The Passenger Read online

  He set down his suitcase in the front hall and went back into the bedroom. He opened the drawers of the nightstand but found nothing except a receipt for the milk delivery. Then he hurried into the dressing room, forced open the door of the small medicine cabinet, since he couldn’t find the key, and looked for the small case that was usually stored there. When he didn’t find it he sighed with relief. She had taken it with her. Of course, a woman never forgets her jewelry, not even if she’s in mortal danger. Anyway, it’s a very good thing she thought about that. She can live for a while off of that if something should happen to me—until I’m settled abroad.

  He left his apartment. Slowly and very calmly he climbed down the stairs.

  If only I were already downstairs, he wished. If only I were already in the taxi. Hopefully the doorman’s son won’t be standing outside.

  He was.

  Silbermann raised his hat, the other man raised his arm.

  “I’m going away for a few days,” Silbermann felt obliged to explain. “Would you please tell your mother that I’d be very grateful if she would look after the apartment?” His voice sounded hoarse and husky.

  The young man didn’t answer but eyed him brazenly, so it seemed to Silbermann—or downright insolently.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-mark bill. “Would you give that to your mother? For her trouble?”

  But the other man seemed to regard the gesture as attempted bribery. He turned around without saying a word and with excessively dignified bearing went inside the building, leaving Silbermann standing there.

  Silbermann stared blankly as the young man walked away. Now there’s someone who really is being guided by hate, he thought, taken aback. He shrugged his shoulders and hurried to the nearest taxi stand.

  But where should I go? he wondered. After all, a person ought to know where he wants to go. A person needs a destination. France? That would be the logical choice. But how do I get there? Perhaps through Switzerland? As if it were easy to get into Switzerland. Luxemburg? No, Goldberg tried that last week. And failed, and he’s younger than I am. So if he didn’t manage … Where shall I go? Where can I go?

  For now I’m still free, I’ve managed to keep a portion of my wealth, and nevertheless I don’t know what to do. Despite all that, I’m a prisoner. For a Jew the entire Reich is one big concentration camp.

  If only I’d gotten a visa early on! But who could have foreseen any of this, and Eduard’s certainly taking his time. I would have … Would have! What do I have? A passport with a big red J on the first page. But I also have money—thank God!

  He took a cab to the Charlottenburg Station.

  The first thing I’ll do is get a timetable for the trains, he decided. Then I’ll have to see. I’ll simply take the first train that’s leaving. No, that won’t work. I really do have to figure out where to. So I’ll head in the direction of France. First to the Rhineland. Then I’ll be closer to my destination. And tonight I’ll sleep on the train.

  Anyway I can call Eduard again in the morning. Perhaps in the meantime he’s … managed to … hard to imagine. But not impossible. Then everything would happen legally. Otherwise it won’t work. I’m not a risk taker. I’m a businessman, I make deals. These times are demanding too much of me!

  He was happy that for now at least his wife had escaped all trouble. She has her brother, he thought. A good thing that is! I wish I had someone, too.

  He checked his suitcase at the baggage counter and then very carefully studied the departure times listed in the timetable. As he searched, he ran his finger down the columns. At last he believed to have found the right train.

  “Aachen, eleven forty-eight, from the Potsdamer Station,” he said quietly. Aachen, he thought, is near Belgium. I’ll travel to Aachen! In any case it can’t hurt. Once I’m in Belgium, I can get to France. And in Aachen I can still think things over and figure out which border is easiest.

  He purchased a detective novel at a newsstand, bought a first-class ticket to Aachen, and retrieved his suitcase. Then he went to the platform for local service. In just two minutes one of the electric trains arrived, and Silbermann climbed aboard.

  After he stowed his suitcase on the storage rack and placed his briefcase behind him, he opened the book he had just purchased and began reading, hoping this would distract him and bring some measure of calm. As a rule Silbermann enjoyed letting himself get entangled in literary crimes, and he found murders every bit as engaging as bank robberies. He also felt reassured by the ultimate arrests. But even though the prose read quite fluently and two corpses were discovered on London Bridge on the very first page, the book couldn’t distract him from all his worries and problems. He kept reaching for his briefcase and checking to make sure his suitcase was still there. Finally he set the book aside.

  I should have packed the silverware in a box, he thought. It now also occurred to him that he should have looked in the buffet for his wife’s jewelry case, because he remembered that she was always searching for new hiding places where possible intruders wouldn’t think to look. Once she’d even hidden the case under the plates on the lowest shelf. But then he figured that because she’d thought of the money in the desk, she must have remembered her jewelry as well, and felt relieved.

  And what’s going to happen to my company? he asked himself, and tried to calculate how much money he’d already lost. But then he broke off this unpleasant accounting and went back to the question of how he could get his money out of Germany. Even if they don’t check anyone else at the border, they’re bound to check me, because I’m much too agitated. And it’s impossible to hide forty-one thousand marks on your person.

