Flotsam (33 page)

Kern was silent for a moment. “Is it certain that I shall be put into France?”

“Perfectly certain.”

“Is no one who is arrested here without papers sent to Germany?”

“No one so far as I know. The only place that might happen would be in the border cities. But I have heard practically nothing about it even there.”

“It’s certain that a woman would not be sent back to Germany then?”

“Certainly not. At all events I wouldn’t do it. Why do you ask?”

“For no special reason. It’s just that I’ve occasionally run into women on the road who had no papers. Everything is even harder for them. That’s why I asked.”

The judge took a document from among his papers and showed it to Kern. “Here is the order for your deportation. Do you believe now that you’ll be taken to France?”

“Yes.”

The judge laid the paper back in his portfolio. “Your train leaves in two hours.”

“And it’s quite impossible to be taken to Geneva?”

“Quite. Refugees cost us a great deal in railroad tickets. There is a strict regulation that they must be sent to the nearest border. I really can’t help you there.”

“If I were to pay for the trip myself could I be taken to Geneva?”

“Yes. That would be possible. Do you want to do it?”

“No, I haven’t enough money to do that. It was just a question.”

“Don’t ask too many questions,” the judge said. “Actually you ought to pay your fare to Basle if you have money with you. I have refrained from inquiring.” He stood up. “Good-by. I wish you the best of luck and I hope you will get along in France! And I hope, too, things will be different before long.”

“Yes, perhaps. Otherwise we might just as well hang ourselves right now.”

Kern had no further opportunity to communicate with Ruth. Beer had been there on the previous day and had told him she must stay in the hospital about a week longer. He decided to write him immediately from the French border. He was sure
now of the most important thing—that in no case would Ruth be sent to Germany. And that if she had money for the trip she could be taken to Geneva.

Promptly at the end of two hours a detective in plain clothes came to get him. They walked to the station, Kern carrying his bag. Beer had got it for him the day before and brought it to him.

They passed an inn. The windows of the dining room, which was on the ground floor, stood wide open. A group of zither players were playing a slow country waltz and a male chorus was singing. Beside the window two singers in alpine costume were yodeling. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders and they were swaying back and forth in time to the music. The detective stopped. One of the yodelers, the tenor, broke off. “Where’ve you been all this time, Max?” he asked. “Everyone’s here waiting.”

“On duty,” the detective replied.

The yodeler eyed Kern with contempt. “What offal!” he growled in a suddenly deep voice. “Then our quartet’s shot to hell for this evening?”

“Not a bit of it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Good. We’ve got to get that double yodel right tonight, understand. Don’t catch cold.”

“I won’t.”

They walked on. “Then you’re not going to ride to the border?” Kern asked after a time.

“No. We have a new patent device for you.”

They arrived at the station. The detective found the conductor of the train. “Here he is,” he announced and pointed to
Kern. Then he gave the conductor the order of deportation. “Have a good trip, sir,” he said, suddenly very polite, and stamped off.

“Come with me.”

The conductor took Kern to the caboose on one of the freight cars. “Get in here.”

The little cabin contained nothing but a wooden bench. Kern pushed his bag under it on the floor. The conductor closed the door and locked it from the outside. “There! They’ll let you out in Basle.”

He walked off along the dimly lighted platform. Kern looked through the window of the caboose. He tried cautiously to see whether he could squeeze his way through it. It wouldn’t work; the window was too narrow. A few minutes later the train pulled out. The bright waiting rooms slid past with their empty tables and their blank senseless lights. The stationmaster, with his red cap, was left behind in the darkness. A few crooked streets glided by, a parking lot with waiting automobiles, a small café in which a few people were playing cards—then the city had disappeared.

Kern sat down on the wooden bench. He put his feet on his bag. He pressed them close together and looked out of the window. The night outside was dark and unknown and windy, and suddenly he felt very miserable.

