His father merely nodded at Georg’s corner, assuring the truth of his words.

“How you amused me today, coming to ask me if you should tell your friend about your engagement. He already knows it, you stupid boy, he knows everything! I’ve been writing because you forgot to take away my writing things. That’s why he hasn’t come here for years, he knows everything a hundred times better than you; he crumples your unread letters in his left hand while he holds up his right hand to read my letters!”

He flung his arms over his head in his enthusiasm. “He knows everything a thousand times better!” he cried.

“Ten thousand times!” said Georg, to ridicule his father, but the words came out of his mouth deadly earnest.

“For years I’ve been waiting for you to come to me with this question! Do you think I’ve been interested in anything else? Do you believe I read newspapers? Look!” and he threw at Georg a sheet of newspaper that had somehow been swept into the bed. It was an old newspaper whose name was entirely unfamiliar to him.

“How long you fought off your adulthood! Your mother had to die, she couldn’t witness the joyous day; your friend is rotting in Russia, three years ago he was already yellow enough to toss out, and as for me, you can see how I’m faring. You can see that much!”

“So you’ve been waiting to pounce on me!” cried Georg.

In a pitying tone, his father casually remarked: “You probably meant to say that earlier. Now it’s beside the point.”

And then louder: “So now you know what else existed in the world outside of you, before you knew only about yourself! Yes, you were a truly innocent child, but you were even more truly an evil man!—And for that reason, I hereby sentence you to death by drowning!”

Georg felt forcibly driven from the room, the crash of his father falling to the bed still rained down on him as he fled. On the stairs, which he slipped down as he would a hill, he ran into the cleaning woman, who was on her way up to do the morning tidying. “Jesus!” she yelped, and covered her face with her apron, but he was already gone. He leapt from the door and across the road, driven toward the water. Already he clung to the railing like a starving man to food. He swung himself over, like the outstanding gymnast he had been in his youth, the pride of his parents. He was still clinging with a weakening grip when he spied an approaching motor bus through the railings that would easily dampen the sound of his fall; he softly called out: “Dear parents, I have always loved you,” and let himself drop.

At that moment an unending stream of traffic crossed over the bridge.

The Stoker: A Fragmente

AS SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD KARL ROSSMANN, whose poor parents had sent him off to America because a maid had seduced him and then had his child, sailed into New York harbor on the now slowly moving ship, he saw the Statue of Liberty, which he had already been watching from far off, stand out as if shining in suddenly brighter sunlight. The arm with the sword13 reached up as if freshly thrust out, and the free breezes blew around the figure.

“So high!” he said to himself, and without any thought of disembarking, he was pushed farther and farther along, all the way to the railing, by the constantly swelling throng of porters pressing past him.

On his way by, a young man with whom he had been briefly acquainted during the voyage said to him: “Well, don’t you feel like going ashore yet?” “Oh yes, I’m ready,” said Karl, laughing, and out of sheer joy and youthful strength, he hoisted his trunk onto his shoulder. But as he looked beyond his acquaintance, who was already moving off and lightly swinging his stick, he remembered with dismay that he had left his own umbrella below deck. He hastily begged his acquaintance, who seemed none too pleased, to be kind enough to watch his trunk a moment; he surveyed his surroundings to regain his bearings and hurried off. Down below he was disappointed to find that a passageway that would have shortened his route considerably was barred now for the first time, probably because of all the disembarking passengers, and he had to arduously make his way through a long series of small rooms, down countless short staircases, one after another, through continually winding corridors, past a room with a deserted desk, until finally, as he had only gone this way once or twice before and always in a large group, he was utterly lost. In his bewilderment he came to a stop by a small door, and because he encountered no one and could hear only the endless trampling of thousands of human feet overhead, and from a distance like a sigh the final whine of the engines shutting down, he began, without consideration, to pound on the door.

“It’s open,” a voice called from inside, and Karl opened the door with a genuine sigh of relief. “Why are you pounding on the door like a madman?” asked a huge man, barely glancing at Karl. Through some kind of overhead hatch murky light, long stale from its use on the decks above, seeped into the miserable cabin, where a bed, a closet, a chair, and the man were crowded together side by side as if stowed there. “I’ve lost my way,” said Karl. “I never really noticed it during the voyage, but this is an awfully large ship.” “Yes, you’re right about that,” the man said with a certain degree of pride but did not stop fiddling with the lock of a small footlocker that he kept pressing shut with both hands to hear the catch snap home. “But come on in!” the man continued. “You don’t want to stand around outside!” “Am I intruding?” asked Karl. “No, how would you be intruding!” “Are you German?” Karl tried to reassure himself further because he had heard a lot about the dangers that threatened newcomers to America, from the Irish especially.14 “That I am, yes indeed,” said the man. Karl still hesitated. Then the man unexpectedly seized the door handle and swiftly shut the door, sweeping Karl into the cabin. “I can’t stand being peered at from the corridor,” he said, fiddling with the chest again; “they all run by and peer in, who can put up with it!” “But the corridor is totally empty now,” said Karl, who was pressed uncomfortably against the bedpost. “Yes, now,” said the man. “But we’re talking about now,” thought Karl; “this is a difficult man to talk to.” “Why don’t you lie down on the bed, you’ll have more room,” said the man.