  But of course—he was intending to cross the border illegally. Wasn’t it old man Wurm who’d recently told a story about two Jews from Breslau who’d been shot attempting to do just that? No, it was Löwenstein. Why would he even say something like that? As if people didn’t already know what’s going on! Besides, getting shot was preferable to being stuck in this condition for the foreseeable future. But perhaps he’d get arrested, and then: concentration camp, confiscation of property, prison … And what would become of his wife?

  He wondered how her brother had received her, considering that he, too, was a Nazi. Ernst was probably afraid of compromising himself because of her. But he was her brother, after all, and Silbermann had served as a guarantor when he settled with his creditors. Otherwise he would have gone bankrupt, plain and simple, reckless as he was. No matter. In any case, he’s in my debt.

  They arrived at Potsdamer Station and Silbermann stepped off. Only when the train started moving again did he realize he’d left his book behind. The loss upset him. He was not so much irritated by the fact that he’d now likely never discover the circumstances surrounding the double murder on the Thames, because of course he’d also forgotten the novel’s title—all he could remember was that it contained the word “secret.” What he really found distressing was that he’d caught himself forgetting something for the second time that day, and he could only expect that his anxiety would cause additional and perhaps more sensitive losses.

  As he was heading to the platform for the train to Aachen, he reflected on the fact that he really should have said good-bye to his wife. This is like a ship going down, he thought, or a volcano erupting, or an earthquake ordered from above. And the earth really is shaking, but only under us.

  After he’d climbed the stairs and passed through the ticket barrier, he sat down on a bench to wait for his train. She’ll be so worried and afraid, he then thought. I have to write her right away. What a good thing it is that she’s a Christian—at least nothing can happen to her. I can hardly imagine if I had that worry on top of everything else, as it is I’m worried about something happening to her anyway. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t said good-bye to his sister and that he hadn’t found out anything certain about the fate of his brother-in-law, Günther. And to think I’m actually someone with a real feel for
family, he wondered. But when all is said and done, people are simply hard-boiled egoists.

  Nor did he now feel at all inclined to call his sister again. It’s too depressing, he thought. We’ll just talk back and forth, she can’t help me and I can’t help her, and all we’d do in the end is unnerve each other further. What’s the point in that? Things are already hard enough! I’ll write her tomorrow and send her some money. She’ll need that before long, because Günther will soon stop receiving his pension, or else it will be assigned to cover his rations in the concentration camp. The truth is that I’m still relatively well off, he thought, and sighed.

  Maybe I ought to divide the money and leave ten thousand marks for Elfriede. Who knows how long she’ll still have to stay in the country. But then the Nazis will end up taking it away from her, or else Ernst will talk her out of it for some dubious business deal. Besides, she has to join me in the next few days, no question about it. As soon as I’m out of the country I’ll get her the permit. As long as she’s living in Germany I won’t have any peace. People will help me. Everybody will understand! I’ll manage in eight days what Eduard couldn’t achieve in his entire life.

  Besides, if I leave her the money, she’ll try to smuggle it across the border herself, and she’s far less capable of that than I am. Ach, whatever I do is a mistake. Everything is all wrong. Even if I do manage to get the money out of the country, it’s entirely possible that they’d hold her hostage until I turned myself in along with the money. Maybe I’m dragging her down with me into misfortune. The best thing would be for me to wait and spend the next few days in Aachen or Dortmund or perhaps go back to Berlin later and try to get a visa. But there’s no chance of that working out, either.

  By this point he felt so hopeless that he didn’t react at all when the train pulled up, but simply stayed slumped on the bench.

  What do I want to do? he asked himself. Is there anything left for me to do at all? Every choice is an unwise one. But he couldn’t simply stay on the platform, and more than anything else it was the hope of at least being able to sleep on the train that finally motivated him to climb on board.

  He’d chosen first class because he believed that there he would be safest from suspicion and the ensuing harassment.

  After looking into a few compartments that were partly occupied, he found one for smokers that was empty. He sat down and closed his eyes. Sleep, he thought, all I want is to sleep.

  He hadn’t dared purchase a berth in a sleeping car. Being deep asleep in bed puts you completely at the mercy of others, he had thought. A few minutes passed, then the door to his compartment was opened, and with great deference the conductor pointed out seats for two gentlemen.

  A spirited “Heil Hitler” was proclaimed.

  “Heil Hitler,” Silbermann returned the greeting, starting up from his half-sleep and then resuming his position, while making an effort to maintain his composure. He quickly turned his face to the window so the others wouldn’t notice how terrified he looked. But it turned out they weren’t Gestapo men, as he had first suspected, but bona fide travelers.

  “Did you notice,” one was saying to the other, “that the whole first class is full of Jews. Half of Israel is on tour.”

  “No, really?” the other man seemed surprised. “I didn’t notice at all.”

  Silbermann began feeling very uneasy.

  “Then again maybe I’m just imagining things,” the first one continued. In any case, this morning in the train from Munich I easily counted about twenty head.”

  “What are the people supposed to do?” the other asked, disinterested. “Do you have the papers? I want to look them over one more time.” The man who had first spoken rummaged through his coat pockets and ultimately fished out a manuscript. He handed it to the other man, who Silbermann guessed was his superior, based on each man’s respective attitude, and who began reading contentedly.

