Every Man Dies Alone

by Hans Fallada

  “Do you see this?” he screamed at him furiously. “Sniff on that, you tosser! One more peep out of you about the Persickes and you’ll be on your way down to the basement, and I don’t care if all the Enno Kluges in the world are still at large!”

  And he drove his knee into the other man’s rump, sending him careering down the hallway like a cannonball. And as Borkhausen happened to have been discharged in the direction of an SS adjutant, he received a second powerful kick…

  The noise of these successive detonations had alerted two more SS sentries by the stairs. They caught hold of the still staggering Borkhausen and slung him down the stairs like a sack of potatoes, tumbling over and over.

  And when Borkhausen got to the bottom and lay there stunned and bleeding, the next sentry grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and screamed, “You think you can dirty our nice floor here, you pig!” dragged him to the exit, and heaved him out into the street.

  Inspector Escherich witnessed Borkhausen’s progress with satisfaction, until the stairs blocked his view.

  The passersby on Prinz Albrecht Strasse studiously avoided looking at the man sprawling in the dirt, because they knew perfectly well the dangerous nature of the premises he had been thrown out of. It might already be accounted a crime to gaze at someone like that sympathetically, and you certainly couldn’t think of helping them. The sentry, though, emerging from the exit with a heavy tread, said, “Listen, pig, if you’re still disfiguring our entrance in three minutes, then I’ll give you a personal escort you won’t forget in a hurry!”

  That did the trick. Borkhausen pulled himself to his feet and staggered off home with sore, bruised limbs. Inside he was burning with helpless rage and fury, and this hatred was stronger in him than his physical pain. He firmly resolved not to lift a finger for that bastard inspector: let him find his dratted Enno Kluge by himself!

  But the next day, when his rage had lessened somewhat and the voice of his common sense began to make itself heard once more, he told himself that, first, he had taken ten marks from Inspector Escherich and would have to earn them, otherwise he would be had up for dishonesty. And, second, it wasn’t a good idea to be on the outs with such a powerful figure. He had the power, and if you were small fry, you had to knuckle under. Being thrown out yesterday, that had just been a chapter of accidents really. If he hadn’t collided with the adjutant, it would have been pretty harmless. To them it was just a joke, and if it had been Borkhausen watching it happening to some one else, he would have laughed—for instance if it had happened to Enno Kluge.

  Yes, and that was the third reason why Borkhausen decided to accept his assignment: he could get one back on stupid Enno Kluge, whose wretched boozing had messed up the original break-in.

  So Borkhausen, with aching limbs but with goodwill, betook himself to the two bars that Inspector Escherich had previously visited, and some others besides. He didn’t ask the publicans if they had seen Enno, he just hung around, nursing a beer for an hour or more, shooting the breeze about horses—he had picked up a fair bit from hearing others talking, though betting had never been his thing—and then went on to the next place and did much the same thing there. Borkhausen was a patient sort; it didn’t bother him spending whole days like this.

  He didn’t even need to have all that much patience, because on his second day he saw Enno in the Also Ran. He witnessed the little fellow’s triumph with Adebar and felt violent envy of the fool’s good fortune. He was also struck by seeing the fifty-mark note that Kluge passed to the bookmaker. That wasn’t earned money—Borkhausen could smell that a mile off. The little creep must be living the high life somewhere!

  It’s in no way surprising that Herrs Borkhausen and Kluge failed to acknowledge each other—yes, you might say they didn’t even see each other.

  What is a little more surprising, perhaps, is the fact that the bartender never gave Inspector Escherich a call, in spite of his promise to do so. But that was simply the way things were; on the one hand you were afraid of the Gestapo and lived in constant fear of them, but it was something else to do their dirty work for them. Things weren’t taken to that degree, and if no one tipped Enno Kluge off about them, no one ratted on him either.

  (Incidentally, Inspector Escherich would not forget this lack of communication. He would inform a certain department about it, whereupon a file would be opened on the the bartender, in which the word “unreliable” appeared prominently. One day, perhaps sooner rather than later, the bartender would get to know what it meant to be thought of as “unreliable” by the Gestapo.)

