Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 4

by Bertolt Brecht

  THE SON: I think she’s more scared of what you people are talking about here.

  THE FATHER: Well, of course she’s upset. She can’t help knowing she’s ill. What with not being able to eat now.

  THE MOTHER: It’s a bad business. For us too. There are you, having to work all day and you come back to such misery.

  THE SON: Have you made your minds up yet?

  THE FATHER: It is a great responsibility.

  THE SON: It certainly is.

  THE MOTHER: If only it was definite and not just a possibility.

  THE FATHER: Definite my foot. It’s a pure experiment.

  THE MOTHER: When he shrugged his shoulders like that I could tell at once he wasn’t sure.

  THE FATHER: In fact he made no bones about it. All they want is to make experiments. Won’t even let you die in peace. Just cut you open once more and talk about good chances. After which they say ‘we tried everything’. You bet, with us paying!

  THE MOTHER: Shoving a poor old woman in hospital. Away from her own home surroundings. I don’t like that one little bit.

  THE FATHER: That’s not at all what I’m talking about. If the operation was a sure way of getting her back to health I’d be for it right away. This very night. Nobody would have any right to turn down an operation like that.

  THE SON: I wouldn’t say we had the right in any case. Because there is a good chance and it’d be her own money.

  THE FATHER: Who’s talking about money? Did I mention money? I’m saying it’d be sheer cruelty to inflict another major operation on my sister after all she’s had to go through already. Haven’t you got any feelings? How can you speak of money? You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself.

  THE SON: I wouldn’t say I had any cause to be ashamed of myself.

  THE MOTHER: Hans!

  THE FATHER: You haven’t got two pence worth of feelings in your makeup. All you think about’s that bike of yours. And the fact that you’ll have to put up with ersatz rubber. Here’s our people fighting for its existence, and you’ve got your mind on your bike. The Führer’s raising an army from nothing while we’re ringed round by enemies watching us for the least sign of weakness. The whole people is tightening its belts. Look at me collecting all my old toothpaste tubes for the common good. And you’ve got your mind on your bike and start grumbling about ersatz. With our people confronting its hour of decision. It’s for us to decide now. Are we to come up, or are we to sink irretrievably? I’d like to know who is doing as much for our people as the present government. And who takes his responsibilities as seriously. And then we’ve got this mob, this band of subhumans, who aren’t prepared to sacrifice their miserable selfish selves because they can’t see that it’s all for their own good. But why am I wasting my time talking to you about it? You’re not even prepared to sacrifice one of your inner tubes.

  THE SON: I simply said I’d need extra pocket-money because ersatz rubber costs more than the real thing.

  THE FATHER: That’s enough of that. I’m fed up with all your unpatriotic talk. Here’s the nation undergoing its biggest moral upsurge since the wars of independence and he talks about pocket-money. It’s just that kind of materialism that we have to extirpate root and branch. Go off to your room. I don’t want to see you. The son walks to the door in silence.

  THE SON pausing in the doorway: It isn’t her illness she’s scared of, it’s you two. He goes out.

  THE MOTHER calls after him: That was horrid of you, Hans.

  THE DAUGHTER: I’ve got to be off to the League of German Maidens, Mother. By the window: It doesn’t look as if it’s going to rain. So I’ll be able to wear my new jacket. Or do you think it might? Our uniforms are made of synthetic wool, and every drop of rain leaves a mark.

  THE MOTHER: Don’t you budge.

  The nurse appears in the doorway.

  THE NURSE: I don’t want to disturb you, but my patient is getting into a state. She’d like to talk to one of her family.

  THE FATHER: Tell her we’ll all come in as soon as we’ve finished discussing a domestic matter.

  The nurse goes back in.

  THE FATHER: Not a pleasant character. She’s a luxury. What does Frieda need a nurse for? You couldn’t ask for anyone less demanding.

  THE MOTHER: You wanted to save hospital expenses. And after she was sick that last time who could say it’d be more than a matter of days?

  THE FATHER: If I were prepared to take the responsibility for it I’d much sooner hand the whole business over to the doctors. This way I’m just worrying myself to death.

  THE MOTHER: In that case they’d surely operate.

