Iron Gustav

by Hans Fallada

  ‘Oh,’ said the lieutenant, ‘so it was your father who broke your spirit. And now you daren’t face the girl, eh?’

  ‘Herr Lieutenant, Gertrud’s never said a word to me. It’s my father I daren’t face.’

  ‘But, Hackendahl, you can’t be afraid of your father still – a man like you who has proved himself a hundred times in action. You’re quite different now from what you were two years ago. Is your father really such a tyrant?’

  ‘Not at all, Herr Lieutenant. Fundamentally he’s a good man, but anyone who isn’t like him or doesn’t do and think in his way he treats as an enemy and really hates. He imagines he’s doing heaven a service by making life hell for him. And he regarded me – his son – in the same sort of way, as if I were a kind of enemy, and a bad one.’

  ‘I know people like that,’ said the lieutenant eagerly. He’d been moved by the corporal’s story. Memories came back to him – he heard the droning sound of the grown-ups’ Bible-reading when he was a child. ‘I knew that kind of thing too,’ he had called out, and then began to relate: ‘Last time I went on leave I stayed with an uncle, a landowner. Not much hunger there, they provide for themselves. They don’t need ration cards – they’re called self-supporting. You must have heard of it.’

  Hackendahl nodded.

  ‘Yes, and when I left they asked me to take a packet of food to another uncle, his brother, who was a retired president of a provincial court of justice and lived in a town. “You’ll manage it all right,” laughed my uncle. I didn’t quite know what he was referring to unless he meant the size of the parcel, which I had to lug about the train and not lose sight of.’ The lieutenant stopped for a moment; he was thinking how annoyed he had been about all the bother it had caused him, yet glad at realizing the happiness such a parcel could bring. ‘Yes, so I took the parcel to the other uncle. I hadn’t seen him for a long time and was startled to see how greatly he had changed. His face was shrunken and hardly bigger than a child’s. It looked dreadful. And then his neck, his pitiful neck, with the skin hanging down in flaps! You must know, Hackendahl, that my uncle was one of those people with a Prussian sense of duty; he had got it into his head that he had to live on his ration cards and in consequence he was almost starving to death. “The government knows what it’s doing,” he said, “and if it has worked out that one can live on one’s rations then it can be done.” ’

  Lieutenant von Ramin saw himself sitting with his uncle, who fittingly entertained his young guest, pouring him a glass of wine – magnificent wine – for wine could be had without cards and the uncle was a rich man. But on a wooden platter by the side of the glass lay a slice of bread, such a thin little slice that one could almost see the grain of the wood through it. And on the bread was a bit of fat, a very meagre portion of egg and a miserable salted fish …

  ‘Eat, my boy,’ the uncle said. ‘I hope you like it.’ And his voice trembled. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

  ‘And I had thought,’ said Lieutenant von Ramin, ‘that my parcel of food would be regarded as a godsend! But now I understood what my uncle in the country had meant when he said – “You’ll manage it all right.” For I didn’t manage it. “Do you want to corrupt a German judge into breaking the law?” shouted my rich uncle. “Get out of my house! How could I sleep at night if I myself broke the law? I have sentenced tens of thousands of thieves and cheats in my life and I should have sentenced them all unjustly if I myself was unjustly privileged.” And all the time he kept looking hungrily at the parcel. He must have suffered terribly, poor old man.’

  ‘One can understand him, though,’ said Otto. ‘He was ashamed of weakening.’

  ‘You say that,’ said the lieutenant angrily. ‘My mother said the same – he was a great man, he had died for an ideal! Because he did die, shortly afterwards, from a chill. No strength left. But he wasn’t a great man, Hackendahl, any more than your father is. It isn’t great to starve to death for one’s Fatherland. How did it benefit his country? He died for a false god, an idol, the sort of thing that savages worship. Something wooden, lifeless.’

  Hackendahl was silent.

