One particular group here wasn’t showing any colors at all, for the simple reason that it wasn’t allowed to, but not because it was politically neutral. I recognized a few faces of German emigrés who had lost their citizenship, a cluster of nobodies, the German nation’s rubbish. Even here on the island, where lead bullets were a dime a dozen, they weren’t considered worth the price of a spoonful of gunpowder. There were Jews among them, politically innocuous people who had kept their mouths shut. We had nothing in common with them, for we had indeed displayed our colors.
Off to one side, set apart from the picturesque crowd, we saw another flag hanging on a stick, a miserable little rag so tiny that it couldn’t catch any of the morning wind and flutter proudly as the patriotic songs would have it do. It was the Führer’s swastika. Beneath this sign and its promise of a thousand years of glory, there stood the local power center of the Third Reich: our Herr Konsul and a short, shabbily dressed compatriot of his with the party insignia at his lapel and a little mongrel on his arm. He was unshaven, but refugees don’t have to shave. And as we found out later, he wasn’t a refugee at all. He was some higher Reich functionary, sent here on a mission that stipulated outward grubbiness, maybe Strength Through Joy and a little murder plot. But that was his own affair.
Then came no-man’s-land, and beyond that an enormous pile that I recall as being as high as a house. Trunks, suitcases, crates, bales — the sight of it gave us a shock. Could this be the baggage belonging to the evacuees? Hardly possible.
The Consul of the Third Reich caught sight of us. He watched our every move. Beatrice wanted to find out more about all the baggage. But of course, the English consular official told her. We could take with us as much as we wanted to — there were no limits.
Following this new thunderclap, the two of us gathered around the invisible flag of Vigoleis: a white cross on a white background, or a black cross on black — whichever way one wants to symbolize The Void. A sailor approached us and inquired whether we were refugees or service personnel. We gave him our explosive bundle, which he quickly stowed in the jolly boat. So that danger was past.
Then came the German Consul.
This bastard, I thought, has robbed us of all our belongings with his lying hogwash, trying to lure us on board the Deutschland. He began with some vacuous chatter. I remained cold as a stone, and Beatrice was non-existent. A mob of Spanish gendarmes was all around us, and it seemed advisable to be on our best behavior. So I took up a conversation with the Consul, saying that it was still not our intention to return to Germany. As he knew, we had relatives in Basel. But proximity to the Fatherland, he countered, would surely make us change our minds once we heard the voice of the homeland beckoning across the border… And then, his voice turning softer, he asked if I would be willing to do him a favor. Just a small matter, he said, but personally important for him. He waxed sentimental. His aged father was living in — was it Hamburg? — and hadn’t heard from his son in a long time. He was worried, since even as a Consul he wasn’t permitted to send private correspondence — only official, censored dispatches. He had a letter, a few lines from a son to his Dad, and would I be so kind as to put it in a mailbox in Marseille? He would give me a few international reply forms…
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, saith the whore Pilar, saith practially any decent human being. Here and now, at this early morning hour at the pier in Palma, vengeance was finally being handed to Vigoleis. One simple wave on my part, the enunciation of the one word Oiga! and a Spanish officer would come to where we were standing. The sequel would take place in keeping with the protocol of martial law. Probably behind the customs office, to avoid frightening the refugees.
I think of myself as an act of vengeance perpetrated by obscure, possibly cosmic forces, cursed with a life that constantly confronts me with stupid questions. So I figured that I had nothing to gain by letting the Consul get shot. I remained silent. I pointed to the man with the dog and the party button on his lapel, those two shoddy emblems of authority, who was now standing guard alone next to the Führer’s flag.
I said, “Herr Dede, there is no reason in the world why I should do you a favor. You are a bad person. Because of you, we are leaving this island as beggars. But give me your letter. I’ll take care of it.”
The Consul gave me the letter with a trembling hand. I calmly placed it in the same pocket as the episcopal documents I was carrying. Then I continued:
“By giving me this letter you have placed the life of a German Consul in my hands. One little gesture on my part, and in accordance with martial law you will be shot. You know better than I do that these people aren’t fooling around, even though you deny any knowledge of the atrocities that are happening. But have no fear, I will not betray you. The satisfaction I now feel, seeing that you, a party member and the Consul of your Führer, don’t trust that filthy guy over there standing next to your criminal flag, is worth more to me than all the private belongings we are leaving behind us. You’re showing that you have more confidence in an enemy of your Movement, someone you have got to know personally. That is a hopeful sign for us refugees. I thank you.”
At this moment a siren went off. We climbed aboard the jolly boat. H.M.S. Grenville lay at anchor far out in the bay. A few minutes later, we were standing on English territory and in English custody.
The boss of the Spanish Harbor Censorship Office, who ought to have inspected hand baggage, had overslept. His loudly honking limousine raced along the pier — too late. To keep up appearances he boarded a lancha, followed us out in a wide swing of the boat and, making an even wider swing, straightaway returned to his Pilar.
We owe it to my uncle’s episcopal letter, but also to some insatiable Spanish whore, that we escaped the harbor at Palma without getting shot.
Round about us the grey veils of night had completely lifted. We stepped upon the afterdeck sleepless, spiritually drained, and lightly shivering in the breeze that was now sweeping in from the horizon to reveal the gorgeous spectacle of the slowly receding island palisades. Crimson and gold flames appeared on the cliffside crags and were reflected on the rocky shoreline. Here and there the sea had its black sheen, as yet untouched by the breath of the dawning day. Seagulls were our airborne harbor pilots.
On board the Grenville the nationalities remained apart in groups. We found places to sit on coils of rope. A gentleman was seated there already, a goateed fellow with a blue beret — I immediately recognized Franz Blei, the Austrian writer whose works I always enjoyed reading. I sat down next to him. At my other side sat a man dressed like a Mallorquin peasant, bent forward and brooding. All of a sudden he let out frightful yells, truly bellowing. They had crucified his son, he shouted. And still he couldn’t believe in God — not he, no, never! They could nail him to a cross, and he still wouldn’t believe, not on his life! Then he again collapsed. I heard him weeping. He wasn’t a Mallorquin; he spoke the Spanish of South America.