The Wall (5 page)

“Sir, my passport! My good passport! I need it! Give me back my passport!”

“We’re not a country for robbers and bandits. Here every citizen is safe. Foreigners need to list their place of residence with the police. You can apply to the border authorities for your passport.”

“I want my passport back now!”

“As a visitor to our country, you must dutifully comply with our rules and regulations.”

“I’m not a visitor, and I don’t want to stay in this country any longer! I withdraw my request to enter and want to take the next train back!”

“It’s not as easy as that. What are you thinking? Whoever tries to get in just doesn’t walk away unless we deport him. But we’ve detained you. So you have to stay. Wasn’t that your original intent? No? Then show us your ticket! Indeed, it’s clear as day that you’re headed for the city! The visa is good for four weeks. That means you can stay here for at least another fourteen days.”

I tried to reason with them some more, but it did no good; I didn’t get the passport back. Then my suitcase was rummaged through and my pockets emptied of their contents, though this procedure was carried out in a relatively quiet manner, something the authorities prided themselves on. I was hit with the requisite fine and handed a receipt. I was told that it had to do with an official tax on foreigners. The levy was high, which was regrettable, but the government, unfortunately, saw no other way to finance the high cost of the border patrol, especially as there had been substantially less travel in recent years. The government had decided not to allow citizens of this free state to travel outside it and face horrible oppression, for it would be inhumane to do so. There was certainly also no way that it could allow members of exploitative countries to be sent here, for under the innocent guise of business, visitation, or recreation, they did nothing but stir up trouble here and serve as spies, or, at the very least, spread nasty lies about the modern workings of this nation the moment they left.

“So you see, Herr Landau,” said the commandant, having noticed my name, “you now have a worthy task. If we just let you go back, which, given the circumstances, I don’t doubt will happen, at the border you’d have the chance to sign a pledge whereby you would be required only to state the truth about our nation, and avoid anything that would harm our reputation.”

With this, the formalities came to a pleasant resolution as they wished me a safe journey, saluted, withdrew, and left me to myself. Then the locals were allowed to board the train. People entered my car, and soon my compartment was full. The train passed through several towns as I looked out the window or observed the other passengers, though I didn’t say a word to anyone the entire way to the city, where my old teacher was waiting for me on the platform. We greeted each other warmly. Prenzel suggested that first I needed to have a closer look around the train station with him, which was fitted out more magnificently than ever, and which I’d see if we took a
thorough tour of the building. I tentatively risked a countersuggestion and said that I was tired from the day’s journey and worn out, and that after such a long time I was anxious to see the city where my parents had lived, and thus what I wanted most was to quickly get to my hotel, if only to have a bit of a rest. I invited Prenzel to accompany me and to join me for dinner there as my guest. I was then immediately informed that I must be from the moon or something, for my hotel was restricted to foreigners, and locals were forbidden to enter it, including Prenzel. When I asked, I was then also told that natives could not even enter the restaurant. I didn’t inquire any further, but suggested that Prenzel meet me somewhere for dinner after I registered at the hotel. My teacher smiled obliquely and answered my remaining questions with single-word answers that explained little. Then I realized that after I left things had changed here much more than I had previously known.

Prenzel took me by the hand and led me from one end of the station to the other, passing many people, who timidly looked on with surprise, until—without my knowing just what had happened—he delivered me to the station guardhouse. Just like lost luggage, I thought to myself. As no one seemed to be especially concerned about me, I then whispered excitedly to my teacher, asking what this was supposed to mean. He timidly looked around. Once he ascertained that we were not being observed, he confided in me that my situation was relatively good, a couple of interrogations, maybe a couple of days of detention, but there was no need to fear for my life.

“Interrogations? Because of what? I’ve done nothing, Herr Prenzel. I only came because of you, since you invited me with such urgency and enthusiasm. I didn’t come here just so the authorities could keep tabs on me. I just wanted to see the last teacher of mine still alive. You wrote me again and again that your last wish was to see me once again!”

“Certainly it is. For my part, I am deeply grateful that you have come. I was even given a special pass because of it, for they phoned from the border to say that you really had arrived. What a gentleman! Until now, not a single one of my students has returned from abroad to accept my invitation to visit.”

