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Authors: Odon Von Horvath
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perhaps four foot six. His eyes were scouring the express train, scanning the area for a blond woman, either a German or Scandinavian.
“Prego, your passaport!” said the Italian passport official. He spoke broken German, polite yet firm. “Where are you going, Signor Kobler?” he asked.
“To Barcelona,” said the Signor.
“So you’re going to Italy,” said the passport official.
“Yes,” said the Signor.
And now something mysterious happened. The passport official turned gravely toward his companion, a passport subofficer, and said in Italian, “He’s going to Italy.”
The passport subofficer gave a stately nod. “Well, well, going to Italy he is,” he drawled, imagining himself to be more important than Mussolini himself.
Meanwhile, the senior passport officer was already busy with the next traveler and asked him, “You’re going to Italy?”
“Yes, sir,” said the next Signor. His name was Albert Hausmann.
“And why are you going to Italy?” asked the senior passport officer.
“I want to convalesce in Italy,” said Signor Hausmann.
“You’re going to convalesce in Italy!” said the senior passport officer proudly.
“Hopefully,” said the guy in need of convalescence.
Hereupon the senior passport officer once again turned to his companion and said, “He’s going to convalesce in Italy!”
“Or maybe not!” said the passport officer laconically, and stared suspiciously at the guy in need of convalescence. The man reminded him of a certain Isidore Niederthaler in Brixen whose wife was listed on the Fascists’ blacklist as politically suspect. “That wife’s got a gorgeous ass,” thought the petty passport officer.
Meanwhile, the senior passport officer had already directed his attention to a third traveler. His name was Franz Karl Zeisig. “You’re going to Italy?” asked the senior passport officer.
“So stupid!” muttered Kobler. “Of course we’re all going to Italy!”
“Do not underestimate Benito Mussolini!” whispered the guy in need of convalescence. “The passport officers are actually pursuing a quite specific aim with this seemingly nonsensical questioning. They are all especially brilliant detectives from the political police in Rome. Have you ever heard of a cross-examination?”
Kobler did not get a chance to answer him because all of a sudden there were three Fascists standing in front of him. “Do you have any newspapers?” asked the first Fascist. “You are not permitted to bring Austrian, socialist, communist, anarchist, syndicalist, or nihilistic ones into Italy—it’s strictly forbidden!”
“I’m no nihilist!” said Kobler. “I’ve just got a magazine with me.”
And then a few Italian customs officers rummaged through his suitcase. “What’s this?” asked one of them, dangling a tie under his nose.
“That’s a tie,” said Kobler.
The customs officer nodded contentedly, gave him a friendly smile, and then disappeared with his colleagues.
Finally the difficulties of crossing the border were over and the express train resumed its journey southbound,
diretto
.
Down from Brennero and through the new Italy.
CHAPTER 11
AND THEN SUDDENLY ALL THE SIGNS WERE IN Italian. Kobler was so fascinated by them that, like a child, he was hardly able to budge from the window, even though, or perhaps because, he had no idea what they meant.
“Albergo Luigi, Uscita, Tabacco, Olio sasso, Donne, Uo-mine,” he read. “That’s all got a ring to it,” he thought. “It’s a shame that my name’s not Koblero!”
They made a brief stop in the former Franzensfeste. “Excuse me, but where are we right now?” asked a nervous German traveling to Italy. He could not see over Kobler’s shoulder.
“In Latrina,” responded Kobler.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t make such awful jokes,” yelled the nervous guy.
Kobler was rather puzzled. After all, the sign was hanging right in front of him:
LATRINA
“Don’t you holler at me!” he
“Prego, your passaport!” said the Italian passport official. He spoke broken German, polite yet firm. “Where are you going, Signor Kobler?” he asked.
“To Barcelona,” said the Signor.
“So you’re going to Italy,” said the passport official.
“Yes,” said the Signor.
And now something mysterious happened. The passport official turned gravely toward his companion, a passport subofficer, and said in Italian, “He’s going to Italy.”
The passport subofficer gave a stately nod. “Well, well, going to Italy he is,” he drawled, imagining himself to be more important than Mussolini himself.
Meanwhile, the senior passport officer was already busy with the next traveler and asked him, “You’re going to Italy?”
“Yes, sir,” said the next Signor. His name was Albert Hausmann.
“And why are you going to Italy?” asked the senior passport officer.
“I want to convalesce in Italy,” said Signor Hausmann.
“You’re going to convalesce in Italy!” said the senior passport officer proudly.
“Hopefully,” said the guy in need of convalescence.
Hereupon the senior passport officer once again turned to his companion and said, “He’s going to convalesce in Italy!”
“Or maybe not!” said the passport officer laconically, and stared suspiciously at the guy in need of convalescence. The man reminded him of a certain Isidore Niederthaler in Brixen whose wife was listed on the Fascists’ blacklist as politically suspect. “That wife’s got a gorgeous ass,” thought the petty passport officer.
Meanwhile, the senior passport officer had already directed his attention to a third traveler. His name was Franz Karl Zeisig. “You’re going to Italy?” asked the senior passport officer.
“So stupid!” muttered Kobler. “Of course we’re all going to Italy!”
“Do not underestimate Benito Mussolini!” whispered the guy in need of convalescence. “The passport officers are actually pursuing a quite specific aim with this seemingly nonsensical questioning. They are all especially brilliant detectives from the political police in Rome. Have you ever heard of a cross-examination?”
Kobler did not get a chance to answer him because all of a sudden there were three Fascists standing in front of him. “Do you have any newspapers?” asked the first Fascist. “You are not permitted to bring Austrian, socialist, communist, anarchist, syndicalist, or nihilistic ones into Italy—it’s strictly forbidden!”
“I’m no nihilist!” said Kobler. “I’ve just got a magazine with me.”
And then a few Italian customs officers rummaged through his suitcase. “What’s this?” asked one of them, dangling a tie under his nose.
“That’s a tie,” said Kobler.
The customs officer nodded contentedly, gave him a friendly smile, and then disappeared with his colleagues.
Finally the difficulties of crossing the border were over and the express train resumed its journey southbound,
diretto
.
Down from Brennero and through the new Italy.
CHAPTER 11
AND THEN SUDDENLY ALL THE SIGNS WERE IN Italian. Kobler was so fascinated by them that, like a child, he was hardly able to budge from the window, even though, or perhaps because, he had no idea what they meant.
“Albergo Luigi, Uscita, Tabacco, Olio sasso, Donne, Uo-mine,” he read. “That’s all got a ring to it,” he thought. “It’s a shame that my name’s not Koblero!”
They made a brief stop in the former Franzensfeste. “Excuse me, but where are we right now?” asked a nervous German traveling to Italy. He could not see over Kobler’s shoulder.
“In Latrina,” responded Kobler.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t make such awful jokes,” yelled the nervous guy.
Kobler was rather puzzled. After all, the sign was hanging right in front of him:
LATRINA
“Don’t you holler at me!” he
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