by Hans Fallada
‘See? Your father was quite right. It’s of no importance if a chief stable boy uses the informal “you” when talking to the Governor’s son. You’re not ten years old any more, as you were back then when I came here. You’re now twenty-five.’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘All right, twenty-four.’ And Rabause kicked thoughtfully against the chest. ‘Well, you may have to play at soldiers again …’
‘Me? Never! Once is enough.’
‘But suppose there’s a war?’
‘There won’t be a war.’
‘Didn’t you read the special editions yesterday about the Serbs assassinating the Austrian Crown Prince? There’ll be war, you see.’
‘What have we got to do with the Serbs? Where are they, anyhow?’
‘I don’t know exactly, Ottchen, somewhere that way …’ Rabause pointed vaguely across the stable.
‘Well, there you are! That’s why there can’t be a war.’
Both were silent a while.
‘If the Governor doesn’t come soon I’d better feed the horses … The cabs have to go out on time … Hadn’t you better go and see, Ottchen?’
‘Father said he was coming at once.’
‘I’ll call him myself if you’re afraid, Ottchen.’
‘I shouldn’t, Rabause. Father’ll come.’
‘What’s the matter? A dust-up?’
Otto nodded.
‘Again? So early? What’s it about?’
‘Nothing …’
‘I suppose there’s a saucepan out of place again in the kitchen. The Governor overdoes it; he’s killing himself and the others too. You’ve got no guts left as it is, Ottchen.’
‘Oh, I’ll stick it for the present. But I wouldn’t say No to a war if I could get out of this place. I’d like some peace and quiet for a change, not always to be barked at.’
‘But they bark at you in the Prussian Army too, Ottchen.’
‘Not as Father does, though.’
‘There!’ cried Rabause, ‘we’re in trouble now. Come, Ottchen.’ And he ran to the stable door.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to stay here?’ asked Otto indecisively, but then followed Rabause out of the stable.
§ IX
Across the courtyard came old Hackendahl shoving Erich, dressed only in shirt and trousers, in front of him. The women, frightened and curious, were peering out of the windows. The son’s defiance had ended in the father getting beside himself with rage.
‘So you want to be a student, eh?’ the old man was shouting, pushing Erich so that he stumbled. ‘Well, you’re a blackguard, a thief!’
‘I’ll not put up with it,’ cried Erich, ‘I’ll …’
‘Sir! Please, sir, you’re waking the neighbours,’ begged the alarmed stableman.
‘Just have a look, Rabause, at this young gentleman who’s squandered eighty marks in one night and says he has the right to do it. Stand still, you, when your father speaks to you. I’ll show you who’s master in this house. I’m taking you away from school today.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I can. I swear I’ll do it, and today.’
‘Sir, don’t upset yourself so …’ began Rabause.
‘Father!’
‘Yes, you can call me Father now, when it’s too late. But there’s an end of fathering for you, my lad; henceforward I’m just your boss – and I’ll see that you learn to obey. Quick, into the stables! From today on you’re a stable hand here. And I can promise you, you’ll have so much mucking-out and cleaning …’
‘I’ll never do it, Father! I’d rather run away than touch a pitchfork!’
‘Think about it, Governor – such a good head on him.’
‘Good? For what? For theft! No, Erich. Into the stables with you!’
‘I won’t!’
‘At once!’
‘Never!’
‘You refuse to obey your father?’
‘I’ll never set foot in the stables, and I’ll never lay hands on a pitchfork!’
‘Erich, don’t go too far! Go into the stables, do the work, obey – and we’ll see at the end of a year—’
‘A year? Not an hour, not a minute!’
‘You won’t go?’
‘Never!’
His father stood, thinking, almost calm.
‘Ottchen, do talk to Erich,’ begged old Rabause. ‘He must be sensible. It needn’t be for a year, your father’ll be satisfied with a month, a week even – once he’s sure of his good intentions.’
‘Erich …’ entreated Otto.
‘Be quiet,’ shouted Erich. ‘You poor worm! If you hadn’t cringed to Father he wouldn’t have got like this.’
