, I should have gone with Löwenstein. But I’m so sick of traveling.

  He went into a pub, sat down, and ordered a glass of beer.

  I am insane, he concluded once more. Maybe that’s actually the best thing for me, the most reasonable. The times are enough to drive a person mad all on their own. However, these and similar musings led him to conclude that he was still of sound mind, and was therefore obliged to think rationally.

  How am I supposed to cope with all of this, he despaired. Reason dictates I should kill myself. But I want to live. Despite everything, I want to live! And that requires all the wits I have, but they aren’t enough, because the same reasoning is pitting me against myself. It negates my existence. So where does that leave me? It’s because I understand, he thought unhappily, that I despair. If only I could misunderstand. But that’s something I’m no longer able to do. And the only thing I have left in life is the list of all my losses. Apart from that I have nothing, absolutely nothing.

  “Nothing left!” he said so loudly that the few people in the pub turned toward him. “Nothing left, absolutely nothing,” Silbermann said again, out loud.

  A waiter brought his beer. He got up and paid.

  I’ll go get arrested, he thought. I’ll go back to the police station. Have them detain me. The state has murdered me so it ought to bury me as well.

  He went back out to the street and waved a cab over. “The nearest police station,” he said. But no sooner had he climbed in than he regretted his decision.

  Maybe, he thought, just maybe … You never know … Shouldn’t I give it a go with Löwenstein after all? He rapped on the pane and gave the driver the lawyer’s address. He’s probably already gone, Silbermann then thought.

  When the car stopped, the driver had to wake him because Silbermann had succumbed to his fatigue and had fallen asleep. He took the elevator back upstairs.

  I’m sure he’s left by now, he thought, as he pressed the doorbell.

  Löwenstein answered just moments later. He was dressed for travel and carrying a small suitcase.

  “Did you reconsider?” he asked Silbermann, as he stepped out of the apartment and locked the door behind him. “I was delayed. You’re lucky. Come on!”

  They went into the elevator and rode downstairs.

  “I took far too much time,” the lawyer explained on the way, annoyed.

  “What will become of your things? Your money?”

  “Gone is gone,” Löwenstein answered very calmly.

  Silbermann couldn’t help but admire such an attitude. When they reached the ground floor, they noticed two men waiting by the elevator. Silbermann was the first to step out into the hall. He passed the men and walked on five or six steps, assuming that Löwenstein would follow. Then all of a sudden he heard the word “arrest.” He quickly turned around.

  Just at that moment one of the two men was putting handcuffs on the lawyer, whose face had gone completely pale. With his eyes he signaled to Silbermann to go on.

  Silbermann stayed where he was. “What’s this about?” he asked quietly.

  One of the men grabbed him by the arm. “You know this man?”

  “Of course. He was my lawyer.”

  “Then you’re coming to the station immediately. Are you also a Jew?”

  “Yes,” said Silbermann.

  They were led away.

  ELEVEN

  “My name is Schwarz,” said the inmate, as he went up to Silbermann to shake hands. “I’m completely normal,” he added right away. “And what did you do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Silbermann, and sat down on the bunk.

  Schwarz followed him. “I see what you’re doing,” he replied. “I get it.”

  Silbermann wrinkled his forehead. He didn’t find his cellmate particularly sympathetic. His face alone triggered a certain repulsion: it was spongy and lacked structure, with heavily bloodshot eyes.

  “What I’m doing?” Silbermann asked and lay down.

  “Your ploy. The reason you wound up here and not … Everybody wants to get off the hook by pretending to be mad. I did as well! But I’m completely normal.”

  “I believe it,” Silbermann replied, closing his eyes.

  Schwarz shook his shoulder. “They’re planning to sterilize me!” he said, frightened.

  “What are they planning?” Silbermann sat up.

  “They want to sterilize me. I stole a handbag and then I pretended to be crazy. And now they want to sterilize me! But I’m not going to let them. I’m not schizophrenic. I’m normal. I have a fiancée. I…” Schwarz paced back and forth inside the cell.

  Silbermann pressed his hands against his temples. “I have a headache,” he said.

  Schwarz interrupted his pacing. “I see what you’re up to!” he stated. “But they’re going to sterilize you as well!”

  “Nonsense,” said Silbermann calmly.

  “It’s not nonsense! What did you do? Tell me what you did wrong!”

  “Nothing at all,” Silbermann repeated, irritated. “I’m Jewish, if you really want to know.”

