Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

During the increasingly agitated discussion the fugitive’s timid gaze had gradually lifted, and his eyes were now fixed on the lips of the hotel manager, the only person in all this turmoil who, he knew, could tell him his fate in terms that he was able to understand. He seemed to be vaguely aware of the turmoil caused by his presence, and as the noisy argument died down he spontaneously raised both hands in the silence, and reached them out to the manager with the pleading look of women at prayer before a holy picture. This moving gesture had an irresistible effect on all present. The manager went up to the man and reassured him warmly, saying that he had nothing to fear, he could stay here and come to no harm, he would have accommodation for the immediate future. The Russian tried to kiss his hand, but the other man withdrew it and quickly stepped back. Then he pointed out the house next door, a small village inn where the Russian would have bed and board, said a few more words of reassurance to him, and then, with another friendly wave, went up the beach to his hotel.

The motionless fugitive stared after him, and as the only person who understood his language dwindled in the distance, his face, which had brightened, grew gloomy again. His avid glances followed the figure of the manager as he went away, going up to the hotel above the bank of the lake, and he took no notice of the others present who were smiling at his strange demeanour. When a sympathetic bystander touched him and pointed to the inn, his heavy shoulders seemed to slump, and he went to the doorway with his head bowed. The bar was opened for him. He sat down at the table, where the barmaid brought him a glass of brandy by way of welcome, and stayed there without moving all afternoon, his eyes clouded. The village children kept looking in at the windows, laughing and shouting something at him—he never raised his head. Customers coming in looked at him curiously, but he sat where he was, back bowed, eyes staring at the table, shy and bashful. And when a crowd of guests came in to eat at midday and filled the room with their laughter, while hundreds of words he did not understand swirled around him and he himself, horribly aware of being a foreigner here, sat deaf and mute amidst the general liveliness, his hands trembled so badly that he could hardly raise the spoon from his soup. Suddenly a large tear ran down his cheek and dropped heavily on the table. He looked timidly around him. The others present had noticed the tear, and suddenly fell silent. And he felt ashamed; his large, shaggy head sank closer and closer to the black wood of the table.

He sat like that until evening. People came and went; he did not notice them, and they had stopped noticing him. He sat in the shadow of the stove like a shadow himself, his hands resting heavily on the table. He was forgotten, and no one saw him suddenly rise when twilight came and go up the path to the hotel, plodding lethargically like an animal. He stood for an hour at the door there, cap humbly in his hand, and then for another hour, not looking at anyone. At last this strange figure, standing still and black as a tree stump outside the sparkling lights of the hotel entrance as if he had put down roots there, attracted the attention of one of the pageboys, who fetched the manager. Once again his dark face lightened a little when he heard his own language.

“What do you want, Boris?” asked the manager kindly.

“Forgive me,” stammered the fugitive, “I only wanted… I wanted to know if I can go home.”

“Of course, Boris, to be sure you can go home,” smiled the manager.

“Tomorrow?”

Now the other man looked grave too. The words had been spoken in so pleading a tone that the smile vanished from his face.

“No, Boris… not just yet. Not until the war is over.”

“When is that? When will the war be over?”

“God only knows. We humans don’t.”

“But before that? Can’t I go before that?”

“No, Boris.”

“Is it so far to go?”

“Yes.”

“Many more days’ journey?”

“Many more days.”

“I’ll go all the same, sir. I’m strong. I don’t tire easily.”

“But you can’t, Boris. There’s a border between here and your home.”

“A border?” He looked blank. The word was new to him. Then he said again, with his extraordinary obstinacy, “I’ll swim over it.”

The manager almost smiled. But he was painfully moved, and explained gently, “No, Boris, that’s impossible. A border means there’s a foreign country on the other side. People won’t let you through.”

“But I won’t hurt them! I threw my rifle away. Why wouldn’t they let me go back to my wife, if I ask them in Christ’s name?”

The manager was feeling increasingly heavy at heart. Bitterness rose in him. “No,” he said, “they won’t let you through, Boris. People don’t take any notice of the word of Christ any more.”

“But what am I to do, sir? I can’t stay here! The people that live here don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them.”

“You’ll soon learn, Boris.”

“No, sir.” The Russian bowed his head. “I can’t learn things. I can only work in the fields, that’s all I know how to do. What would I do here? I want to go home! Show me the way!”

“There isn’t any way at the moment, Boris.”

“But sir, they can’t forbid me to go home to my wife and my children! I’m not a soldier any more.”

“Oh yes, they can, Boris.”

“What about the Tsar?” He asked the question very suddenly, trembling with expectation and awe.

“There’s no Tsar any more, Boris. He’s been deposed.”

“No Tsar any more?” He stared dully at the other man, the last glimmer of light went out in his eyes, and then he said very wearily, “So I can’t go home?”

“Not yet. You’ll have to wait, Boris.”

The face in the dark grew ever gloomier. “I’ve waited so long already! I can’t wait any more. Show me the way to go! I want to try!”

“There’s no way, Boris. They’d arrest you at the border. Stay here and we’ll find you work.”

“People here don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them,” he obstinately repeated. “I can’t live here! Help me, sir!”

“I can’t, Boris.”

“Help me, sir, for the sake of Christ! Help me, I can’t bear it any more!”

“I can’t, Boris. There’s no way anyone can help anyone else these days.”

They faced each other in silence. Boris was twisting his cap in his hands. “Then why did they take me away from home? They said I had to fight for Russia and the Tsar. But Russia is far away from here, and the Tsar… what do you say they did to the Tsar?”

“They deposed him.”

“Deposed.” He repeated the word without understanding it. “What am I to do, sir? I have to go home! My children are crying for me. I can’t live here. Help me, sir, help me!”

“I just can’t, Boris.”

“Can no one help me?”

“Not at the moment.”

The Russian bent his head even further, and then said abruptly, in hollow tones, “Thank you, sir,” and turned away.

He went down the path very slowly. The hotel manager watched him for a long time, and was surprised when he did not go to the inn, but on down the steps to the lake. He sighed deeply and went back to his work in the hotel.

As chance would have it, it was the same fisherman who found the drowned man’s naked body next morning. He had carefully placed the trousers, cap and jacket that he had been given on the bank, and went into the water just as he had come out of it. A statement was taken about the incident, and since no one knew the stranger’s full name, a cheap wooden cross was put on the place where he was buried, one of those little crosses planted over the graves of unknown soldiers that now cover the continent of Europe from end to end.