  ‘You see, Hackendahl, at first one is deeply moved to learn that so-and-so has died for an ideal, literally died, when he could have lived comfortably. But death isn’t enough; you must die for something living, and the Prussian sense of duty is dead and has been a long time. It was born in a period more than a hundred years ago when people lived in the bitterest poverty and with nothing to guide them – they had to have some such standard of conduct. But all that was finished with long before the war. No, the old idols are done for. If this war is to have any meaning then something new and living must come out of it.’

  Hackendahl said nothing.

  ‘I say it is good that Uncle Eduard died. And you ought not to be afraid to go on leave and see your father. Man, it’s you who are living and he who is dead.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Otto Hackendahl in a low voice, ‘whether the Herr Lieutenant sees things correctly – a man is still a child to his father and mother. And I should prefer it to be done decently, without a quarrel. He’s my father and not to be blamed for what he is.’

  ‘So you’re afraid after all, Hackendahl,’ said the lieutenant impatiently.

  ‘Of course I’m afraid. That’s why I don’t go on leave.’

  ‘You brood too much, man. You keep on imagining how you’ll enter your father’s room and what you’ll say … But you know, Hackendahl, that when you’re waiting for zero hour you imagine a hundred horrors, and every now and then you look at the time and then at the sky to see whether the Verey lights are going up – and to put it plainly you’re in the hell of a funk. But when the moment comes you go over the top with a yell and you’ve forgotten all your terrors.’

  ‘But there are some who don’t, Herr Lieutenant.’

  ‘Well, you’re not one of them – you get stage fright, that’s all. And now I’ll tell you something, Corporal. If we get back safe and sound from this blasted ice house I shall officially order you to go on leave, d’you understand?’

  Otto smiled, but it was a cheerful smile. And when the lieutenant saw this, he too felt cheerful. For a long time they remained silent, freezing.

  Twice the lieutenant said: ‘Oh damn! Oh damn!’ and yet again: ‘Damn! Damn!’

  ‘What are you damning, Herr Lieutenant?’

  ‘Not being able to smoke.’

  ‘Yes, that’s really damnable. But the wind’s in the direction of the French – they’d smell it.’

  ‘And send us a couple of hand grenades.’

  ‘That’s so, Herr Lieutenant.’

  Towards four o’clock the sky cleared, which made things worse, since the planes now came over – at this stage of the war the French dominated the air, flying low over the trenches, with machine-guns rattling or, higher up, signalling to their artillery with Verey lights.

  Lieutenant von Ramin and Otto Hackendahl threw themselves flat on their bellies and hid their faces. Towards evening the gunfire broke out again and they heard the crash of shells coming closer. In the French trenches the machine-guns started and those from the other side replied.

  ‘Will it never get dark?’ they groaned.

  Gradually it grew quieter; they could feel rain on their necks. Cautiously they began to stir; impossible for their stiffened limbs ever to be supple again.

  ‘Damned cold!’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘We must manage it tonight somehow.’

  ‘Yes, tonight! But it’s raining.’

  ‘It won’t rain for long.’

  More and more waiting, hour after hour. It never became really dark. The moon wasn’t visible but there was a pale glow in the sky.

  ‘Let’s wait another hour,’ suggested the lieutenant, his teeth chattering.

  ‘I’ve still a mouthful of cherry brandy left, Herr Lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes, pass it over! No, don’t bother. No. Really no. Don’t forget you promised to go on leave if we
get out of here safe and sound!’

  Otto did not reply.

  ‘Say yes,’ urged the lieutenant. ‘I’ve a feeling it will bring us luck.’

  ‘All right, then, Herr Lieutenant.’

  It grew no darker, nor did the sector quieten down again. There was constant shooting, a scream, the rattle of a machine-gun.

  ‘We’re not across yet, my boy,’ said the lieutenant grimly.

  ‘I’m only afraid they may shoot us from our own trench,’ said Hackendahl.

  ‘You see – you’re not indifferent, either, to the kind of heroic death you die.’

  Midnight – and, if anything, rather lighter. The lieutenant was in a state of agonizing indecision, his teeth chattering from the cold and possibly from excitement also. It was easier for Hackendahl – he had merely to await orders.

