by Hans Fallada
‘And the Prussian atmosphere – you like it? Screaming orders used to be like a red rag to a bull for you! Or is there no more screaming?’
‘Yes, there is,’ admitted Erich. ‘It’s horrible. Sometimes I can hardly control myself. And the screaming’s not the worst, but the mocking and the bullying if someone can’t do what he’s supposed to! Some who’ve never done gymnastics really cannot do things … So they come under the hammer every day for hours on end.’
The politician looked attentively at Erich’s excited face. ‘Now, my dear Erich,’ he said. ‘I hope you can hold your tongue, Prussian-style. The war code is very strict, and rebellion is punished by death. I did once tell you you were really a rebel,’ he added. ‘You will always rage against any compulsion, to the point of your own destruction.’
‘But now I can hold my tongue, Herr Doctor,’ shouted Erich proudly. ‘You can do anything when it’s worthwhile. I think all the time: for a quarter of a year we’ll do training, then we get to the Front and can fight!’
‘Perhaps you’d rather come out, Erich. England’s declared war on us now. Did you know already?’
‘England as well?’ exclaimed the young man, upset. ‘But why? Our cousins of the same blood, and the Kaiser’s a close relative. Why on earth?’
‘Because we’ve infringed Belgian neutrality. That’s what they say. And we really have.’
‘But,’ exclaimed the young man, ‘England’s broken hundreds of agreements in its history! It never respected the law when it was a question of the rights of its own people. And now it’s a question of our rights.’
‘They speak of Christianity and mean cotton!’ quoted the Reichstag deputy, with a sinister smile. ‘They say Belgian neutrality and mean our fleet and our colonies.’
‘But England owns almost a fifth of the world. What do our few colonies weigh against that?’
‘A rich man is never rich enough. We’re going to have a hard time, Erich. Get it clear in your mind that almost the whole world hates Germany.’
‘But why? We only want to live in peace …’
‘Because we’re divided. Because they can never understand us. They always want to, but Germany, my boy, cannot be understood. You must love it or hate it.’
‘Yes,’ said the young man, ‘now I know why I came here … I was right after all, Herr Reichstag Deputy, Herr Social Democrat! You love Germany too – because you also voted for the war credits, all of you, one after another.’
‘Yes,’ admitted the parliamentarian, almost embarrassed. ‘We approved the war. The Reich Chancellor’s speech was lamentable. He told us the truth, but not the whole truth. Much remained obscure …’
‘And you voted Yes!’
‘Austria’s position is ambiguous. The Kaiser speaks of a Nibelung oath, but those we came to the aid of haven’t yet declared war on Russia. The gentlemen in Vienna want to pursue their punitive little war against Serbia, and we’ve got to take on the rest of the world for them.’
‘And yet you said Yes!’
‘Yes, because we love Germany, Erich. Endless mistakes have been made by the Kaiser, by this philosophizing Chancellor – by everyone. But you can’t leave a child in the lurch because of mistakes – or its mother … We voted Yes. We couldn’t do otherwise. The whole people said Yes, Erich. And we didn’t want to be different. Let’s just hope against hope that our rulers will be different in war from what they were in peace …’
‘Everything will be different,’ said Erich.
The parliamentarian looked doubtful.
‘You’ll be doing square-bashing on the barrack parade ground, as ever, Erich. And behaviour in government offices won’t change. Now the will and the faith of the people are one, and they’ll stick together. If they don’t use this moment, if they don’t take up their positions without stupid arrogance at the Front – if they let this opportunity pass unused as well, then, Erich, a terrible time will come. Then everything will come apart, and their time will be over. Today everyone believes in Germany, everybody loves Germany. But if they lose this belief, this love – what then? Perhaps never again.’
‘We will not lose them,’ said Erich. ‘They can make us do square-bashing, they may be arrogant. But they don’t count. There are only a few of them. When I hear them shouting on the parade ground, I always think it’s my father. It’s his way of shouting, his expressions. I hated it so much, it was so unbearable to me, that I often shook at the sound of his voice.’