  “Is everything set?” the man asked as he leafed through the draft. “Are we being picked up from the station? Has the press been adequately informed? Do you have a decent photograph of me on hand? Because recently the Köln Illustrierte ran a picture of me that made me look ancient. Kindly make sure I’m not made into an old man ahead of my time.”

  The other man eagerly pulled some pictures from his pocketbook and handed them over. His superior looked through them.

  “This photo is out of the question. It shows me with a mustache. Good grief … Here, this will work! Take this one.”

  “Yes of course,” the other agreed. “That’s the one I wanted to use as well. First simply on account of the SA uniform.”

  His boss read further in the manuscript. “This needs to be re-transcribed,” he said after a while, during which the train had started moving. “Here, instead of ‘the new Reich’s mission vis-à-vis Europe,’ it should say ‘concerning Europe.’ All such foreign expressions should be deleted. And instead of the word ‘culture’ you should, wait a minute … I had found a better expression—what was it?”

  “Nobility of mind?” the other hurried to interject.

  “Nonsense. Think for a moment!”

  “National advancement?”

  “No!”

  “Community spirit?”

  “I didn’t say that! I had come up with a new expression. Make an effort!”

  Silbermann stood up and left the compartment, making sure he took his briefcase with him.

  I recognize the gaunt one, he thought, believing he had seen pictures of him, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. He now regretted having followed his impulse to step out. I should have stayed and listened, he thought, wondering what new word the gentleman had come up with for “culture.” He went back inside the compartment.

  But either they had found the lost word, or the supposed author had given up the search. Perhaps he’d solved the dilemma by simply leaving out the concept of culture altogether. Whatever the case, both men were now silent.

  After about ten minutes the conductor came back, opened the door, and said, with the same deference, “Everything is all fixed up and ready!” Both men stood up, collected their belongings, and left the compartment, having amiably taken their leave of Silbermann. They’d probably just been waiting for their beds to be made.

  Silbermann was very contented to be alone. He drew the curtain, spread a newspaper on the seat cushion where he wanted to place his feet, and stretched out. The whole first class is full of Jews, he thought as he fell asleep. If only it goes well … He didn’t sleep very deeply, and frequently woke with a start, frightened and bewildered. Then he would glance around the compartment, where he’d left the light on, before falling back asleep.

  The train stopped and soon started up again. The door was shoved aside, and a man peered into the compartment. His attire was very run-of-the-mill, as Silbermann, who had woken up when the train resumed its movement, immediately noticed. He also sensed there was something distraught about the new arrival, and he had the impression that the man was not accustomed to traveling first class. The newcomer politely removed his hat and took the window seat opposite Silbermann.

  “Excuse me,” he said, almost meekly. “I’m afraid I may have woken you. Please go on sleeping. I’m going to make myself comfortable as well.”

  He took off his jacket, hung it carefully on a hook, and once again took off his hat, which he had put back on after greeting Silbermann, and placed it on the luggage rack.

  Silbermann yawned. “I’m already feeling a little refreshed,” he said. He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?”

  The other thanked him and reached into the case. Silbermann couldn’t help noticing the man’s hand. It was red and chapped, and several nails had been split and hadn’t grown back properly. Suddenly Silbermann realized that the other man had no suitcase.

  Perhaps he’s running from the law, he thought for a moment. But then he observed the man’s ruddy cheeks and anxious expression, and when he noticed his brown eyes Silberm
ann decided instead that he was sharing the compartment with a Jewish tradesman trying to escape. He considered it unlikely that the man was a con artist, given his staid, petit-bourgeois demeanor, but Silbermann nevertheless decided he needed to make sure.

  “Hard times,” he said, quite slowly.

  The other man eyed him suspiciously.

  “Indeed,” he concurred, with a serious tone, but then quickly added, probably to be on the safe side and neutralize his agreement, “depending on how you look at it.”

  “Are you traveling on business?” asked Silbermann with polite interest.

  The other man reached below his ankle to scratch, bending so low that his face could no longer be seen. “Yes,” he muttered. Then he sat up and said, without looking at Silbermann, “Well then, good night.”

  “Good night,” Silbermann replied.

  “Shall I turn off the light?” the man asked.

  “It can stay on as far as I’m concerned.”

  “That’s fine with me, too.”

  For a few minutes both men were silent, but then the newcomer asked, very quietly, as if he were afraid Silbermann might already be asleep, “When do you think the train will be in Aachen?”

  “Sometime around twelve, I think,” answered Silbermann, also instinctively whispering.

  “Thank you.”

  More minutes passed. Then Silbermann asked if the other man would mind if he opened the door to the corridor, to let the smoke out.

  As if he’d been given an order, the other man leapt to his feet. “Not at all,” he said, and slid the door about ten centimeters to the side. He sat back down and asked, now more bravely, “Are you traveling abroad?”

  “No,” said Silbermann, “and you?”

  “Me neither,” the other was quick to reply. “I’m traveling on business,” he then quickly added, as if he’d already forgotten Silbermann’s earlier question and his own answer, and as though traveling on business necessarily meant staying in the country.