The Angel of History Page 9

  ‘Are you the one responsible for the truck? I have orders to confiscate your weapons.’

  Now that was too much. Who did he think he was, the son of Napoleon? Both of us were wallowing in the mud even if he’d been fed and we all had to make do sharing whatever rations had been left over. Sure my side had lost, but he wasn’t the one who beat us.

  ‘I will only hand the weapons over,’ I said very seriously, ‘to a representative of my government, of the Republican government of Spain and no one else. Is that clear?’

  He didn’t answer. The next day he came back with a company of armed guards and they took the truck, the weapons and all the papers. At least I managed to salvage the money; I’d divvied it up the night before among all the high-ranking officers. Then they crammed us into military trains and brought us to the Argelès camp. ‘Camp’ in a manner of speaking. Kilometre after kilometre of open beach enclosed by barbed wire. There were fifty thousand of us in there, mostly men, but also women, children and the elderly, exposed night and day to the north wind that got tenaciously under your clothes. There was no bathroom. We had to dig holes in the sand with our bare hands, trying to get some privacy. We invented nests made out of branches and blankets. All the same it was too cold to even try to pick off the fleas. At noon, the French solders piled bread onto the edge of the street and left it there. That was it, our daily ration – bread – for lunch, breakfast and dinner. At first it was a stampede driven by terrible hunger, everyone crushing and stepping on the wounded and sick. Then we organised a distribution system. Just one hunk of bread each, but everyone got one. Still it was a nightmare. That’s what I told a delegate from the Red Cross who came by.

  ‘You don’t even treat animals like this!’ I shouted. ‘Can’t you see that there are wounded, mutilated people here, children, pregnant women? Scores of people die every night. Does the word humanity mean anything to you?’

  He looked impotently at me. ‘It is a true embarrassment. But I can’t do anything by myself. I’ve asked for help.’

  Help never came and we stayed there for another two weeks before they came to get us and bring us to Septfonds, a camp near Montauban. They called it a ‘select camp’, but in reality that’s where they interned the undesirables, the most dangerous refugees, the most political. The only camps worse than this were Vernet and Fort Collioure.

  We were a thousand officers in all when we climbed onto the train. I was already starting to feel bad after all that cold and deprivation, but my fever rose on the train. My teeth were chattering, my bones felt like they were shattering into a million pieces. I tossed under a blanket trying to find a little space on the ground to stretch out. I was shaking and cursing. It was a long trip, but when the train finally stopped in Caussade, we still had a long way to walk. The worst was what we saw when we stepped out, a battalion of Senegalese soldiers, armed with rifles and machetes and preparing to escort us. Their commander was a Frenchman. They circled the platform, screaming at us to start marching. I could barely stand. I thought I was going to die with every step. My buddies were carrying my bag but the black soldier on horseback who was guarding us didn’t care. Every two or three steps he stuck his rifle into my back and pushed me until I fell to the ground like a dead man.Whoever helped me up after that was a good man. I’m not sure I can even say exactly what happened next. I heard someone running toward us from behind but it was as if his footsteps were coming from another world. I thought I heard the sound of someone being punched in the face and then I found myself two steps away from the soldier who was now sprawled on the ground. Over his yelling and screaming I suddenly thought I recognised a voice.

  ‘Treat us like soldiers,’ he was saying to the French officer, ‘or else we’ll be forced to defend ourselves and that’ll be some bitter shit.’

  I couldn’t believe it was Mariano. But he was the only one who could have brought on a silence like that. Here in the middle of the country; you could even hear an ass bray.

  ‘Look what you’ve got me into now,’ he said smiling at me. ‘I leave you alone for a minute and look at the trouble you get into.’

