H. Adler: The Wall

The smartest thing to do would have been to disappear. Stupidly I let myself be led along, turning back toward that from which I had once fled, just like when I followed the call of my grammar-school teacher Herr Prenzel. As a schoolboy, I admired him and was gulled by the enticing letters with which he irresistibly lured me in. Before I knew it I was on the train, only a suitcase on the rack above. Soon we would be at the border. All the other passengers had already gotten off. Some had warned me to get off as well, while there was still time, before that sinister border gobbled me up. I pointed arrogantly to my passport: “This is all I need, it will protect me, nothing is going to happen!” People shook their heads and smiled skeptically or mockingly. Then they disappeared. But then it was too late to change my mind: with helmets, rifles, and pistols, the border police boarded both ends of the long train in which there was no one left but me.

As I saw the men noisily climbing onto the train, I retreated to my compartment and sat down on the hard seat. I needed to look completely harmless, a harmless traveler with a clear conscience. But already the men stood outside, one of them ripping open the door and pressing inside along with another, while the others stood stiffly outside the compartment. The two inside pressed so close that their legs rubbed against my knees. I could hardly move. “Passports, please!” growled one. He spoke in the plural, as if I weren’t the only passenger there. Just as I was used to from earlier trips, I had had everything in order ahead of time — my passport, wallet, ticket, currency receipt, and whatever else was needed to assure that all was in order — but now I rummaged nervously inside my coat pockets and could find nothing, the disengaged impatience of the men unnerving me even further. At last I managed to produce my papers, but I was still nervous, my fingers unable to sort out the contents of my pockets, the passport falling from my hands and onto the dusty floor. A policeman bent down to get it, and though I tried to get it back from him while begging his pardon, he waved me off energetically with his hand as he lifted it up in triumph and began to pore over it with the others. He looked it over thoroughly with his colleagues, page after page, they whispering something to one another now and then that I couldn’t understand because of my worry. Then they handed the passport to the men outside in the corridor. They studied the document in detail, marking it with red and blue ink in various places. But then everything suddenly seemed to take a turn for the better, as they pulled out their rubber stamp and pressed their hallowed endorsements onto the passport with satisfaction.

I now expected that at last I would be getting back my precious document, a huge hairy hand closing its cloth cover and stiffly holding it out to me. However, pressed between the policemen as I was, I couldn’t reach out to get the passport. One of the policemen on my side took pity and reached for it himself, I myself almost feeling what it would be like to have it back in my own hands. Then one of the men who had seemed satisfied and had stepped back now said something, and once again it was decided that the passport needed to be inspected more closely. The policeman in my compartment, who I thought was accommodating, turned away so forcefully that his cartridge belt banged painfully against my knuckles, causing me to cry out.

“A wimpy little passenger, what a joke! And we want such a guest here in our country!”

“Forgive me, forgive me!” I called out fervently. “But I’m not traveling by choice; it has to do with written orders from my teacher!”

By saying this I had betrayed myself, doubly so, for I had not only revealed my reason for coming, but I had also spoken in my own tongue rather than speaking innocently in the language of the country from which the passport had been issued.

“What?” interrupted the man outside who had demanded to see the passport, and who clearly was the commandant, as he shoved his way into the compartment with the others. “What are you babbling about? You must be a spy!”

I yelled, “The passport is real. I paid for it with good money. I’m no crook!”

My earnest protest was met with scornful laughter from the surly men. They buried themselves once more in the document, leafing through it with licked fingers and throwing nasty glances toward me from time to time. Finally the commandant announced, “You’re not a crook, we know that. Only spies have real passports these days. The poor devils who talk about it openly don’t get to travel, or they try to sneak across the border with counterfeit papers.”

I was defenseless and tried to think how I could make a bad situation a little bit better. It was hopeless, and so I decided to just wait and see what would be done with me, though I was smart enough to realize that the best chance I had was to remain calm and convince the men that I was a harmless passenger who deserved to be trusted. This proved correct, as my composed demeanor appeared to leave a good impression. The commandant looked more at ease and said that the passport and what was written inside it clearly allowed me to enter the country, and that as long as there was no contraband in my luggage there was nothing to stop me from traveling. The order from the teacher, the commandant explained with sharp civility, was nothing but an idle pretense in his considered view, but it was not his job to say if it was or was not, for if it were, half the government could be arrested. That said, he bowed in an officious manner and let my passport, my precious passport, disappear into a deep side pocket of his military coat. I was so struck by this terrible turn of events that I gasped.

“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.