  “So that’s your ploy,” Schwarz declared. He leaned over Silbermann’s bunk. “Racial defilement, eh, is that it?” he asked, and smiled idiotically.

  Silbermann turned to the wall. The trusty opened the door and shoved some food into the cell.

  “You,” said Schwarz. “This man’s a Jew. I refuse to put up with that. I’m a National Socialist. I don’t want to be in the same cell as a Jew…”

  “You better pipe down,” said the trusty. “Pretty soon now they’ll be taking you to get sterilized.”

  “No!” Schwarz roared. “No!”

  The trusty grinned and shut the door. Schwarz paced up and down the cell. Then he went to the door and started drumming.

  “Jews out!” he shouted. “Jews out!”

  His shouting was picked up by other insane inmates, and soon there were dozens of jumbled voices shouting: “Jews out! Jews out!”

  Silbermann leapt from his bunk. “Shut up,” he screamed.

  Schwarz looked at him, frightened, and went silent. But the others kept shouting: “Jews out, Jews out!”

  “They’re going to sterilize you, too,” Schwarz whispered, and huddled in the corner, scared. “They’re going to sterilize you for sure!”

  The guard’s key jangled in the lock.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to be with a Jew…”

  “What you want or don’t want doesn’t matter here…”

  The prisoner was silent. After the guard left, Schwarz started shouting again: “Jews out! Jews out!”

  Silbermann lay back down and stopped his ears with his thumbs. “I’m going to leave soon!” he said loudly.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Schwarz, stepping closer. “What are you going to do?”

  “Why are they making such a racket?” Silbermann asked quietly.

  “Idiots, all of them are idiots,” Schwarz explained. “But I’m the one they want to sterilize!”

  Silbermann stood up. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said. “I want to leave!… There’s a train to Aachen at seven … and at eight ten there’s a train to Nürnberg … and at nine twenty there’s one to Hamburg … and one to Dresden at ten … There are so many trains … so many trains and trains … I want to get away from here!”

  “I see what you’re up to,” said Schwarz, convinced. “Come on and let’s shout together: Jews out…”

  AFTERWORD TO THE GERMAN EDITION

  Peter Graf

  On October 29, 1942, Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz was approximately seven hundred nautical miles northw
est of the Azores aboard the MV Abosso, when the German submarine U-575 torpedoed the passenger ship that was being used as a troopship by the British government. The unescorted vessel sank at 11 PM Central European Time. Ulrich Boschwitz was just twenty-seven years old when his life—along with the lives of 361 other passengers—was extinguished. He was carrying his latest manuscript.

  Several weeks earlier, he had sent what would be his last letter to his mother, Martha Wolgast Boschwitz, in which he spelled out what should be done with his published and unpublished manuscripts in the event of his death, including his novel The Passenger, which had come out in England in 1939 and in America the following year—only to quickly disappear. In this letter dated August 10, 1942, Ulrich Boschwitz informed his mother that he had thoroughly revised the book, and that she should expect to receive the first 109 pages of the corrected manuscript from a fellow former prisoner who was on his way to England. The remaining revisions were still pending.

  The author advised his mother to engage someone with literary experience to incorporate the revisions, as he was convinced that the changes would greatly improve the book, and thereby increase its chances of being published in a Germany that would hopefully soon be liberated. Writing in English, he closed his notes with the words: “I really believe there is something in the book, which may make it a success.” Evidently Martha Wolgast Boschwitz never received her son’s revisions: in any case they are not included in the fragmentary “Ulrich Boschwitz Collection” currently housed in the Leo Baeck Institute in New York. Nor does his niece and closest relative, Reuella Shachaf, know anything about their whereabouts.

  My first contact with Reuella Shachaf came as the result of an interview I gave in December 2015. Avner Shapira, literary critic of the Israeli daily Haaretz, had asked me to discuss Ernst Haffner’s 1932 novel Blood Brothers, which I had rediscovered and which had just come out in a Hebrew translation. After the interview appeared Reuella sent me an email, in which she mentioned her uncle from Berlin Ulrich Boschwitz, whose books had been published in several languages but never in his own native tongue. One book in particular, she wrote, might be of special interest—namely the 1938 novel Der Reisende, whose original German typescript was not with the remaining papers in New York, but since the late 1960s had been housed in Frankfurt, in the German Exile Archive of the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. It all sounded so interesting that I traveled to Frankfurt a few days before Christmas 2015 and spent an entire day absorbed in the first and only original copy of the novel.