  I smiled too and he picked me up and carried me on his shoulder. He had got into France with the last group to cross the border, the survivors of Ebro with Modesto and Lister’s soldiers and now he was with me. Just in time. Just in time to discover that the Septfonds camp didn’t exist anymore.We were going to have to build our own barracks. For now, there was just a fallow field, no trees or hedges, barbed wire everywhere and endless countryside beyond it. How many of us were there? Ten, maybe fifteen thousand. I don’t know. All I know is that you couldn’t move without stepping on another prisoner. Mariano pitched a tent and put me on the ground, wrapped a cover around me, and called one of our doctors to examine me. He said that I had bronchitis and needed medicine. They wouldn’t give it to him. Mariano couldn’t even get one of the French doctors to see me. It was raining now and water leaked into the tent across the top seam and along the ground. It rained, they told me, the whole week that I lay unconscious, almost dead, then a nurse gave me two aspirin and a carton of condensed milk. When I woke up again, I didn’t remember where I was. I guess that’s why I felt so happy.

  ‘Did you have a nice sleep?’ asked Mariano.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Monsieur Benjhamèn, Monsieur Benjhamèn! There’s a letter for you.’

  The landlady. For some reason Madame Dubois only was permitted to mutilate his name and it didn’t bother him. Although he was in a foul mood, the day had already gone wrong. The hot water had run out in the shower. The lift was out of service again which meant he’d have to climb the stairs. Still panting as he hit the ground floor, Benjamin saw Madame Dubois running toward him with the letter.

  ‘It’s from New York,’ she explained. ‘I thought it must be important.’

  He nodded in agreement and gasped greedily for air. He opened it right away as Madame Dubois stood there watching him. His hands were shaking nervously in the dim light of the lobby. Just a moment of reading and he grew pale.

  ‘Monsieur, don’t you feel well?’

  ‘Yes, quite. I’m fine, thank you,’ he answered, trying to give some credible enthusiasm to his faint voice. He was gripped by anger and anxiety. He fluttered his hands in the air and then headed without reflection right over to his only refuge: his sister Dora’s house. He saw splashes of sky peeking over the gutters on the roofs and little clusters of clouds moving slowly through the cold air. A crowd of people pushed past him on the street.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Dora the instant she opened the door.

  His sister was feeling well for a change. Every so often the sickness that plagued her gave her a few days of respite.Walter silently removed his coat and sank down into the couch.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you unwell? Can I get you something?’

  ‘Don’t torture me, Dora.’

  That’s what he always said when he wanted her to keep quiet. Couldn’t she see that he needed to have some peace and quiet to think? He stood. His left knee popped a little making him wobble and then he went over to the window. Heavy drops of condensation were gathering on the glass and rolling toward the curtain. He pushed it aside in order to rest his forehead on the window pane and watch the sad pulse of life outside. It was a few moments before the commotion of thoughts in his head arranged themselves.What a stupid man he’d been. How could he have been so trusting? Just thinking about this mistake made his stomach ache like he’d been punched.

  ‘So,’ said Dora again. ‘Are you going to say anything at all today?’

  ‘I’ve been stupid. Terribly stupid,’ he finally muttered without looking at her. Out on the street a couple were arguing in front of the flower shop on the corner. He rolled his brow against the cool wet window. ‘Scholem was right, and so was Hannah.’

  ‘Right about what, Walter? Are you going to tell me or is this an attempt to make me crazy?’

  ‘About Horkheimer,
Dora. He wrote today and says that the Institute is in serious trouble and “sometime in the near future” he may have to tell me that they will be unable to renew my research contract.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘No more money, Dora. It means no more grant money.’

  Finally he turned to look at her in that way of his, eyelids lowered, forehead wrinkling as if he were squinting to see something in the distance. She sat and started to worry the edge of the tablecloth. Her flowered dress heaved on her chest as she sobbed.

  ‘What are you crying about?’ scolded Walter. ‘Stop that. It serves no purpose.’

  ‘Why do you always treat me like this?’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Badly. As if I were a child. Mama was right.’

  ‘Mama, mama.You don’t really have to keep bringing her up. Let her rest in peace, at least in the grave. Don’t you tell me that I’m treating you like a child.’

  Before long he left, pulling the door shut and leaving her alone to cry, sitting there at the table, her face hidden in her hands. Then he came back, almost as if he were trying to find a better way of leaving her.

  ‘Could you possibly lend me a few francs?’ he asked.