  THE FATHER: Definitely.

  THE MOTHER: Poor Frieda. Getting lugged out of her quiet cosy room yet again.

  THE FATHER: Who says I’ve got anything against operations? Let her have herself cut open as often as she wants: it’s up to her.

  THE MOTHER: You shouldn’t say that. After all, she’s your sister. We have to do what’s best for her.

  THE FATHER: How am I to tell that? Maybe they should operate. I’m not having people say I let my sister starve to death. All I can do is point out that anyone after a major operation like that isn’t going to find eating much fun. When nothing’s healed up yet.

  THE MOTHER: For heaven’s sake. Pain with every mouthful. This way at least she won’t notice and will just gently flicker out into the beyond.

  THE FATHER: You people do as you like. But if they operate and tell you ‘it’s been cut out but nothing’s changed from before’, just don’t turn on me. It’s my considered opinion that when one’s ill one has every right to a bit of peace and quiet.

  THE MOTHER: Fancy Frieda in hospital. When she’s used to having all of us around.

  THE FATHER: Here she’s with her family. Everything in its accustomed place. She gets looked after. But put her in hospital if you like. Why should I mind?

  THE MOTHER: Whoever’s suggesting that? Nobody wants her put away. After all she eats like a bird.

  THE FATHER: You may find it too much work.

  THE MOTHER: No question of that. Frieda’s so sensible.

  THE FATHER: If you’re to be tied because of her …

  THE MOTHER: We really would miss her. She gave Lotte her new jacket. And then there’s her pension too.

  THE FATHER: If you ask me it’d be in her own best interest to have no more excitements, not: yet another doctor, yet another move, yet more new faces. And if money really has to come into it, then let me point out that the monstrous sum such an operation would cost would be just enough for us to buy that shop in the Möschstrasse for a knockdown price, what with Kott and Sons having gone bankrupt as a Jewish-owned business. That’s a bargain that won’t occur twice.

  THE MOTHER: Did you see their lawyers?

  THE FATHER: Without committing us to anything. But of course that shouldn’t enter into it. It’s Frieda’s money.

  THE MOTHER: Of course.

  THE FATHER: I don’t want to be told afterwards that there was anything we failed to do for Frieda.

  THE MOTHER: How could they say that? We’re doing absolutely everything.

  THE FATHER: People are mean enough. You heard how your own son talked.

  THE MOTHER: It’s really only for Frieda’s sake that we’re against an operation.

  THE FATHER: We can’t keep her waiting indefinitely. Of course she’s worked up, what with the doctor having been. She’ll imagine we’re talking about her.

  THE MOTHER: In that case I’ll tell her …

  She gets up.

  THE FATHER: That the doctor decided there need be no question of an operation.

  THE MOTHER: And she needn’t worry.

  THE FATHER: And that we have gone into it all most conscientiously and decided that it’s in her own best interest to stay resting here peacefully rather than go into a nursing home.

  THE MOTHER: Where she’d be surrounded by a lot of strangers who wouldn’t bother about her.

  She g
oes into the next room. The father turns the radio on once more.

  VOICE ON THE RADIO: Accordingly the committee established that too much fat was commonly being eaten. There is no need to consider special measures to counter the fat shortage. In the words of the report, we have examined the problem more carefully and conscientiously and come to the conclusion that there is no call for the population to worry since its present diet is not merely adequate but actually much healthier than in the past. Statistics teach us that the effects of a low-fat diet are far from harmful. On the contrary, the human organism is incapable of tolerating as much fat as is generally supposed. We would merely cite the example of China and Japan, where the greater part of the people keeps in excellent health on the plainest diet of rice. Too fatty a diet is more likely to cause disease. A low-fat diet guarantees greater energy and longer life. It is not for nothing that the worker is better fitted for physical effort than the so-called intellectual. His supposedly inferior diet is in reality the better of the two. Thus even if our economic situation and lack of colonies did not force our people to save on fat and apply its resources in other ways we are honestly convinced that it would be in its own best interest to do with less fat.

  The Internationale

  Enter the hangman and floggers

  The sadists and the sloggers

  From their war on the ‘inner front’.