‘Come!’ said the old man, as if he had heard nothing. ‘Come!’ He put his hand on his son’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I won’t go into the stables.’
‘Come!’ said the father, dragging his son along in the direction of the house. ‘Bring me the cellar key, Otto.’
Otto ran off.
‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Erich.
‘Come,’ said his father.
They had reached the house. Not to go upstairs, however, but down into the cellar.
‘And here you stay till you come to your senses,’ said the father, opening the cellar door. ‘I give you my word I won’t let you out till you knuckle under.’
‘Here?’ demanded Erich incredulously, looking into the dark cellar. ‘You’re going to lock me up in here?’
‘You’ll stay here till you’ve come to your senses.’
‘You can’t, you mustn’t!’
‘Oh yes, I can. Give me the key, Otto. Go in, Erich! Or will you obey me and work in the stables?’
‘Father!’ The son held onto the door jamb. ‘Listen, for God’s sake! You give way for once. Perhaps I’ve been a bit silly. I promise I’ll change …’
‘Good! Change by going into the stables, then.’
‘Never!’
‘Then in you go!’ Abruptly the father pushed his son into the cellar. Erich flung himself against the door. ‘Father!’
Hackendahl turned the key. Fists were heard drumming from inside, and an almost unrecognizable voice shouted, ‘Tyrant, slave-driver, hangman!’
‘Let’s feed the horses, Otto,’ he said and went.
‘You’re too hard, Father,’ whispered Otto.
‘What?’ shouted his father, and remained standing (the prisoner continuing to shout). ‘What?! As if he wasn’t hard on me!’ He looked at his son reproachfully. ‘Don’t you think it doesn’t hurt me? Let’s feed the animals, Otto.’
§ X
He had walked up the cellar steps like a very old man, but he stepped into the yard with a firm tread. ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, ‘and may God help us all!’ In what was almost his old domineering voice he called to the women at the window: ‘Haven’t you anything to do? Get on with your work.’
The faces vanished at once, and Hackendahl entered the stables. ‘Everything in order, Rabause?’
‘Everything in order here.’ The word ‘here’ was the sole allusion Rabause dared to make to recent events.
There was much to do in the hour that followed – hasty, silent work. By half past six the horses had to be ready for the day trips.
But still, Otto repeatedly found a moment to go through the stable door and listen for the cellar. He heard nothing, but that didn’t mean that his brother had been brought to heel. That possibility seemed unlikely – almost as unlikely as that of his father giving way. Sighing heavily, Otto went back to work again. He noticed that the stableman, Rabause, looked out of the stable door more often than usual – only his father behaved as if nothing had happened.
Only when the night cabs started coming in did old Hackendahl leave the stables. As usual he spoke to every driver, examined the taxi-meters, reckoned up the moneys and entered them in his book. Business had been unusually good that night; the cabs had hardly waited on their stands at all. With a good de
al of money in his possession Hackendahl revived. Not everything was hopeless. Business was good!
Shouting to Rabause that the night horses were to get an extra ration of oats, he turned to one of the drivers. ‘And how did you get on, Willem?’
‘There was a lot happening. Folks still all hot and bothered about that Archduke’s murder. Three times I had to drive to Scherl’s where the telegrams are posted up. They’ve got the murderer under lock and key, Herr Hackendahl. He’s a student, I forget his name. He swallowed poison on the spot but spewed it up again.’
‘A student, eh? And people stay up all night on account of him? He wants his behind thrashing till it bleeds, that’s what he deserves. Hanging’s too quick, he ought to suffer a bit first … But there’s no discipline left in the world.’
The old driver looked up from the blue cushion he was brushing. ‘D’you think so, Herr Hackendahl? I think there’s too much discipline, too much spit an’ polish. A man’s not a machine, he’s a living creature with feelings …’
But old Willem had chosen the wrong moment, for just then his colleague Piepgras drove into the yard. Though it was a mild summer morning he had the hood up and the apron across, just as if it were raining cats and dogs. And it seemed that there was a reason.