“You’ve invited others …?”

“Be quiet, young man. You don’t know what you’re talking about! Not even my smartest students were smart enough to get through.”

“But I want to leave! I won’t stay here. You’ve seen what my intent was—that’s all I need, so I want to leave straightaway!”

“All I can say is good luck with that!” Prenzel replied in a strangely excited voice, adding more heatedly, “Landau, if you managed to …”

My teacher said nothing more. He pulled himself together, as we were approached by a uniformed youth, and politely addressed him.

“Comrade Assessor, I present you with a dangerous enemy of the state, along with his suitcase. I suggest you assess his political sympathies.”

The Assessor of Sympathies waved mildly for my teacher to step back. As Prenzel bowed deeply to the young man, I saw for the first time how gray and thin the old man’s hair had become. Without the slightest concern for me, he lowered his head and slipped out of the station guardhouse. The Assessor signaled to me to take my suitcase and follow him. I listened without a word and—despite all my distress—with no small hope that it was all a misunderstanding, that after an interrogation everything would become clear, and afterward there would be nothing to prevent my immediate departure. The Assessor prodded me down a badly lit stairway, though there were not many steps, then I was pushed into a garishly lit room, where a woman sat waiting in front of a typewriter. The Assessor sat down behind a conference table and indicated that I should put down my suitcase and sit on a low round stool. I noticed that it was a turn stool, like the ones you used to see in front of a piano. The stool was way too low for me, which is why I started to turn it so that it would go higher—a tiresome business, for the thing was not oiled and squeaked miserably.

“Man alive,” yelled the Assessor of Sympathies. “Are you mad? Leave the witness chair alone for just a minute and sit yourself down!”

“Sorry, the stool is much too low. I’ll almost disappear in front of your table.”

“Just sit down there and be so nice as to not turn around. Understood? Later, we’ll see if you can raise it any higher.”

I gave in and sat down all scrunched up, no higher than the stool, with my legs crossed, since I couldn’t stretch them out. It was exceptionally uncomfortable. The young man took no notice of how I sat there shrunken
and only asked me to pull my legs in farther. There was nothing to do but cross them all the more tightly, such that the joints cracked. When I had finally attained the proper position demanded of me, the Assessor just took a cigarette out of his case and tossed a second one to the secretary, which she adroitly caught while saying thanks. There was nothing for me to do but shove my fingers into my pocket in order to fetch my own cigarette, though a sharp look told me immediately that I needed permission to do that. For a long time I was asked nothing, and I observed the Assessor carefully, but without fathoming the thoughts of my opponent. As soon as I moved, the Assessor tapped indignantly on the desktop with a pencil. The Assessor and the secretary stubbed out the glowing ends of their cigarettes, and, finally, the interrogation began.

“Arthur Landau, what is your mission in entering the country?”

“There is no mission—”

“We know there is. You can’t deny it, though it’s all part of the game played between the police and every criminal. But we have little time for such pleasant foolishness. Therefore, for both our sakes, make it short! Who hired you?”

“I came for my own reasons—”

“We know about that, too, a journey made for idealistic reasons. Who sent you here?”

“Who? No one? I only came to visit someone. I just wanted to satisfy the wishes of my old teacher.”

“Fine! But you, of course, knew that Prenzel works for us?”

“I had no idea of that. You mean … No, an old teacher wouldn’t serve as a snitch!”

“Snitch? That’s a bit rude.”

“Okay, then, a policeman.”

“Of course he’s a policeman. It’s obvious that as a teacher he is also a policeman.”

“When I was a student, it wasn’t obvious to me.”

“Fool! Not then! Now! My God, don’t you understand anything?”

“No.”

“But you are saying that you conspired with him? You are raising suspicions against a civil servant? You know, such testimony is a very serious matter, even if you’re innocent!”

“I don’t know anything. I suspect no one and have done nothing.”

“Do you deny that you were born here?”

“No.”

“Good. And do you deny that you were once hauled away from here, yet that still didn’t keep you from returning after the war was over?”

