Every Man Dies Alone

by Hans Fallada

  He stops talking, and goes back to his drawing. The afternoon goes by; they don’t think about supper. It’s evening, and the card is finished at last. He stands up. He takes one more look at it.

  “There!” he says. “That’s that. Next Sunday the next one.”

  She nods.

  “When will you deliver it?” she whispers.

  He looks at her. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Let me come with you, the first time!”

  He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “And especially not the first time. I have to see how things go.”

  “Come on!” she begs him. “It’s my card! It’s the card of the mother!”

  “All right!” he determines. “You can come. But only as far as the building. Inside, I want to be on my own.”

  “All right.”

  Then the card is carefully pushed inside a book, the writing things put away, the gloves slipped into his tunic.

  They eat their supper, barely speaking. They hardly notice how quiet they both are—even Anna. They are both tired, as though they have done an immense labor or been on a long journey.

  As he gets up from the table, he says, “I’m going to go and lie down.”

  And she, “I’ll just tidy up in the kitchen. Then I’ll come, too. I feel so tired, and we haven’t done anything!”

  He looks at her with a glimmer of a smile on his face, and then he goes to the bedroom and starts to get undressed.

  But later, when they are both lying in bed in the dark, they can’t get to sleep. They toss and turn, each listens to the other’s breathing, and in the end they start to talk. It’s easier to talk in the dark.

  “What do you think will happen to our cards?” asks Anna.

  “People will feel alarmed when they see them lying there and read the first few words. Everyone’s frightened nowadays.”

  “That’s true,” she says, “Everybody is…”

  But she exempts the two of them, the two Quangels. Almost everybody’s frightened, but not us.

  “The people who find them,” he says, saying aloud things he’s thought through a hundred times, “will be afraid of being seen on the stairs. They will quickly pocket the cards and run off. Or they may lay them down again and disappear, and then the next person will come along…”

  “That’s right,” says Anna, and she can see the staircase before her eyes, a typical Berlin staircase, badly lit, and anyone with a card in his hand will suddenly feel like a criminal. Because in fact everyone thinks the way the writer of the cards thinks, but they can’t let it show, because it’s a capital crime…

  “Some,” Quangel resumes, “will hand the card in right away, to the block warden or the police—anything to be rid of it!* But even that doesn’t matter: whether it’s shown to the Party or not, whether to an official or a policeman, they all will read the card, and it will have some effect on them. Even if the only effect is to remind them that there is still resistance out there, that not everyone thinks like the Führer…”

  “No,” she says. “Not everyone. Not us.”

  “And there will be more of us, Anna. We will make more. We will inspire other people to write their own postcards. In the end, scores of people, hundreds, will be sitting down and writing cards like us. We will inundate Berlin with postcards, we will slow the machines, we will depose the Führer, end the war…”

  He stops, alarmed by his own words, these dreams that so late in life have come to haunt his heart.

  But Anna Quangel is fired by this vision: “And we will have been the first! No one will know, but we will know.”

  Suddenly sober, he says, “Perhaps already there are many thinking as we do. Thousands of men must have fallen. Maybe there are already writers like us. But that doesn’t matter, Anna! What do we care? It’s we who must do it!”

  “Yes,” she says.

  And he, once again carried away by their prospects: “And we will keep the police busy, the Gestapo, the SS, the SA. Everywhere people will be talking about the mysterious postcards, they will inquire, suspect, observe, conduct house to house searches—in vain! We will go on writing, on and on!”

  And she: “Maybe they’ll even show the Führer himself cards like ours—he will read our accusations! He will go wild! It’s said he always goes wild when something doesn’t happen according to his will. He will order his men to find us, and they won’t find us! He will have to go on reading our accusations!”

  They are both silent, dazzled by their prospects. What were they, previously? Obscure characters, extras. And now to see them alone, exalted, separate from the others, not to be confused with any of them. They feel a shiver; that’s how alone they are.