  Back out on the pavement he stopped dead. Left or right? He had no desire to go back home.What should he do? Continue his work on Baudelaire for the Institute? Perish the thought. Maybe if he stayed out long enough they would have time to fix the lift and he would save himself the climb up six flights of stairs. It would be better to walk around, stroll, very slowly, stopping often on a bench to catch his breath and look at details on the stucco façades. Quai Voltaire: he remembered he hadn’t written to Scholem in a while and hadn’t any further news about the possibility of emigrating to Palestine. Quai Malaquais: looking out over the balustrade at the mills in the Seinne and the murky water tugging at the bushes on the clay banks. Rue Mazarine, rue de l’Odéon: ducking into his friend Adrienne Monnier’s bookstore to tell her the news, and pile books that he would never buy onto the counter. Back to Saint-Germaine where he recovered from the heat in Deux Magots, reading with a coffee in front of him. The tables weren’t crowded and he didn’t know anyone among the few people who were there. He had no choice but to surrender to his thoughts and ruminate on the dregs of his dreams.

  The lift was fixed at home, but this wasn’t enough to make life tolerable. Benjamin turned on the lamp, removed his coat and sat down at the desk. ‘Dear Gerhard,’ he began, ‘your eyes didn’t deceive you, nor did your humble servant think for a moment that they had. All the same, I didn’t foresee a catastrophe . . . There is no time to lose. What kept me plugging along in earlier years was the hope of someday getting a position at the Institute under halfway dignified conditions. What I mean by halfway dignified is my minimal subsistence of 2400 francs. To sink below this level again would be hard for me to bear à la longue. For this, the charms exerted on me by this world are too weak to make it worthwhile and the rewards of posterity too uncertain.’

  And again this idea burned in his head, this desire to bid it all farewell and good night. It was the evening of March 14, 1939. Two days later, when Benjamin left the house reluctantly to head to the library, Madame Dubois again came running toward him on the stairs.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur Benjhamèn, have you seen? Have you seen?’

  ‘Seen what?’ Benjamin sadly asked.

  Madame Dubois handed him a copy of Paris soir.

  ‘The boches,’ she whispered with horror. ‘The boches have occupied Prague.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I pass,’ muttered Fränkel bleakly.

  ‘I’ll see you.’

  Hans tucked his card into his palm and looked at Benjamin. It was his turn. It was a Saturday evening like many. Four exiles at Arthur Koestler’s house playing poker and drinking wine purchased with some last bits of change. The little stove buzzed, muffling the noise from the street. Smoke curled up the beam of light coming from the lamp. Daphne was on the sofa drawing absentmindedly. Walter looked at Koestler’s eyes, then moved his gaze down to the cigarette hanging hesitantly from his lips. He’d drawn three cards and then bet ten francs. He was bluffing. Not a doubt about it.

  ‘I’ll see you and raise you a hundred,’ he answered.

  Everyone looked up at him, mouths wide. Even Daphne stopped her pencil in the middle of the page and looked up at the players. A hundred francs. That table had never seen such a bet, and from Benjamin who struggled more than the rest of them to make a meal of dinner. You would have had to have known him since he was young not to be stupefied. Every so often he was overcome in the heat of the game and when it happened there was no escape. In the 1920s Benjamin would often go to the Zoppot casino. Fritz Rradt, who had sometimes gone with him, used to watch him become transported, separate from himself, it was a kind of surrender that Walter didn’t concede to anything else in the world. He often lost, lost with a passion at roulette and chemin-de-fer. He’d play his last pfennig and Rradt would have to lend him the fare home. Now here in Paris, on rue Dombasle, there were four pairs of eyes on him and only the slightest quivering of his moustache that would betray him. Fränkel folded, but Koestler wasn’t ready to give up.

  ‘How many cards?’ he asked.

  ‘One, just one.’

  Koestler sucked in a long breath of air, stubbed out his cigarette and turned to look at Daphne. Just a moment, an instant.

  ‘All right. I’ll see you,’ he said.

  ‘Pair of aces,’ said Benjamin revealing his cards.

  He could tell right away that it hadn’t gone in his favour. The creases around Koestler’s eyes relaxed and he struggled to keep a smile off his face.

  ‘I believe three nines beat that.’