He paused for a moment, and then said quietly: ‘Now I sometimes think he can’t be any different. He’s become like that. Deep down he loves us – in his own way.’
The parliamentarian shook his head a little. ‘That’s an excuse we can’t accept, Erich. Like that, you could excuse every injustice and nastiness. However, I observe you’ve undergone a remarkable transformation, my son. Something certainly is changing in the Germans. The most rigid party functionary is changing. And it isn’t just ultra-patriotism. Long may it remain, Erich. And may you not miss the moment. Perhaps it will never come again.’
§ XV
The Upper Third was in turmoil. Five minutes ago the bell had rung for lessons after the Long Interval but no master had yet arrived, which happened frequently in the period just after the outbreak of war. More than half the staff had been called up and the school was compelled to carry on with the aid of a few overworked assistant teachers unfit for service; the boys revelled in an unaccustomed freedom. The war, the victorious advances in Belgium and France, the military successes encouraged them to kick over the traces. They felt themselves members of an all-conquering nation: they were the sons and brothers of heroes. When flags were displayed, when church bells rang for the fall of Liège or Antwerp, that was also their glory, their success, their victory.
The pale, bespectacled assistant teacher from the adjoining classroom popped his head through the door and said imploringly: ‘Boys, boys!’
‘Be quiet a moment! He wants something!’
‘My brother wrote that in one cellar they found so many barrels of wine …’
‘Boys!’
‘Do be quiet.’
‘They simply knocked the bottoms out …’
‘Silence, I tell you! Silence!’ The teacher was purple with rage.
‘Are you taking us, Herr Professor?’
‘No, but I should like to take the class next door and with the noise you are making that’s quite impossible.’
‘Nobody is making any noise here.’
‘Who’s making a noise? I’m not. You, Hans?’
‘You’re the only one making a noise here, Herr Professor.’
‘You ought to be ashamed! You call yourselves Germans? A German lad does what he is told. Only those who have learned to obey can command.’
But the unfortunate man had struck the wrong note – they turned spiteful.
‘You’ve no right to give us orders.’
‘Why aren’t you at the Front?’
‘At the Front you can order people about as much as you like.’
‘If you’re unfit for active service you’ve got no say.’
The assistant teacher turned very pale. ‘To be ashamed,’ he murmured. ‘It’s horrible …’
He took a few steps towards the dais, thought better of it, turned quickly round and left the room.
For a moment there was an awkward silence – and they felt a little ashamed after all.
Then a voice shouted: ‘The German says Auf Wiedersehen and not Adieu.’ Laughter. ‘Gott strafe England,’ shouted another. More laughter. ‘And all teaching swine!’ Thunderous applause. Two or three then started the song at that time on everybody’s lips, the song of revenge:
What do we care for Russian or French?
Bullet for bullet and blow for blow.
And more and more joined in till they came to the refrain, when all took it up, the boys marking time with the lids of their desks.
We have one foe alone – England!
&n
bsp; ‘Silence, please!’ It was a quiet but very distinct voice from the dais.
In front stood their teacher, who had entered unnoticed during the singing – an elderly man with a high, bulging brow and a mane of red hair streaked with grey. His blue eyes flashed. Professor Degener, teacher of Latin and Greek, a pot-bellied little man, poorly dressed. ‘Go to your places!’
Shamefaced, they pushed themselves through the benches, cursing under their breath. ‘Make room, stupid.’
‘Stupid yourself – just don’t go to sleep.’
‘You’ll be for it!’
‘Oh lummy! If I get jankers, they’ll throw the book at me.’
‘Degener’s in a rage!’
‘The class has behaved atrociously,’ said the teacher amid a deep silence. ‘Not only is it un-German to reproach someone else with a physical defect’ – he spoke German as if he were translating from his beloved Latin – ‘but it is regarded as disgraceful by all the nations of the world, even by the English. Indeed, it is disgraceful anywhere. Herr Tulieb is suffering from an affliction of the lungs and ought to be in a nursing home. But he is instructing you instead, because at present there is a shortage of teachers. One can die for one’s country in other ways than on the field of honour. Shame on you!’