  Quangel can imagine himself at work, in front of the same machinery, driving and driven, alert, looking round from machine to machine. For them he will always be idiotic old Quangel, obsessed by work and his squalid avarice. But in his head he carries thoughts like none of them. They would die of fright if they carried such thoughts. But he, silly old Quangel, he has them. He stands there, fooling everyone.

  Anna Quangel is thinking of their expedition tomorrow to deliver the first postcard. She is a little dissatisfied with herself for not insisting on going into the building with Quangel. She wonders whether to ask him to let her. Maybe. Generally, Otto Quangel doesn’t allow his mind to be changed by appeals. But maybe tonight, given his unusually affable mood? Maybe right now?

  But it’s taken her too long to get there. Quangel is already asleep. So she closes her eyes, she will see if it’s possible tomorrow. If it is, she will certainly ask.

  And then she, too, is asleep.

  *A “Blockwart” was a low-ranking Party official installed to be superintendant of a building (or a block of buildings) and gather information about the tenants.

  Chapter 18

  THE FIRST CARD IS DROPPED

  She doesn’t dare mention it until they are on the street, that’s how taciturn Otto is this morning. “Where are you going to drop the card, Otto?”

  He answers gruffly, “Don’t talk about it now. Not on the street.” And then he adds, in spite of himself, “I’ve got a house on Greifswalder Strasse in mind.”

  “No,” she says decisively. “No, don’t do that, Otto. That’s a bad idea!”

  “Come along!” he says angrily, because she has stopped, “I tell you, not on the street!”

  He walks on, she follows him, and insists on her right to debate. “Not so close to where we live,” she stresses. “If it winds up in their hands, they’ll have an indication of the area right away. Let’s go down to the Alex…”

  He reflects. Perhaps she’s right, no, she is right. One has to reckon on anything. And yet, this abrupt change of plan doesn’t suit him at all. If they go all the way down to the Alexanderplatz, time will get short, and he has to go to work. Also, he doesn’t know of any appropriate buildings around the Alex. There are bound to be loads of them, but you have to look for the right one first, and he’d rather do that on his own, not with his wife.

  Then, quite suddenly, his mind is made up. “Okay, Anna,” he says. “you’re right. Let’s go to the Alex.”

  She looks at him gratefully. She is glad he has accepted some advice from her. And because he has just made her so happy, she decides she won’t ask him for the other thing, his permission to enter the building with him. He can go alone. She will be a bit scared while she waits for him to come out—but why, really? Not for a moment does she doubt that he will come out. He is so calm and cold, he won’t let himself be caught out. Even if he were in their hands, he wouldn’t give himself away, and he would fight himself free.

  As she walks along, thinking such things, at the side of her silent husband, they have turned off Greifswalder Strasse into Neue Königstrasse. She has been so preoccupied with her thoughts that she hasn’t noticed the intensity with which Otto Quangel’s eyes have been scanning the houses opposite them. Now he suddenly comes to a stop—it’s quite a bit further to the
Alexanderplatz—and says: “There, have a look in that shop window, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  And already he’s off across the road, walking toward a large, bright office building.

  Her heart starts to pound. She feels like calling out: No, not there, we said the Alex! Let’s stay together a bit longer! And: Won’t you at least say good-bye to me first! But already the door is banging shut behind him.

  With a deep sigh, she turns toward the shop window. But she sees nothing. She presses her brow against the cold glass, and everything flickers and runs before her eyes. Her heart is beating so hard she can hardly breathe; all the blood seems to have rushed to her head.

  So I am afraid, she thinks. My God, he must never find out, otherwise he’ll never take me with him again. But then, I’m not really afraid, she thinks. I’m not afraid for me, I’m afraid for him. What if he doesn’t come out?

  She can’t stop herself, she has to look at the office building. The door is pushed open, people come, people go; why doesn’t Quangel come? He must have been gone five minutes, no, ten. Why is there a man running out of the building? Is he calling the police? Don’t say they’ve caught Quangel the very first time!