‘Yes, Herr Hackendahl,’ said Piepgras, as he climbed down from his box, puffing and blowing and pushing from his wrinkled brow the top hat bearing his number. ‘Will you stand still, Ottilie? The stupid beast won’t ever wait for its fodder. Well, Herr Hackendahl, you tell me what was I to do! One o’clock at night they both got in my cab at Alten Kuhstall and he said go past the Lehrter into the Tiergarten and then on and on till I knock. I didn’t notice he’d had one over the eight. Well, knock he didn’t, so on I went, on and on, and every now and then I’d ask is it far enough now? But no reply, nothing, and when I do stop I see they’re both dossing. Talk about sleep! Shaking’s no good and shouting’s no good, just boozy drivel from the chap. Not a word about his address or suchlike.’
‘You’re always doing this,’ said Hackendahl, annoyed. ‘Wake them up! Get the money and see that they clear out of my yard.’
‘But, Herr Hackendahl,’ said the driver reproachfully, ‘they’re mere children and it’s true love straight from the songbook.’ Slowly Piepgras removed the hood of his cab and undid the apron. Quite a lot of people were looking on – drivers tired from the night shift and others arriving fresh for the day’s work. Nor were Otto and Rabause inclined to miss anything – old Piepgras was always up to something. Even the women in the house had smelled a joke and were again looking out of the window, thirteen-year-old Heinz between them.
It was no unpleasant sight. Even if they had got into the cab drunk, the pair now slept as sweetly as children and, as was fitting, her head lay on his breast and they were holding hands as though they wished to be together even in sleep …
‘Well, Herr Hackendahl, did I lead you up the garden path? Does you good, doesn’t it? To see this in the Imperial city of Berlin, where the tarts can’t help treading on each other’s heels. But there’s something of everything in Berlin …’
Who can say what passed through old Hackendahl’s mind at the sight of those two lovers? He too had been young once and saw that this was still puppy love, something light, something happy …
But Piepgras had mentioned tarts and Hackendahl may well have recollected how his daughter would sometimes sneak into a café with a very bad name, or thought of his son who had stunk of cheap perfume that very morning. With a bound he was on the cab, shaking the sleepers and yelling: ‘Wake up! Clear out of my yard, you!’
It was the young girl who woke first. Starting up, she gazed at the unfamiliar place and the unknown faces looking at them with surprised and sullen expressions; naturally she could not know that this had nothing to do with her but was a result of Iron Gustav’s outburst. Seizing her friend’s hand she pulled him out of his seat, crying: ‘Erich, do wake up. What has happened?’ And she was off, picking up her long skirts and running across the yard to the gate, her Erich behind her.
Old Hackendahl, however, quite enraged by the name of Erich, ran beside them, storming, while Piepgras, who had never expected his little joke to end thus, ran imploringly on the other side: ‘Herr Hackendahl, what are you doing? The gentleman hasn’t paid me yet. Stop, sir! Stop and pay me my fare.’
But the young girl and the young man ran quicker than ever, away from the sullen faces into the fresh, blue June morning.
At first old Hackendahl remained standing. He stood beneath the stone gatepost with the golden ball, wiped his face and looked, wide awake, into all the faces. However, the faces all turned away, embarrassed. Each got on with, or pretended to get on with, his work. Iron Gustav went silently into the yard, shouting at only half-strength as he went, ‘Finish up, Otto!’ and disappeared into the house.
The yard immediately became a turmoil of secrets and rumours, at their thickest around the now heavily breathing Piepgras, who had just returned. He had not been able to catch the young people. Love that night had got off scot-free.
§ XI
In the Hackendahl household the breakfast coffee always appeared on the stroke of seven, and whatever his feelings may have been this morning, Iron Gustav stood erect at the head of the table at seven o’clock precisely, listening to Heinz saying grace. Then there was a shuffling of chairs and feet and Mother ladled out the porridge.
In the silence they could hear the spoons scraping on the plates, and first one then the other looked at Erich’s empty chair. Now and then the mother, thinking of her hungry son in the cellar, sighed and muttered: ‘Oh God!’ but no one took any notice until she complained: ‘You’re not eating again this morning. What’s the matter with you all? At least you might, Bubi. You’ve no reason to starve.’