He stood over them like a flame. They sat below. Some hung their heads, others looked glumly out of the window. A few, however, looked straight at the angry teacher.
‘Three of you,’ said Professor Degener, ‘the three who regard themselves as the most guilty, will now repair to the next room and apologize to Herr Tulieb in front of his class. They will request him to forgive them. Understand, boys, this is to be no mere form of words but an expression of your guilt and repentance. Your repentance!’ He looked round the class. ‘I shall leave you for five minutes. During that time the class will decide upon the punishment to be self-imposed for its disgraceful behaviour.’
‘That’s one to the jaw!’ came a whisper.
‘Five minutes!’ repeated the teacher, running his eye over his flock before hurrying out of the room, his little thin legs supporting his egg-like pot belly.
‘One up for the old beast!’ someone said.
‘Choose your words, man,’ said another, hitting the first boy on his biceps. ‘Degener’s quite right. Who’s going to apologize?’
They looked at one another, embarrassed.
‘Well, me to begin with,’ said Hoffmann. ‘Then – how about you, Hackendahl?’
‘I don’t mind. But I won’t do the talking.’
‘I’ll go too,’ said Porzig.
‘No, not you, Porzig, you’ll have to confer here about our self-punishment. But think of something that’s going to satisfy Redhead – it’ll have to be pretty stiff. You’d better be the third, Lindemann.’
They hurried away and knocked. ‘Come in,’ croaked Tulieb. Then he recognized them. ‘Leave this room at once,’ he cried.
The other class looked in delighted malice at the three penitents.
‘Hoffmann and Hackendahl in Canossa!’ shouted someone quite loud. ‘Fetch some snow. It’ll make kneeling cooler.’
‘Sir, we’ve come …’
‘Will you do what I tell you here, at least? Get out of this room! I don’t wish to see you.’ Herr Tulieb was not a magnanimous victor.
‘We behaved like swine,’ said Hoffmann hoarsely. ‘We beg you to forgive us.’
‘Forgive you? That’s easily said. You disparaged my honour.’
‘Do forgive us, Herr Tulieb,’ cried Heinz. ‘From now onwards we’ll behave decently.’
‘Will you?’ Herr Tulieb smiled. ‘I want this class to look at you lads and take an example from the melancholy results of disobedience … You’re not going to be let off as easily as this, however. Has Professor Degener punished you?’
‘No.’
‘Naturally – he has left it to me. I can see in your faces that you’re the three ringleaders … You’re to write out three hundred times the line Sunt pueri pueri, pueri puerilia tractant. Translate, you!’
‘Children will be children and do childish things,’ said Heinz.
‘Children, yes! That’s how I regard you. Now go!’
Silent and furious, the three boys stood in the corridor.
‘I could see you hesitating, Hackendahl,’ whispered Lindemann. ‘You were absolutely furious.’
‘I certainly was! But I thought how as a soldier you had to let yourself be shouted at without pulling a face. I only wobbled a little.’
‘Merde, we have to copy out the sentence 300 times and we never said a word!’
‘It was mainly Lange, the wretched swine.’
‘Well, there’s nothing to be done now. Do you want to hear what the others have hatched out meanwhile?’
It was not too alarming: the class had decided to spend the next four Sundays helping with the harvest on the municipal estates, since labour was scarce and the harvest very much behind.
‘Moderate!’ declared Hoffmann. ‘Will Redhead consider it enough?’
‘And you? How did you get on with Old Four-Eyes?’
‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about it …’
And indeed they had no time to do so, for Professor Degener now returned. ‘Is it all settled? Good! No, thank you, I don’t want any particulars. I’m quite sure you’ve arranged everything properly. Now, before taking out our Caesars, we have something to do. Stand up!’
They stood.
‘Attention! The class is informed that two old boys, both of whom had been in the top form, have made the supreme sacrifice: Günther Schwarz, private in the 3rd Foot Guards, and Herbert Simmichen, volunteer serving with the 3rd Battery of the 15th Field Artillery. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori …’
A moment’s silence.