  They did. They played another few hands and then everyone ended up on the couch except for Hans, who settled himself on the floor with a cushion and the bottle at his side.

  ‘There will be no talk of war, tonight. Agreed?’

  He said it though he knew it was a useless plea. For months now, every other discussion – books, films, women, theatre, trips made or only imagined – wound up pushed aside in favour of this war that would perhaps have a longer prologue than denouement. Austria, Czechoslovakia, and now it looked like it was Poland’s turn.

  ‘The French couldn’t give a shit about Dansk,’ Fränkel burst out. ‘They’ll let Hitler do whatever he wants and then they’ll fix it all up with another Munich agreement. Could we have some wine over here?’

  ‘I’ll go get more,’ said Daphne. ‘I have half a bottle of the good stuff upstairs at my place.’

  She stood and Koestler reached out to stroke her hand. She was so lovely and young.

  ‘Come back soon,’ he said, imitating her heavy English accent. She smiled. After Daphne had gone there was a moment of silence. The chatter gave way to the war, which filled the room, hard and inhospitable.

  ‘There won’t be a war over this, Fränkel,’ Koestler said, lighting another cigarette. He was pacing now. ‘But Hitler can’t fight Russia and the west at the same time. That’s crazy. What do you think, Walter?’

  ‘What do I think? I think that I wouldn’t be so sure.We might just be repeating it in order to convince ourselves that it’s true. There won’t be a war. There won’t be a war.’

  Benjamin shrugged and sank deeper into the couch.

  ‘Whereas . . . ?’ asked Hans.

  ‘I don’t know. I just know that the next war, whenever and wherever it is will be fought with gas bombs and other weapons that we can’t even imagine. And I worry that that will be the end. The end of everything, I mean.’

  Daphne came back with the bottle and a big toothy smile and found them in total silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

  ‘What mirth,’ she said.

  No response. It was as if she hadn’t even come into the room. Fränkel seized on the thread that Benjamin had left dangling like a funeral shroud.

  ‘Maybe we
need to get out of Europe,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The problem is figuring out when to stop just thinking about it.’

  ‘That moment has come for me,’ said Benjamin with a smile as he stood. ‘Excuse me, everyone. I’m very tired. Good night.’

  He climbed the stairs struggling as always, his heart pounding and those strange little ants running up his arms. He panted as he fumbled trying to get the key in the lock of his door. Then he threw himself onto the bed, still dressed, hungry for sleep but knowing that it would be hard coming. He would have to think and rethink about that pair of aces and the hundred francs he lost without feeling like he could brush it off and then think about Fränkel and what he had said. It was a good question, you had to admit. But how and when could you know it was time to leave? The only thing he felt sure about was that his days in France were numbered. Even there, stretched out on his uncomfortable bed, he could feel time rifling through the days left in his pocket like a thief. But all that aside, even if he wanted to leave, how could he?

  It wouldn’t be long before Benjamin lost his German citizenship too. The Gestapo finally got to him over an article he published in Das Wort, the paper that Brecht edited and that was published in Russia. The article was enough to make him a stateless person; to deliver him into what Koestler would later call the ‘scum of the earth’. From that point on, he had to rely on his French papers, which legitimised him as a réfugié. He continued to try for French naturalisation with the support of Adrienne Monnier – though it was ultimately futile. He waited for months on end, letting the angel decide his fate. The Angel of History. ‘I live waiting constantly for that unlucky missive,’ wrote Benjamin in April. For the first time in many years he was seriously considering a move to New York or Palestine – if only for a period. But by that point it wasn’t easy anymore and perhaps it was even too late. The immigration network aside, in order to get to the States, Benjamin would have to win a visa beyond the quota, the sort of visa that the consulate would only grant with the sponsorship of the Institute or some American university. But how much hope could he invest in Horkheimer’s interest? Could he believe that he would try to help him win a professorship? And, as if these doubts weren’t enough to dissuade him – or because there were no other options – he began studying English along with Hannah Arendt. Though reluctantly, he began to accept the possibility that he might have to separate from Angelus Novus in order to collect the money he’d need for his trip to the United States. He entrusted the job of selling it to his old acquaintance Ernst Morgenroth who had already moved overseas.