  Their arms are tired of flaying

  And one of them keeps saying

  ‘What’s the point of this bloody stunt?’

  Yard in a concentration camp. Prisoners and SS. A prisoner is being flogged.

  THE SS MAN: My arm’s hurting. Are you or aren’t you going to sing us another verse of that Internationale of yours, you pig?

  The prisoner groans under the lash.

  THE SS MAN: What about you sods showing how angry you feel when you hear a pig like this singing the Internationale? To a prisoner: Hey, you, comrade, take this whip and beat him, but good and hard or it’ll be your turn next.

  The prisoner in question hesitates.

  THE SS MAN: Stubborn, eh?

  He hits him. The second prisoner takes the whip and flogs the first.

  THE SS MAN: I said good and hard. Ten strokes for you for disobeying orders.

  The second prisoner beats harder.

  THE SS MAN: Another ten strokes for you, that’s twenty in all.

  The second prisoner beats harder still. The first prisoner starts singing the Internationale in a hoarse voice. The second stops beating and joins in the song. The SS men fall on the prisoners.

  The vote

  With well-armed thugs to lead them

  And nothing much to feed them

  Their groans rose to the sky.

  We asked them, all unknowing:

  Poor things, where are you going?

  They said ‘to victory’.

  29th March 1936. Polling booth. One wall with a big banner: THE GERMAN PEOPLE NEEDS LIVING SPACE (ADOLF HITLER).SA men standing around. Likewise the official in charge is in SA uniform. Enter an old woman and a blind man of about forty, escorted by two SA men. They are very poorly clothed.

  GUARD announces: WAR VICTIM!

  All rise and give the Nazi salute.

  SA MAN who has been to collect the pair: Jakob Kehrer, 34 Rummelsburger Allee, and his mother Mrs Anna Kehrer.

  The pair are given slips and envelopes.

  THE OLD WOMAN to the civilians present: Do you think there’ll be another war now?

  Nobody answers. An SA man coughs.

  THE OFFICIAL IN CHARGE to the old woman: Just show your son where to put the cross. To the SA men, but also addressed to the waiting electors: This man was blinded in the war. But he knows where to put his cross. There are plenty of comrades can learn from him. This man gladly and joyfully gave his eyesight for the nation. But now on hearing his Führer’s call he has no hesitation about giving his vote once again for Germany’s honour. His loyalty to our nation has brought him neither possessions nor money. You need only look at his coat to see that. Many a habitual grumbler among our comrades would do well to think what has led such a man to the poll. He points the old woman to the booth: Step in. The old woman hesitantly guides her blind son to the booth. At one moment she stops mistrustfully and looks around. All the SA men are staring at her. She is clearly frightened. And shyly, looking back over her shoulder, she draws the blind man into the booth.

  The new dress

  Look: clothes whose classy label

  Won’t say how they’re unable

  To stand the slightest rain.

  For they’re made of wood and paper

  The wool has been saved for later

  For German troops in Spain.

  Hall of a building. It is raining. Two SA men are standing there. Enter a couple who are taking shelter from the rain.

  THE MAN: Just a few specks. It’ll stop in a moment.

  THE GIRL: Look at my dress. A few drops, and just look at my dress. And it cost 28 marks. Now it’s a bit of old rag. Made in Germany. Two drops of rain and just one rag. Who do they think they are, treating a wage-earner that way? 22 marks a week I get.

  THE MAN: Pipe down.

  THE GIRL: But you bet the wool goes for uniforms. And we’ll soon be left naked. It’s a bloody fraud, I saved up for three months. Gave up coffee. Nobody can make that up to me. They’re a load of …

  ONE OF THE SA MEN: Well, miss?

  The girl notices the SA men and gives a scream.

  THE MAN: She’s just a bit worked up about her dress.

  THE GIRL stammers: I only meant it shouldn’t rain, should it?

  Any good against gas?

  They come with rubber nozzles

  And masks with perspex goggles

  Forceps and sterile gauze.

  They know that gas is fatal

  It’s a part of modern battle

  And of aggressive wars.

  Working-class flat. A worn-out woman and her brother, a worker. It is evening.