‘Sit down! I will read you the reports of their Commanding Officers about the death of your classmates …’
§ XVI
‘There’s still a ring missing. Where’s yours, Evchen?’
‘I haven’t got one, Father.’
‘Of course you have – one with a brown stone. Isn’t that so, Mother? Evchen had a ring?’
Frau Hackendahl sat tearfully at the round table whereon her husband had placed all the gold in the house – his beloved large watch with its heavy chain, her small enamelled one with a gold brooch for pinning it to the breast, a gold pencil case, a pair of large cufflinks – the value doubtful – a gold cross and thin chain which Sophie had been given on her confirmation, wedding rings that age had worn smooth and thin, a gold brooch and false pearl hanging from it, together with seven ten-mark and five twenty-mark gold pieces.
Everywhere, on walls and on advertisement pillars, was placarded the appeal: Gold I gave for Iron. Bring your gold to the Gold-Purchase Centres. The newspapers wrote daily about it. Gentlemen were much admired who were already wearing the thin iron chain that had replaced the gold one in their waistcoats.
‘Not a bit of gold is to remain in the house,’ said Hackendahl. ‘We must give up the lot. Isn’t there anything else? Mother, didn’t you have some little things or other in the ears once – not earrings, more like buttons? I seem to remember them.’
‘Oh, dear,’ wailed the old woman, ‘those tiny things – please leave me those. There’s no harm in keeping something to remember one’s youth by. They weigh next to nothing. A trifle like that won’t make or break the government.’
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ decided Hackendahl. ‘We’re supposed to give all our gold to the government and we will. I don’t understand you, Mother. You had to give up Erich and Otto and now you’re crying over a couple of gold thingummies.’
‘But I also cry about Erich and Otto. When I hear the postman on the stairs I always begin to cry …’
‘I know, Mother,’ he said soothingly. ‘It’s not easy, but it must be done so that we win. And we get iron in exchange, Mother! Why otherwise am I called Iron Gustav? Iron suits us much better than gold.’
‘I�
��ll get them.’ And she went into the bedroom.
Hackendahl looked round. Eva had gone too. No, he hadn’t forgotten Eva. He looked at the heap of gold – no, her ring wasn’t there. Everything had to be given up. To keep back the article most treasured was no sacrifice at all.
He listened. The place was quiet. But it always was whenever Heinz was at school. He was the only one who brought a bit of life into the house. Eva used to go about singing, but she didn’t now. Still as the grave. And he’d have to go to her room soon and fetch the ring.
Hackendahl sat down in his wife’s chair and looked at the golden heap. For a man in his position he was sacrificing a great deal. But it was not enough. There was a ring missing. Though only a trifle was withheld it rendered the sacrifice to no avail. It was just as in the army – partial order was no order. A spot on a button, a speck on the heel of a brilliantly polished boot – and there was no order.
That’s why you were here – on the planet, in Germany, in the coach yard, in this house – to see that in this place, for which the Hackendahls were responsible, everything was in order. Then you felt good and had a good conscience about yourself and before your Kaiser and the Almighty. You just mustn’t give in, yield to no exceptions, be cast-iron. Iron!
Lost in his thoughts, Hackendahl pushed the gold coins to and fro, building little towers and afterwards arranging them in something like a cross. Yes, Otto had already been awarded the Iron Cross. Who would have thought the boy had it in him? But it must have been an accident, though he was certainly no weakling. It had been a good day, being able to tell people: my son’s been awarded the Iron Cross. He had gone with the news everywhere, not forgetting the taverns, where of late he had spent a good deal of time, as one did now that Rabause saw to everything and one had nothing much to do. Hackendahl’s whole life had been one of intense activity – who would have thought that a war, a great war, would force him to become acquainted with boredom and inaction?
Hackendahl sat there frowning and played with his gold coins. He was absolutely sure that neither Mother nor Eva had given up their valuables to him, which he would have to find and chase. But he sat there and could not decide! Was it because he feared a confrontation with his daughter? That ring with the brown stone – she must have been given it by her young man.