  Oh, it’s more than I can stand! What has he gotten himself into? And there I was, thinking this was something small! Once a week, and if he writes two cards, twice a week endangering his life! And he won’t always want to take me with him. I noticed that right away—he doesn’t really want me there. He will go by himself, he will drop the cards by himself, and then he will go on to the factory (or he will never go to the factory again!), and I will sit at home waiting, waiting in terror, and this terror will never end, and I will never get used to it. Here’s Otto! At last! No, it’s not him. Not him again. Now I’m going to go and get him, I don’t care how angry he is! Something’s wrong, he must have been gone for a quarter of an hour, it can’t possibly take that long! I’m going after him!

  She takes three steps towards the building—and turns around. Stops in front of the window, stares at it.

  No, I won’t go in after him, I won’t go looking for him. I can’t let him down like that the very first time. I’m just imagining something has happened to him; people are walking in and out of the building, just as always. I’m sure Otto hasn’t been gone a quarter hour either. Now, let’s see what’s in this shop window. Corsets, garter belts…

  In the meantime, Quangel has indeed entered the office building. He settled on it so quickly because of his wife. She was making him nervous: any moment she might start talking about “it” again. He couldn’t stand to prolong his search in her company. She was sure to start talking again, be in favor of this building or against that one. No, enough! He would rather walk into the first building he came to, even if it wasn’t ideal.

  This one was a long way short of ideal: It was a bright modern office building that no doubt housed many companies but that still had a porter in a gray uniform. Quangel walks past him with an indifferent expression. He is prepared for the question Where are you going; he has noted that a lawyer named Toll is on the fourth floor. But the porter doesn’t stop him; he’s busy talking to someone else. He casts a fleeting, indifferent regard at Quangel as he walks in. Quangel turns left to take the stairs, then hears the purr of an elevator. There’s another thing he has failed to allow for, that a modern building like this will have an elevator and the stairs will hardly be used at all.

  But Quangel continues up the stairs. The elevator boy will think, An old man, fearful of elevators. Or: Only going up to the first floor. Or perhaps he won’t think anything. Anyway, the stairs are hardly in use. He’s already on the second floor, and so far he has met only an office boy in a tearing rush, plunging downstairs with a bundle of letters in his hand, who didn’t even look at Quangel. He could drop his postcard anywhere here, but he doesn’t forget for a moment that there’s that elevator, and he could be seen at any second through its glinting glass. He needs to climb higher, and the elevator needs to be on its way down, and then he can do it.

  He stops in front of one of the tall windows between stories, and stares down at the street. There, well hidden from view, he pulls a glove out of his pocket and puts it on his right hand. He then puts that hand in his pocket, slips it in past the waiting postcard, carefully, so as not to crease it. He takes it between two fingers…

  While Otto Quangel is doing all this, he has noticed that Anna is not at her place in front of the shop window at all, but is standing by the side of the road, looking pale and conspicuous as she stares up at the office building. She doesn’t raise her eyes as high as where he is—she’s probably watching the entrance. He shakes his head crossly at her, firmly resolved never to take his wife on another errand like this. Of course she’s worried for him. But why is she worried for him? She ought to be a little worried for herself, badly as she is behaving. It is she who is endangering them both!

  He climbs farther up the steps. As he passes the next window, he looks down at the street again, and this time Anna is standing in front of the shop window where she’s supposed to be. Good for her, she’s fought down her fear. Brave woman. He won’t even mention it to her. And suddenly Quangel takes out the card, lays it cautiously on the windowsill, pulls the glove off his hand as he begins walking downstairs, and puts it in his pocket.

  Climbing down the first few steps, he looks back. There it is in bright daylight, he can still see it from where he is now—the big, legible, bold writing on his first card! Anyone will be able to read it! And understand it, too! Quangel smiles grimly to himself.