  Suddenly from the French trenches came a burst of laughter, immediately stifled, but—

  ‘Now’s the time, Herr Lieutenant!’ whispered Hackendahl.

  ‘Come on,’ the other almost shouted.

  They crawled out of the shell hole. The French parapet seemed so near that they could almost have touched it, the German trench so far as to be out of sight.

  ‘Crawl!’ gasped the lieutenant.

  They had made their plans beforehand. They were to crawl within a certain distance of the German trench and then call out to the sentry. But the lieutenant was carried away by excitement. After thirty or forty metres he rose to his feet.

  ‘Run! They can’t see us now,’ he yelled.

  They ran, the lieutenant in front. Hackendahl thought he heard a shout – then came the report of a Verey pistol and a light rose above them, blinding and growing brighter …

  ‘Lie down, Herr Lieutenant,’ begged Hackendahl.

  ‘Run!’ shouted the lieutenant, and ran.

  Behind them shots cracked, the parapet of the German trench was clearly visible, more Verey lights rose …

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ yelled the lieutenant. ‘Germans! Comrades!’

  The French were shooting.

  The lieutenant stood still. ‘I’ve stopped one, though. Run on, man.’

  Hackendahl dragged him along. He let himself fall over the parapet onto the shoulders of his comrades.

  An hour later, when the firing had died down, stretcher-bearers carried Lieutenant von Ramin away.

  ‘That was a bit of luck,’ said he, smiling at Otto. ‘A clean hole through the biceps. Won’t even take me home. I’ll be back in three weeks.’ And in a whisper: ‘You remember what you promised, Hackendahl, about the leave?’

  ‘But the Herr Lieutenant hasn’t come out unhurt.’

  ‘Are you going to quibble with your sacred word? No nonsense, now! Report for leave at once!’

  ‘At your command, Herr Lieutenant!’

  § VII

  It did after all take some time before Otto Hackendahl got his leave. Outwardly, he didn’t change much. Perhaps he put on his gas mask a bit earlier than usual when the shout went up: ‘Gas attack!’ Perhaps the day, with its shooting and minor skirmishes, seemed longer. But he did his duty as usual. His section was in the trenches. There was always something to do.

  At night he slept deep and without dreams. He didn’t think any more about the future conflict with his father. All that seemed to lie very far back. Ever since he’d spoken about his cowardice to Lieutenant von Ramin, so that another person – not just Tutti – knew about it, this cowardice seemed not to exist. Strange contradiction!

  Then the time was up. His company commander shook him by the hand. ‘Come back in a good state, Hackendahl,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them get at you with their silly ideas back there. They say it’s pretty nasty.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  A couple of comrades accompanied him for a bit out of the trenches. He was given letters to deliver personally, with greetings and parcels.

  ‘Have a good time, Hackendahl,’ they said. ‘Who knows how we’ll meet up again. We’re due for another attack.’

  He went on alone. The day had not yet dawned. The road was full of ammunition convoys returning from the Front, and out-of-service field kitchens and ambulances.

  Once a lightly built, large vehicle went by – a staff car. Indistinctly he saw faces inside, and gained an impression of mirrors, crimson, silk and immaculate uniforms.

  Later he diverted from the road. The day was gradually dawning. He had time. In farms that lay scattered under trees, life was stirring here and there. A light shone in a stable. He heard cows mooing for their food. Buckets clattered – good!

  He walked as he had no longer walked for two years – slowly, comfortably, safely. He looked at the winter corn in the fields. It was emerald-green and glowed in the rising sun. It would be a clear day, today. A bad day for those in the trenches, he thought – good flying weather. He was happy and sad – happy that there were still animals and growing corn, and not just earth mangled by grenades and rats. And he felt a bit guiltily sad about the comrades he’d left in the trenches.

  From far away he already heard the thunder of guns and was uneasy. The farms and the winter corn no longer made him happy. He began to go faster.

  He looked at his watch. There was still plenty of time before his train left for Lille.