  Of the two gentlemen, it was Borkhausen who was the first to leave the bar. He didn’t go far, though, but stood behind a poster pillar, and waited for his man to emerge. Borkhausen was a shadow who wouldn’t easily let his prey out of his sight, and especially not this prey. He even managed to squeeze into the same subway car as the other, and even though there was plenty of Borkhausen to see, little Enno Kluge didn’t see him.

  Enno Kluge was completely preoccupied with his triumph with Adebar and the money that crackled in his trouser pocket again for the first time in ages, and then he thought about Hetty, who was so good to him. With fond emotion he thought of the kind, elderly, shapeless woman, without remembering that a few hours ago he had robbed and lied to her.

  True enough, when he reached the shop and saw that the grating was up and she was there working again, and must certainly have taken his disappearance badly, his good mood left him again. Even so, supported by the fatalism with which people of his stamp respond to adversity, he walked into the shop to face the music. The fact that preoccupied as he was he failed to notice who was on his tail is something that can’t really surprise anyone.

  Borkhausen saw Kluge disappear into the shop. He stood in a gateway a little way off, because he assumed that Kluge had gone in to buy something, and would shortly be out again. But as other customers came and went, Borkhausen began to feel anxious. He had thought the five hundred were practically in his pocket, but if he had missed Kluge’s leaving the shop…

  The steel grates came down with a crash, and now he felt sure: Enno had somehow given him the slip. Perhaps he had got some sense that he was being shadowed, had gone through the shop on some pretext or other and on into the house, and disappeared out the main entrance. Borkhausen cursed his own stupidity for not having kept half an eye on the house entrance. Idiot that he was, he had focused entirely on the door to the shop!

  Well, there was always the chance of running into Enno again tomorrow or the next day in the bar. Now that he had made a killing on Adebar, his betting mania would leave him no peace. He would go in every day and bet until he had gone through his winnings. It wasn’t every week that there was an outsider like Adebar running, and when there was, chances were you hadn’t put anything on him. Enno would be in a hurry to give his money back to the bookies.

  Borkhausen headed home past the little pet shop. Then he suddenly saw through the window (it was only the front door that was shuttered off) that there was a light on inside, and as he pressed his nose against the glass, peeping over the fishbowls and through the birdcages, he saw there were two people still at work in there: a dumpy pudding of a woman at a critical age, as he immediately sensed, and with her his friend Enno: Enno in shirtsleeves and a blue apron, Enno doughtily filling bowls with seed, pouring water, brushing down a Scotch terrier.

  What incredible luck that moron Enno had! What was it that women continued to see in him? He, Borkhausen, was stuck with Otti and her (if not his) five kids, and an old laggard like that could just walk into a bijou pet shop, complete with woman, birds, and fishes.

  Borkhausen spat. What a rotten world it was, that kept good things away from Borkhausen only to drop them in the lap of a fool like that!

  But the longer Borkhausen watched, the more apparent it became that the couple inside were not full of the joys of spring. They were hardly talking to each other, hardly looking at each other, and it appeared likely that lit
tle Enno Kluge was nothing but an employee, who was helping the woman in there tidy up her shop. In which case, he would be out in a while.

  Borkhausen retreated back to his observation post in the doorway opposite. As the shutters were down, Kluge would come out of the house entrance, and so Borkhausen kept an eye on that. But the light in the shop went out, and there was still no sign of Kluge. Then Borkhausen decided to take a chance. At the risk of bumping into Enno on the stairway, he sneaked into the house.

  First Borkhausen made a mental note of the nameplate, H. Haberle, and then he crept through the outer door into the courtyard. He was in luck: they already had the lights on, even though it was only just beginning to get dark outside, and, looking through a crooked blind, Borkhausen had a good view of the whole parlor. What he saw surprised him so much, he was almost shocked.

  Because there was his friend Enno on his knees on the floor, slithering about after the fat woman, who was nervously holding her skirts down and retreating from him. Little Enno had his arms upraised, and seemed to be weeping and lamenting.