  THE WOMAN: Potatoes have gone up again.

  THE BROTHER: They’ll go higher.

  THE WOMAN: If they’ve got nothing for folk to eat they can’t make war.

  THE BROTHER: Wrong. They can’t make war if they’ve got nothing for folk to eat, but then they’ll have to make war.

  THE WOMAN: I’m having trouble with the boy ’cause he won’t stop talking about war, don’t you do the same.

  THE BROTHER: How’s the girl?

  THE WOMAN: She’s coughing.

  THE BROTHER: Seen the doctor, has she?

  THE WOMAN: Yes.

  THE BROTHER: What d’he say?

  THE WOMAN: She needs proper food. The brother laughs.

  THE WOMAN: That’s nothing to laugh about.

  THE BROTHER: What’s your husband say about it?

  THE WOMAN: Nothing.

  THE BROTHER: See anything of the Minzers these days?

  THE WOMAN: No. What’s there to talk about?

  THE BROTHER: Plenty, I’d have thought.

  THE WOMAN: But you can’t talk about that. As you know.

  THE BROTHER: There are people beginning to talk again. And the fewer potatoes there are the more talking they’ll do.

  THE WOMAN: But you were saying there’d be a war.

  THE BROTHER: Someone at the door.

  The woman leaves the cooker, and goes and opens the door. She recoils. In the doorway stand three Hitler Youth members wearing gas-masks.

  THE BROTHER: What sort of a bad joke is this?

  THE THREE: Heil Hitler!

  THE WOMAN: What d’you want?

  THE THREE: Heil Hitler!

  THE WOMAN: Paul’s not here.

  THE THREE: Heil Hitler! One of them takes off his gas-mask.

  THE WOMAN: Paul!

  THE BOY: Cos you’re always going on about when gas comes. We only wanted to show you we’re prepared.

  THE WOMAN has to sit down: I didn’t recognise you.

  One boy thr
ows his gas-mask on the table as the three say ‘Heil Hitler’ and go off laughing.

  THE WOMAN: They’re already at war.

  THE BROTHER picking up the gas-mask: A thing like that’s no better than papier maché. That filter’ll let anything through. It’s rubbish.

  THE WOMAN: What’d be the good of telling him? I’ve still got weak knees. I just didn’t recognise him.

  THE BROTHER: Right, once they get their hooks on anyone he’s not a son any longer.

  THE WOMAN: But what am I to tell him?

  THE BROTHER: That gas-masks are no good against gas.

  THE WOMAN: What is then?

  THE BROTHER in an undertone: I was on the Eastern front in 1917. The fellows in the trenches opposite did something that was. They threw out their government. That was the only thing that was any good, and it was the first time in the history of the world that anyone did it.

  THE WOMAN: You know how thin these walls are.

  THE BROTHER: Bloody muzzle! He throws the gas-mask into the corner. We’ll stay muzzled till we’re forced to open our mouths: once the gas is there.

  There is a ring. The woman quickly and anxiously rises and picks up the gas-mask from the floor.

  A possible last scene for Basel

  Hamburg. 1938. In an impoverished flat three young men in SA uniform are getting themselves ready. The pregnant young wife of the oldest of them stands and watches. The radio blares the final sentences of a militant Hitler speech.

  HITLER’S VOICE over a storm of applause: I have only one thing to say to the world: Nothing, but nothing will halt our progress. Whosoever is against us, lone voices or certain whole nations, they will be ruthlessly overthrown and trampled underfoot.

  Renewed applause.

  FIRST SA MAN: The Führer’s telling them straight, eh? I just don’t get it, how some people still want to swim against the tide. They’re mad.

  SECOND: Off with their heads, that’s the only answer to these international animals. Lechner calls it ‘topping’ them, good eh?

  Laughs uproariously. Topping! Yesterday they topped another couple. One of ’em passed a note for his wife to Lechner, I’ve got it here. I’ll read it for you.

  OLDEST: Later. Handkerchief, Anna. The wife gives him a handkerchief. Now you’ve gone and washed my blues. And I told you you should get Müller to do the washing, in your condition. I should smack you one.