In Basle he was fetched by a policeman and taken to the customs house. He was given supper. Then an officer took him by streetcar to Burgfelden. In the darkness they went by a Jewish cemetery. Then they passed a brickyard and turned off from the main road. After some time the officer stopped. “Go on
from here—straight ahead.” Kern went on. He knew just about where he was and he walked in the direction of St. Louis. He made no attempt to hide himself; it didn’t matter if he were arrested immediately.

He had made a mistake in the direction. It was almost morning when he arrived in St. Louis. He reported immediately to the French police and explained that he had been put across the border from Basle the night before. He had to avoid being put in prison. And he could only do that by reporting each day to the police or to the customs officials. In that way he was not subject to any punishment and could only be sent back.

The police held him in detention during the day. In the evening they sent him to the border customs house.

There were two customs men there. One was sitting at a table writing. The other was sprawled on a bench beside the stove. He was smoking cigarettes of heavy Algerian tobacco, and he glanced at Kern from time to time.

“What have you got in your bag there?” he asked after a while.

“A few things that belong to me.”

“Open it up!”

Kern raised the top. The customs man got up and strolled over indifferently. Then he bent over the bag with a show of interest. “Toilet water, soap, perfume! See here, did you bring these things with you from Switzerland?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not going to pretend you need all this yourself—for your own personal use?”

“No. I have been peddling it.”

“Then you’ll have to pay duty,” the customs man announced.
“Empty it out! Now this rubbish”—he pointed to the needles, shoelaces and other small things—“I’ll let pass.”

Kern thought he was dreaming. “Pay duty?” he asked. “You want me to pay duty?”

“Why naturally! You’re no diplomatic courier, are you? Or did you think I wanted to buy these bottles? You have brought dutiable goods into France. Come on, dump it out!”

The customs man reached for the list of tariffs and pulled up the scales.

“I have no money,” Kern said.

“No money?” The customs man stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from the knees. “All right, then, we’ll just confiscate your things. Hand them over!”

Kern remained crouching on the floor and held onto his bag. “I did not enter France voluntarily,” he said. “I reported when I got here in order to get back into Switzerland. I don’t have to pay any duty.”

“See here! Are you trying to teach me what’s what?”

“Leave the youngster alone, François,” said the customs man who was writing at the table.

“I wouldn’t think of it! A
boche
who knows all about everything. Just like the rest of that crowd over there. Come on, out with those bottles!”

“I’m no
boche
,” Kern said.

At that moment a third customs man came in. Kern saw he was of a higher rank than the other two. “What’s going on here?” he asked curtly.

The customs man explained what was happening. The inspector examined Kern. “Did you report to the police at once?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you want to go back to Switzerland?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

The inspector thought for a moment. “Then it’s not his fault,” he decided. “He’s no smuggler. He was smuggled in himself. Send him back and make an end of it.”

He left the room. “Look here, François,” said the customs man at the table, “what’s the idea of always getting so excited? It’s bad for your blood pressure.”

François made no reply. He stared angrily at Kern. Kern stared back. It occurred to him suddenly that he had spoken French and had understood French, and he silently blessed the Russian professor in the prison in Vienna.

Next morning he was in Basle again. Now he changed his tactics a little. He did not go to the police immediately. Not much could happen to him if he stayed in Basle for the day and did not report until evening, and for Basle he had Binder’s list of addresses. It was, to be sure, more overrun with emigrees than any other place in Switzerland, but he determined nevertheless to try to make some money.

He began with the clergymen. It was fairly certain they would not denounce him. The first one immediately threw him out; the second gave him a sandwich; the third five francs. He went on working and luck was with him—by noon he had earned seventeen francs. He made an especial effort to get rid of the last of his perfume and toilet water in case he should meet François again. That was hard to do in the case of the clergy—but he had some luck at the other addresses. During the afternoon he earned twenty-eight francs. He went into a Catholic church. It stood open and it was the safest place to rest. He had gone two nights without sleep.