  People! thought Borkhausen, and in delight he shifted about from foot to foot, People, if that’s your way of getting in the mood, I’m sorry for you! But I’ll happily stand here half the night and watch you.

  But then the door slammed behind the old woman, and there Enno stood on the other side of it, turning the knob, apparently still wailing and appealing to her.

  Perhaps it wasn’t some romantic ritual here, thought Borkhausen. Perhaps they’ve just had a quarrel, or Enno asked her for something she didn’t want to give him, or she wants nothing to do with the infatuated jerk anymore… What’s it to do with me? At any rate, he’ll be spending the night here, why else would she have made him a nice white bed on the sofa?

  Enno Kluge stood just in front of the aforementioned bed. Borkhausen could see the face of his erstwhile companion in crime quite clearly. There was an astonishing transformation in it: a moment ago, he had been crying and wailing, now he had a big grin all over his face, and as he looked over to the door, and grinned again…

  So he’s just been putting on a show for the old lady. Well, good luck, son, is all I can say. I’m afraid Escherich will be spitting in your soup!

  Kluge had lit himself a cigarette. He made straight for the window where Borkhausen stood, forcing Borkhausen to duck. The black-out came abruptly down, and now he could give up his observation post for the night. There were no more great excitements to be expected, or at least he wouldn’t be privy to them. But he had Enno in his clutches, for tonight at least…

  The deal he had made with Inspector Escherich was that he would call him the moment he spotted Enno Kluge, at any time of the day or night. But as Borkhausen walked away from the Königstor in the gathering gloom, he began to wonder whether an immediate call was in his own best interests. It occurred to him that there were two sides involved, and that he could try and exploit them both.

  He had Escherich’s money in the bag, so why not try to make a bit out of Enno too? The little fellow had had a fifty in his hand, which he had made into two hundreds, with a little help from Adebar—well, why shouldn’t he, Borkhausen, have that money? Escherich wouldn’t be affected, he would still get his man, and Enno wouldn’t really suffer, either, because the Gestapo would have take his money off him anyway. What was he waiting for?

  And then there was that fat woman that Enno had gone slithering after on his knees. She was bound to have money, perhaps quite a bit of money. The shop looked prosperous: there was still plenty of stuff on sale, and she didn’t seem to want for customers either. True, all that wailing and pleading of Kluge’s didn’t exactly create the impression that the two of them were soul mates, but who would hand a lover, even an ex-lover, over to the Gestapo? The fact that the old baggage still tolerated Enno in her flat, even after rejecting him, that she had set up a bed on her sofa for him, surely that proved that she still cared something for him? And if she cared about the old geezer, then she would pay something, maybe not a lot, but something. And why should Borkhausen stand in her way?

  When Borkhausen reached this point in his thoughts—and on his way home and later that night, lying beside his Otti, he reached it several more times—he was seized by a little frisson of need, because he realized this was a pretty dangerous game he was proposing to play. Escherich was certainly not a man to tolerate such private initiatives. These Gestapo types were all like that, and it was the easiest thing in the world for the inspector to send a man to a concentration camp. And concentration camp was something that Borkhausen had a healthy respect for.

  But he was sufficiently infected by the thinking and ethos of a criminal that he persisted in telling himself that a job that could be done was a job that needed doing. And this Enno thing was certainly that. For now, Borkhausen would sleep on it, and in the morning he could decide whether to report back to Escherich right away or look in on Kluge first. Now he was going to sleep…

  But he didn’t sleep; he kept thinking that one person wasn’t enough to handle this. He, Borkhausen, needed to have some freedom of movement. For instance, he had to be able to go to Escherich, and in that time Enno Kluge would be unsupervised. Or when he put the squeeze on the fat lady, Enno might pick that time to run off. But he had no one he could trust, and anyway a partner would demand his share of the business. And Borkhausen didn’t like sharing.