Heinz looked shrewdly at his father and said, his adolescent voice breaking into bass: ‘Plenus venter non studet libenter – a full belly doesn’t agree with study. In the interests of my Latin examination restraint is necessary in the consumption of foodstuffs.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed the mother. ‘That’s what one gets for letting one’s children study. You don’t understand a word they say.’ She spoke no further. Her eyes had filled with tears. Everyone could see that she was thinking of her son in the cellar – his studies had come to an end.
‘Shut up!’ growled Hackendahl at Heinz.
‘Certainly, pater patriae.’ And, not at all crushed: ‘Shall I take a note about Erich to school?’
The father flashed an angry look at his son, the others bowed their heads, but the storm passed without breaking. Hackendahl only pushed back his chair and went to his room.
Half an hour later, Heinz had gone to school and Sophie to the hospital. Eva cleared up with the little maid. Frau Hackendahl was washing vegetables in the kitchen, and in the stables Otto and old Rabause were discussing whether or not to remind Father about his private tours.
The cash book was open before him and the morning’s takings on the desk, but he did not check or enter them up; he sat there and brooded, telling himself a hundred times that the world wouldn’t come to an end because of a thief in the family or because an employer had lost his self-control in front of his men.
No, the world hadn’t ended, but his own private world had. He brooded about why his children never wanted what he did, why they were always contrary. He had always obeyed all authority with pleasure, but if his children ever did still obey him, they did so unwillingly, with sulks and objections. But perhaps what had happened today was really not so bad and would be forgotten and buried in a few months or half a year. But it really was bad! Because it was not only house theft, but led to decline, collapse, and completely ignored everything he had achieved.
Frowning, he stared at the money. The amount, large as it was, didn’t please him; he had no desire to enter it up – there was another entry to be made first. Yes, he must make it. And, taking up the pen, he hesitated, then laid it dow
n again. Despairingly he stared at the ledger. What he had to do was an offence against order and rectitude.
A thought struck him – perhaps only an excuse for delay: wasn’t there a chance that all the stolen money hadn’t been spent? He hurried to the boys’ room, where Eva was making the beds. He could send her away … but … was a father to be ashamed before his own children? Almost defiantly he took Erich’s jacket and waistcoat, which were hanging over the chair, and hunted through the pockets, finding nothing however but the proof of fresh disobedience – some cigarettes. This did not reawaken his wrath, though; he merely crushed them so that the tobacco was reduced to shreds on the floor. ‘Sweep up that filth,’ he said, and went into the kitchen. The kitchen was empty.
He cut off a chunk of bread, about the quantity allowed to delinquents in the army, but looked in vain for the kind of glazed jug used for a prisoner’s water and, after some hesitation, took an enamel measure and filled it, letting the tap run for some time so that the water should be fresh. Even a prisoner has his rights.
As he turned into the corridor leading to the cellar he heard whispering, listened, coughed and went on. His wife slipped past him. ‘No one has any business here,’ he said severely, and unlocked the cellar.
The son stood at a window so small that it could be hidden by two hands. He did not turn round. Putting the bread on a box and placing the water beside it, the father said: ‘Here’s your food, Erich.’
The son did not move.
‘Say “Thank you”.’
No reply.
Hackendahl waited another moment, then he said more sternly: ‘Turn out your pockets, Erich. I want to see if you’ve any money left.’
Still the son did not move. In a rage Hackendahl went up to him and shouted: ‘Can’t you hear? Turn out your pockets!’ Yes, that was the old steely sergeant-major’s bark that had once called a whole company to attention, a voice that struck home to every man-Jack of them. And his son, too, jumped, turning out his pockets without a word. But they held nothing. Hackendahl couldn’t believe it. ‘All that money!’ he cried. ‘Eighty marks squandered in a single evening. It’s not possible.’ Amazed by such laughable simplicity, the son shot a glance at his father. ‘I could easily have spent eight hundred,’ he boasted. ‘What else is money for?’