  He went even faster. He forced himself to stop by a wild-rose bush. Winter had taken its leaves, but thick, bright red rosehips hung from its branches. They shone in the sun, wet with rain. I’ve got time, he said to himself, impatiently. I can take my time appreciating the beauty of these rosehips …

  Suddenly he realized that he was terribly homesick, that he longed for Tutti, for her face and for her soft, dove-like eyes. He no longer knew what Gustäving looked like. He would now be twice as old as when he’d left for the Front. There had been big changes as far as his parents were concerned. Father again drove a cab by himself. He couldn’t imagine his father on a coach box. He would like to see Father again.

  Yes, he suddenly felt homesick – homesick for all and sundry. For Rabause and for the broken old nag, and he saw his own wood-carving knives before him.

  He was homesick, and now, well behind the Front, he was worried that something could happen to him before he got home. He looked at the time. He had an hour before his train left, and hardly a quarter of an hour left to walk.

  All the same, he began to run. He ran ever faster. He saw the station. Not a train was to be seen. Nevertheless he ran faster. Like most men, he’d often been frightened at the thought of a bullet in the balls, but had long got over it. Now the fear came again. They mustn’t get him. Not now, especially not now when he was going home!

  He was only calm again when he was sitting in the train, which was crowded with others on leave, who were going home like him, or those going to Lille for a few days. Those going home on leave were almost all very quiet: all the noisier were the others. They recommended pubs and girls to each other, cracked dirty jokes and were determined – after the spectral life in the trenches – to fill their few hours of leave with as much ‘real life’ as possible (life in this case mostly meaning alcohol).

  In Lille he had more time. His train left at noon. He stood hesitating and undecided in front of the station. He could have visited Erich who, according to reports from their mother, was in some kind of office here performing useful and important work. But he couldn’t decide to do so.

  Instead he decided to have a look at the town, and slowly made his way. He was soon caught up in the hurly-burly. With astonishment he saw the shop windows filled with luxury goods, and the flashy officers with monocles and clinking spurs who went past him, little riding whips hanging from a leather loop round their wrists. Orderlies ran self-importantly about with briefcases; their spotless trousers had ironed creases, and the sun was reflected in the shine of their shoes.

  Suddenly he was aware of what he looked like in his battledress, only cleaned in emergency, whose material had lost its colour and was worn, and in his clumsy, badly pol
ished shoes, still with mud on them from the trenches.

  The officers hurried past him. They neither paid him any attention nor even saw him. Enormous cars glided by on the road, with impressive staff flags stuck on their radiators. In an empty car sat a huge Russian greyhound, bored and arrogant. Two nurses passed him with pink, satisfied faces.

  Otto Hackendahl did an about-turn and went back towards the station. All he wanted to do was to sit somewhere in peace and drink a glass of beer. A fat, dark-looking civilian with sad eyes asked him for directions. Irritated, he replied that he also didn’t know his way around here, and was pleased when he reached the station again.

  He sat down, sad and angry, at a wooden table, between others on leave waiting for their trains home and who looked like him. A man lifted up his head when he heard him order his beer angrily from the waiter, and asked: ‘Well, Comrade, have you seen the town? Busy place, isn’t it?’

  The man put his yawning head back on the table and said: ‘Now you see for the first time what stupid pigs we are! These fellow animals! These pot bellies! But you’re in the right, aren’t you, Comrade Porker?’

  Otto didn’t answer. He almost choked with misery. He cursed himself, Lieutenant Ramin, and his leave. If I hadn’t walked away from my regiment, he kept on thinking, I would never have seen this rubbish.

  And he wondered whether he shouldn’t turn round.

  § VIII

  ‘Good morning, Erich,’ said the Reichstag deputy.

  Erich was sitting at a dressing table manicuring his nails. He was wearing riding breeches (expensive corduroy from Bendix, a hundred and fifty marks), glittering patent-leather riding boots and a shantung shirt.

  ‘You, Herr Doctor!’ he exclaimed, taken aback. ‘I should never have expected you in Lille.’