Posted on July 1st, 2021 by Matthew Hennessey

Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz’s The Passenger – translated into English by Philip Boehm and first published in the U.K. by Pushkin Press earlier this year – joins Hans Fallada’s Alone in Berlin and Irene Nemirovsky’s Suite Francaise in finding international success long after the lives of the authors themselves had ended.

Boschwitz’s own story is one that is tragically familiar in its form but grimly memorable in its specificity. After escaping to Britain from Germany in the years between Kristallnacht and the outbreak of full-scale international conflict, Boschwitz was deemed an “enemy alien” once the two nations were at war. At first exiled to the Isle of Man, he later found himself shipped across the world where he spent almost three years as a POW in Australia. Recategorized as a “friendly alien”– the terminology emphasising the absurdities imposed upon the dispossessed – in the wake of Pearl Harbour, he was permitted to return to England on the MV Abosso in 1942. On October 29, while sailing the Atlantic Ocean, the ship was torpedoed by a German submarine. Of the 393 people on board, 362 of them died. Boschwitz was among them.

Only twenty-seven years old at the time – and the author of one other previously published novel, People Parallel to Life – it is tempting to imagine the career Boschwitz may have had were it not so cruelly curtailed. By any standards The Passenger is a brilliant novel but considering the circumstances in which it was born – written in a haste imposed by circumstances all too similar to those depicted in the book – the result is miraculous. It can be read as a Hitchcockian, cat-and-mouse thriller, or as something deeper and more complex: a profoundly moving account of what it feels like to lose one’s home, one’s status and one’s entire sense of self; to be persecuted solely on the basis of race; to be suddenly and entirely alone, unprepared and unprotected; and to be at the mercy of an enemy that can appear from anywhere, in almost any form – individual malice, bureaucratic cruelty, state-sponsored violence – at any time.

The extract below is taken from the beginning of the novel. Otto Silbermann, a successful Berlin-based Jewish businessman, is confronted with the reality of Kristallnacht– the historical moment at which open hostility changed into something altogether more malevolent, beginning a campaign of remorseless persecution that culminated in the horrors of The Holocaust. From the outset Silbermann is on the backfoot, surprised by the speed and severity of events, and as the book progresses and his options recede, his thoughts and actions become increasingly scattershot. Unable or unwilling to stand still, he instead travels endlessly but gets nowhere – a perpetual passenger, helplessly borne along by an instrument he cannot control or comprehend. Here we see him at the outset of his own personal nightmare, slowly realising the extent to which his world has irreparably changed…