  Finally, Borkhausen remembered that among the five kids there was one boy of thirteen or so who might even be his son. He had always had the feeling that this squirt, who bore the absurdly fancy moniker of Kuno-Dieter, might perhaps be his own, even though Otti had always insisted she had him with a count, some Pomeranian landowner, by god. But Otti had always been one to show off, as the choice of name—after that of the alleged father—demonstrated.

  With a heavy sigh, Borkhausen decided to take the boy with him as a reserve lookout. That wouldn’t cost more than a bit of a run-in with Otti, and a few marks for the kid. Then Borkhausen’s thoughts began revolving around the whole undertaking from the beginning, until they grew indistinct, and he finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 28

  A PRETTY LITTLE JOB OF BLACKMAIL

  It has already been reported how Hetty Haberle and Enno Kluge breakfasted together that morning in near silence, then worked side by side in the shop, both pale from their almost sleepless night and preoccupied with their own thoughts. Frau Haberle was thinking that Enno needed to be sent packing tomorrow, come what may, and Enno that he absolutely didn’t want to go.

  Into this silence walked the first customer of the day, a long tall man, who said to Frau Haberle, “Morning, lady. I see you have a pair of canaries in the window, and I was wondering how much they were. They have to be a mating pair, though, I’ve always been one for mating pairs…” And Borkhausen spun round, in a show of surprise—a deliberately badly acted show of surprise—and called out to Kluge, who was just slipping off into the back room of the shop, “Well, I’m damned if it isn’t you, Enno! Here I am, I’m talking, I’m looking, I’m thinking that’s not my Enno, what would my Enno be doing in a little pocket zoo like this? And it’s you all along. Whatcher doing, pal?”

  Enno, the doorknob already in his hand, stood frozen, unable either to run off or to make some reply.

  But Hetty stared at the tall man, who had addressed her Enno with such intimate friendliness. Her lips began to tremble, and her knees shook. So there it was, the danger; it wasn’t a lie that Enno had told her about being threatened by the Gestapo. Because she didn’t question for a moment that this man—half-thug, half-coward—was from the Gestapo.

  But now that the danger was physically at hand, it was only physically that Hetty shook. Her mind was calm, and what her mind said was, Whatever you think of Enno, you can’t possibly abandon him now.

  And Hetty said to the man with the piercing regard that kept sliding away, she said to the man who looked like a real hoodlum, “Perhaps you’ll have a cup of coffee with us, He
rr—what did you say your name was?”

  “Borkhausen. Emil Borkhausen,” the spy introduced himself. “I’m an old friend of Enno’s, a fellow sportsman. What do you say, Frau Haberle, to that grand win he landed on Adebar yesterday? We met at the sports bar—didn’t he say?”

  Hetty threw a quick glance in Enno’s direction. He was still standing there, with his hand on the doorknob, exactly as he had been when first surprised by Borkhausen’s greeting. No, he hadn’t mentioned this meeting with an old acquaintance; he had even claimed he hadn’t seen anyone he knew. So he had lied to her again—and very much to his own detriment, because now it was quite clear how this spy had traced him to his refuge with her. If he had said anything about the encounter yesterday, it might have been possible to hide him somewhere else…

  But this wasn’t the moment to take issue with Enno Kluge or to upbraid him for lying. This was the time to act. And so she said again, “Well then, Herr Borkhausen, let’s have a cup of coffee, shall we? I don’t have many customers so early in the morning. Enno, will you keep an eye on the shop? I’m just going to have a chat with your friend…”

  By now, Hetty had completely stopped trembling. All she thought about was how it had been that other time, with her Walter, and those memories gave her strength. She knew that no amount of trembling, protesting, or appeals for help cut any ice with these people. They had no hearts: they were the paid helpers of Hitler and Himmler. If anything did help, then it was courage, not being cowardly, not showing fear. They worked on the assumption that all Germans were cowards, like Enno, now, but she, Hetty, the widow Haberle, she wasn’t.

  Her calm demeanor gave her authority over both men. As she went into the parlor, she said to Enno: “Don’t play any silly tricks, now! Don’t try and run off or anything! Remember, you’ve left your coat hanging in the parlor, and you won’t have much in the way of money on you either!”