The church was dim and empty. It smelled of incense and
candles. Kern sat down in one of the pews and wrote a letter to Dr. Beer. He enclosed a letter for Ruth and money for her. Then he sealed the envelope and put it in his pocket. He felt very tired. Slowly he slipped forward onto the prayer bench and rested his head on the rail. He only wanted to rest for a moment; but he fell asleep. When he woke up he had no idea where he was. He blinked his eyes in the feeble red glow of the eternal light, and gradually regained his bearings. At the sound of footsteps he was suddenly wide awake.

A priest in black robes was coming slowly down the middle aisle. He stopped beside Kern and looked at him. Kern prudently folded his hands.

“I had no wish to disturb you,” said the priest.

“I was just about to go,” Kern replied.

“I saw you from the sacristy. You have been here for two hours. Were you praying for something in particular?”

“Yes, indeed,” Kern said, somewhat surprised but recovering himself quickly.

“You’re not a resident of this place?” The priest looked at Kern’s bag.

“No.” Kern looked at him. The priest’s appearance inspired confidence. “I’m a refugee. Tonight I must cross the border. In that bag I have the things I sell.”

He had one bottle of toilet water left over from his afternoon’s work, and he was suddenly possessed with the fantastic idea of selling it to the priest in the church. It was most improbable; but he was used to improbable occurrences. “Toilet water,” he said, “very good, very cheap. I am just selling the last of it.”

He started to open his bag.

The priest restrained him. “Let it be. I believe you. We won’t imitate the money-changers in the temple. It pleases
me that you have prayed here so long. Come with me into the sacristy. We have a little fund for the faithful who are in need.”

Kern was given ten francs. He was a little ashamed but not for long. It meant fare for part of the way to Paris, for him and Ruth. My run of bad luck seems to have stopped, he thought. He went back into the church and actually did pray this time. He didn’t know exactly to whom. He himself was a Protestant, his father was a Jew, and he was kneeling in a Catholic church—but he thought that in these times there would probably be a good deal of confusion in Heaven too, and he assumed that his prayer would find the right path.

That evening he took the train to Geneva. He suddenly had a feeling that Ruth might have been released from the hospital earlier than was expected. He arrived in the morning, checked his bag at the station and went to the police. He explained to an officer that he had just been deported from France. Since he had his order of deportation from Switzerland with him and since it was only a couple of days old, they believed him, kept him for the day, and that evening put him across the border in the direction of Coligny.

He at once reported to the French customs. “Go inside,” said a sleepy official. “There’s someone else there now. We’ll send you back about four o’clock.”

Kern went into the customs house. “Vogt!” he said in amazement. “What brings you here?”

Vogt shrugged his shoulders. “I’m still laying siege to the Swiss border.”

“Since then? Since they took you to the station in Lucerne?”

“Since then.” Vogt looked ill. He was thin and his skin was like gray paper. “I’ve had a run of bad luck,” he said. “I can’t
succeed in getting into jail. Besides, the nights are already getting so cold I can’t go on much longer.”

Kern sat down beside him. “I was in prison,” he said, “and I’m happy to be out again. That’s the way life is.”

A policeman brought them bread and red wine. They ate and went to sleep immediately on a bench. At four o’clock in the morning they were awakened and taken to the border. It was still quite dark. The ripe fields gleamed palely at the edge of the road.

Vogt shivered from the cold. Kern took off his sweater. “Here, put this on. I’m not cold.”

“Are you sure you’re not?”

“Yes.”

“You are young,” Vogt said, “that’s why.” He pulled on the sweater. “Just for a couple of hours until the sun comes up.”

A little way from Geneva they parted. Vogt was planning to get deeper into Switzerland, by way of Lausanne. As long as he was near the border they simply sent him back and he couldn’t count on getting into jail.

“Keep the sweater,” Kern said.

“That’s out of the question. Something like this is a fortune.”

“I have another one. A present from a priest in the Vienna jail. In the baggage room in Geneva.”

“Is that true?”