  At that moment, he hears a door opening on the floor above him. The elevator has just left, heading downstairs. If whoever is upstairs can’t be bothered to wait for the elevator, if he takes the stairs and finds the card… Quangel is only one flight ahead of him. If the man runs, he will be able to catch up with Quangel, perhaps only at the bottom of the building, but he can catch up with him, because Quangel is not allowed to run. An old man, running down the stairs like a schoolboy—that would attract attention. And he must not attract attention, no one must recall seeing a man of such and such an appearance anywhere in the building…

  He walks fairly quickly down the stone stairs, and between the sound of his own footsteps, he listens to hear if the other man really has taken the stairs. If so, he will have seen the card; it’s not possible to miss it. But Quangel isn’t quite sure. Once, he thinks he hears steps, but then he doesn’t hear anything more for some time. And by now he’s too far down to hear much. The elevator rides up with a flash of lights.

  Quangel sets foot in the lobby. A large group of people are just coming from the courtyard, workers from some factory or other, and Quangel mingles with them. This time, he’s quite convinced, the porter hasn’t even seen him.

  He crosses the roadway and comes to stand beside Anna.

  “Done!” he says.

  And as he sees the gleam in her eyes, and the tremble on her lips, he adds, “No one saw me!” And then: “Let’s go. I’ve just got time to make it to the factory on foot.”

  They go. But both throw a look over their shoulder back to this office building, where the first of the Quangels’ postcards has now embarked on its journey into the world. They nod good-bye to the building. It’s a good building, and however many buildings they visit at weekly intervals in the course of the next months and years, they’ll never forget this one.

  Anna Quangel wishes she could stroke her husband’s hand, but she doesn’t dare. She just brushes it, as if by accident, and says, “Oh, sorry, Otto!”

  He looks at her in surprise, but doesn’t say anything. They walk on.

  Part II

  THE GESTAPO

  Chapter 19

  THE POSTCARDS MAKE THEIR WAY

  The actor Max Harteisen had, as his friend and attorney Toll liked to remind him, plenty of butter on his head from pre-Nazi times.* He had acted in films made by Jewish directors, he had acted in pacifist films, and one of his principal theat
er roles was that of the despicable weakling, the Prince of Homburg, whom every red-blooded National Socialist could only spit at. Max Harteisen therefore had every reason to be extremely cautious; for a while it was far from certain whether he would even be allowed to work under the Nazis.

  But in the end it had all panned out. Of course he had had to exercise a little restraint, and first of all cede the limelight to actors of a browner hue, even if they were far less gifted than himself. But he had fallen down on this matter of restraint; he had acted so well, he had even drawn the attention of Minister Goebbels. Yes, the minister had fallen for Harteisen. And as far as these ministerial infatuations went, as every child knew, there was no more fickle and unpredictable man than Dr. Joseph Goebbels.

  At first it had all been sweetness and light, because when the minister wanted to honor someone, he made no distinctions of gender. Dr. Goebbels treated Harteisen like a mistress: he telephoned him every morning to ask how he had slept, sent him chocolates and flowers as he would to a diva, and not a day passed without the minister spending at least a few minutes with his Harteisen. He even took him along him to the Party Congress at Nuremberg and explained National Socialism to him, and Harteisen duly understood everything he was supposed to understand.

  The only thing he didn’t understand was that under National Socialism a citizen does not go about contradicting a minister. Because a minister, by simple fact of being a minister, is bound to be ten times cleverer than anyone else. On some perfectly trivial film question, Harteisen contradicted his minister, and even declared that what Dr. Goebbels had said was rubbish. It is unclear whether it was the trivial and utterly theoretical film question that had so engaged the actor’s passion, or whether it was more that he was fed up with so much adoration and desired to bring it to an end. At any rate, he stood by his words in spite of various suggestions that he take them back—minister or no minister, the view was and remained rubbish.