“No, but—”

“There, you see, that explains it! That’s all we need. You haven’t done anything, that’s correct, simply because we have stopped you before you could. And that’s all we need. You needn’t think yourself innocent, because there’s no way you can be. No, you were looking to start something.”

“That’s not true.”

“Quiet! You wanted to. Otherwise you wouldn’t have tried to slip into the country.”

“I didn’t slip in. I’m legal, and I came on a regularly scheduled train—”

“And almost were arrested for violent resistance when our border police wanted to inspect your passport.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? And you didn’t raise any kind of a stink when they wanted to hold your passport for security reasons? And you didn’t give cause for suspicion on the day when you were not ashamed to demand a written receipt of your passport and assumed you’d get one?”

“Part of it isn’t true; part of it is completely distorted. I wanted my passport, but I neither asked for a receipt nor was given one.”

“So you’re denying it even happened? I’m warning you!”

“I deny any kind of bad intention.”

The Assessor and the secretary, who was typing hurriedly, shook with laughter.

“To us there is no one who, after having once emigrated, returns without bad intentions. You have to at least see how it looks to us.”

“I wanted to see my teacher. That’s all.”

“Excellent. That’s all we need. But let me remind you that to just take your high treason and all your bad intentions and just shove them onto your old teacher is obscene.”

“Prenzel lured me into a trap?”

“Is that a question?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t ask the questions here. Besides, you should have thought about all that earlier.”

“I’ve had it completely up to here with this visit, and I don’t want to wait another day before returning to the country of my choice.”

“You’ll have to remain here, at least until we hear the decision handed down by the judge.”

“Am I charged with something?”

“Not yet. First, you have to confess. Since you don’t seem inclined to do that today, I’ll give you a day to think about it. Later the jail time, if that’s what you’re given, will be a good deal longer—a month, maybe even a year.”

“I object! I demand that I be allowed to contact my embassy immediately.”

“If that’s meant as a plea bargain, and there’s no doubt about your culpability, then I can formally remand you for trial immediately. If, however—”

“It’s not a plea! Not at all! It’s a demand for human and legal rights!”

“Spare me your lousy, stupid speeches! You’ve already gone too far and made matters worse with your loud protests. There is, however, an honorable way out.…”

The Assessor of Sympathies paused and looked at me searchingly to see if I understood what he meant, waiting for me to give a sign that I understood. However, I had no idea and sat there unhappy on my stool. Since the Assessor gave no hint of what he meant, I tried hard to think of something smart and to come up with the right answer. Nothing occurred to me except to ask if I could raise my seat. That way, I would at least learn whether my situation had at all improved. The Assessor seemed not to have understood, for he completely ignored my request, saying instead that he was happy to hear that I was ready to collaborate with him, which took me completely by surprise. Stunned, I just muttered, “Collaborate … collaborate.”

“Yes, of course, collaborate. That’s something else altogether. If you go to work for us, I will drop the charges. You’ll be let go in no time, the charges will not be filed with the district attorney. Understand?”

“Understand what, Herr Assessor?” I asked very quietly, confused.

Then he got mad and yelled at me with contempt, “That’s really the best that such a stupid fool like yourself can ask from well-meaning folk who have a knife held to their throat by foreign degenerates!”

I wanted to say something quickly, and I was upset that I had passed up the chance to do so, but the Assessor ignored me and decided not to let me say another thing. He then rang a bell. A policeman appeared, and after some orders quietly and hastily whispered, which I could neither completely hear nor understand, I was led out of the detention room. I tried to reach for my suitcase, but I had barely grabbed hold of it when it was knocked from my hand. Then I was led higgledy-piggledy up stairs and down through a confusing labyrinth, though we never left the area of the train station. Several times I caught the unmistakable smell of the locomotives, and in passing I spotted a train from afar and once heard clearly the melancholy whistle of a machine, which then began to puff as it started to move. Finally, we arrived at a door with “Station Jail—Department of Espionage” written on it. My guard knocked, the door opened, and a jailer took me by the arm. “By special order of the Assessor of Sympathies. He’ll likely be picked up tomorrow.” This I heard the policeman say.