An Extract from The Passenger

“What is it, Elfriede?” he asked his wife. She pointed to the telephone. “Your sister’s on the line. She’ll explain everything…” He reached for the receiver. “Hilde?” “Yes, yes?” his sister stammered, clearly upset. “Günther has been arrested!” Silbermann was so surprised he didn’t know what to say. “How so?” he finally asked. “What happened?” “Don’t you know - all Jews are being arrested.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Calm down please, Hilde,” he said. “There must be some mistake. Now tell me everything once more, nice and quietly…” “There’s no time for that. I only called to warn you. Four men in our building were arrested. If I only knew what was happening to Günther.” “But it can’t be! People don’t just go hauling off respectable citizens from their homes! They can’t do that!” He was silent. Yes they can, he then thought, they can. “Shall I come over?” he asked after a while. “Or do you want to come to our place?” “No, I’m not leaving the apartment. I’m staying here. And you shouldn’t come, either. That won’t help anything. Good-bye, Otto.” She hung up. Distraught, he looked at his wife. “Elfriede,” he whispered, “they’re arresting all the Jews! Maybe it’s just a temporary scare tactic. In any case Günther has been arrested, but you already know that.” Silbermann paused for a moment. “What should we do? What do you think is best, Elfriede? Should I stay here? Maybe they’ll forget about me. I’ve never been seriously harassed before. If only Becker were here. He has a whole slew of party connections. He could intervene in an emergency. Of course if the arrests are coming from above, then he can’t do anything, either. And by the time he gets back from Hamburg I could have been beaten to death by mistake. Ach - nonsense! Nothing’s going to happen to me. In the worst case you’ll just ring up Becker and ask him to come back immediately.” “Six months ago we could still have gotten out of Germany,” his wife said slowly. “We stayed on my account, because I couldn’t bear to leave my family behind. If something happens to you if will be my fault. You wanted to go, but I…” “Ach.” He brushed aside her self-reproach. “It’s no one’s fault. Is someone who forgot to put on a bulletproof vest at the right moment to blame if he gets shot? That’s all nonsense. Besides you were more for leaving than I was. If you’d had your way we’d already be out of the country. You would have left your family more easily than I would have left my business. But it didn’t happen. And at this point the whys and wherefores don’t matter.” He gave her a kiss, then went back to Herr Findler. He attempted to appear as calm and composed as before, but something in his face, some excessive tension, a smile that seemed forced, made the other man suspicious. “What’s going on?” Findler asked. “Bad news?” “Family matters,” said Silbermann, and sat back down at the table. “I see,” said Findler, drawing the words out, his forehead more furrowed than usual. “Well, I’m sure it’s bad news, right? Family news is always bad. Believe me, I know.” Silbermann opened the cigarette case that was lying on the table. “Shall we get back to business?” he asked as calmly as he could. “Well,” Findler replied, “I’m really not so tempted. I’m not even sure if it’s still possible to buy property from Jews. No idea. If you had your way you’d flimflam me before I could count to three. Well?” This constant “well,” which sounded so fat and smug, was gradually bringing Silbermann to the point of despair. “Do you actually want to buy the building or just talk about buying it? What do you want to do?” “Well,” said Findler as he stretched in his armchair. “I really wrenched my hip earlier. What do you say to that? Wouldn’t it be better if we waited to see what new regulations are coming? It’s too risky for me. I pay for a place and end up not getting it. The government has in mind all sorts of things for you Jews.” “All right then fifteen thousand!” “I don’t know, Silbermann, I really have no idea if I should or not. What say we wait a few weeks, and if nothing happens in the meantime I’ll still be able to buy the place. First I also have to speak with my lawyer, absolutely.” “But ten minutes ago…” “Since then I’ve started to have some doubts. I also don’t want you to have any trouble because you’re selling your home. But most of all I don’t want any trouble myself.” “Just so we can finish this: I let you have the building for a down payment of fourteen thousand marks. But you have to agree now.” “Is that so? Well…let’s talk about it again tomorrow. Fourteen thousand marks is a heap of money, that’s for sure! I’m not an ogre. I don’t want something for nothing. But I have to ask myself whether this place is really worth a fourteen thousand down payment. And of course you realize that the payment could only be made after the deed gets notarised and registered. And in case of any force majeure the whole transaction would be void. Fourteen thousand marks…Do you honestly believe I’m getting a bargain if we shake on it this evening and call it a deal?” “You wanted to pay fifteen thousand marks and now you’re hesitating at fourteen?” “I’m just thinking there are other deals I could make with the money, maybe better ones. You just always have to see for yourself where you are in life. “Well?” He sighed contentedly. Silbermann jumped up. “Of course I can’t influence your decision,” he said impatiently. “But since I don’t have any more time I’d appreciate it if you could make up your mind right here and now. Otherwise please consider my offer as no longer valid. I don’t even know if you’re seriously interested in the purchase or not.” “There’s no need to sound like that,” Findler replied testily. “I’ve always known that you Jews aren’t cut out for doing business, at least not with people who know what they’re doing, well…” Silbermann saw how much Findler was enjoying this extortion - the man was even proud of it. Silbermann had a sharp response on his tongue, something to the effect that he, Silbermann, couldn’t compete with blackmailers and had no desire to, and that he was used to conducting business in a decent manner. Except there are times when the most simple-minded swindler has the edge over the most intelligent and decent person. But he didn’t manage to spit out his uncivil thoughts that were bubbling up inside him or even to answer Findler more mildly - which would have been far more reasonable - because suddenly there was a wild ringing at the door. Without paying attention to his visitor’s bewildered face or excusing himself even with a single word, Silbermann hurried out of the room into the hall, where he met his wife. “You have to leave,” she whispered, upset. "No, no, I can’t leave you here alone!” Not knowing what he should do, he headed toward the door. She stopped him. “Nothing can happen to me if you’r not here,” she assured him, blocking his way. “Spend tonight in a hotel. Now be quick and go.” He thought for a moment. The bell rang again and fists began pounding at the door.