Every Man Dies Alone

by Hans Fallada

  When she is back in her cell, she can smell it on her fingers, the bitter-almond smell. She washes her hands and lies down on her bed. She is deathly tired, and she has the feeling she has escaped a grave danger. She falls asleep immediately. She sleeps deeply and dreamlessly and wakes up refreshed.

  From that night forth, #76 gave no more cause for complaint. She was quiet, cheerful, industrious, friendly.

  She hardly gave any more thought to her horrible death. All she thought about was that she must do honor and credit to Otto. And sometimes, in her dark hours, she heard the voice of old Judge Fromm again: Don’t be afraid, child, there’s nothing to be afraid of.

  She wasn’t. Not ever again.

  She had got over it.

  Chapter 69

  IT’S TIME, QUANGEL

  It’s still night when a guard unlocks the door to Otto Quangel’s cell.

  Quangel, awakened from deep sleep, blinks his eyes at the large black-clad figure that has entered his cell. The next moment, he is wide awake, and his heart is beating faster than usual, because he has grasped what this large figure, standing there silently in the doorway, means for him.

  “Is it time, Reverend?” he asks, reaching for his clothes.

  “It’s time, Quangel!” replies the minister. And he asks, “Are you ready?”

  “I’m always ready,” replies Quangel, and his tongue bumps against the little vial in his mouth.

  He begins to get dressed, quietly, without fluster.

  For a moment the two of them look at each other silently. The minister is a raw-boned young man, with a simple, even slightly foolish face.

  Not too much going on there, thinks Quangel. Not like the good chaplain.

  The chaplain in turn sees before him a tall man, exhausted from a lifetime of work. He takes against the face with its sharp, birdlike profile, he takes against the expression of the dark, strangely beady eyes, he takes against the narrow bloodless mouth with the pinched lips. But the reverend makes an effort, and inquires with as much compassion as he can, “I hope you have made your peace with the world, Herr Quangel?”

  “Has this world made peace, reverend?” replies Quangel.

  “Unfortunately not yet, Quangel, not yet,” replies the reverend, and his face tries to express a sorrow that he doesn’t feel. He skips that point and moves on: “But have you made your peace with the Almighty, Quangel?”

  “I don’t believe in any Almighty,” replies Quangel truculently.

  “What?”

  The reverend appears almost shocked by the brusque declaration. “Well,” he continues, “if you don’t believe in a personal god, you will at least be a pantheist, won’t you, Quangel?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s quite simple…” The chaplain tries to explain something that he himself doesn’t find simple. “It’s the world soul, you know? Your own immortal soul will return to the great world soul,

  Quangel!”

  “Everything is God?” asks Quangel. He has finished dressing, and is standing in front of his bed. “Is Hitler God? Is all the killing out there God? Are you God? Am I?”

  “You misunderstand me, presumably on purpose,” the minister replies irritably. “But I’m not here to discuss doctrinal questions with you, Quangel. I’ve come to prepare you for death. You must die, Quangel, in a few hours. Are you ready?”

  Instead of answering, Quangel asks, “Did you know Father Lorenz in the remand prison?”

  The minister, rattled again, answers irritably, “No, but I’ve heard of him. I may say the Lord summoned him at the right time. He has done some disservice to our calling.”

  Quangel looked alertly at the clergyman. He said, “He was a very good man. A lot of prisoners remember him with gratitude.”

  “Yes,” cried the minister with unfeigned annoyance. “Because he did your bidding! He was a weak man, Quangel. The man of God must be a fighter during these times of war, not a flabby compromiser!” He recovered himself. Quickly he looked at his watch and said, “I only have another eight minutes with you, Quangel. I still have to see some of your companions in travail, to provide spiritual solace to others who, like you, will take their last walk today. Now let us pray…”

  The priest, that rough, raw-boned peasant, pulled a white cloth from his pocket and spread it carefully on the ground.

  Quangel asked, “Do you provide solace to the women who are to be executed as well?”

  His mockery was so obscure that the minister failed to register it. He spread out his snow-white cloth and answered rather distantly, “No executions of women are scheduled for today.”

  “Can you remember,” Quangel persisted, “if you’ve visited one Frau Anna Quangel?”

  “Frau Anna Quangel? Your wife, I take it? No. I haven’t. I would remember if I had. I have an exceptional memory for names…”

  “Can I ask you a favor, Father…”

  “Well, out with it, Quangel! You know my time’s limited!”

  “I would ask you not to tell my wife that I’ve been executed before her, when her time comes. Please tell her we’ll be dying at the same time.”

  “But that would be a lie, Quangel, and as a man of God I cannot violate His eighth commandment.”

  “So you never lie, reverend? Have you never lied in your life?”

  “I would hope,” said the minister, a little confused by the mocking scrutiny of the other, “I would hope I’ve always done my utmost to keep God’s commandments.”

  “So God’s commandments call upon you to deny my wife the comfort of believing that she is dying at the same hour as me?”

  “I may not bear false witness to my neighbor, Quangel!”

  “That’s really too bad! You’re not the good shepherd, are you?”

  “What?” exclaimed the clergyman, half confused, half threatening.

  “Father Lorenz was always known as the good shepherd,” Quangel explained.

  “No, no, no,” cried the minister angrily, “I have no desire for any honorifics from the likes of you! They would have the opposite meaning, so far as I am concerned!” He calmed down. With a smack he dropped to his knees right on the white handkerchief. He pointed to a spot on the grimy floor next to him (the cloth was only large enough for him). “Kneel down with me, Quangel, and let us pray!”

  “Who do I kneel down to?” Quangel asked coldly. “Who do I

  pray to?”

  “Oh!” the minister exclaimed petulantly, “don’t start that again! I’ve wasted too much time on you already!” From his kneeling position, he looked up at the man with the angry, beaky face. He muttered, “Never mind, I’ll do my duty. I’ll pray for you!”

  He lowered his head, folded his hands, and shut his eyes. Then he thrust his head forward, opened his eyes wide, and suddenly shouted so loud that Quangel jumped, “O my Lord and Christ! All-powerful, all-knowing, beneficent and just God, Judge of good and evil! A sinner lies before you in the dust, I beg you to turn your eyes in mercy upon this man who has committed many misdeeds, to freshen him in body and soul and to forgive him all his sins in your grace…”

  The kneeling minister yelled louder still, “Accept the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, your dearly loved Son, in recompense for his misdeed. He is baptized in the same name, and washed and cleansed with the same blood. Save him from the body’s pain and torment! Curtail his agonies, sustain him against the accusation of his conscience! Give him blissful transport to eternal life!”

  The minister lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper: “Send your holy angels here, that they may accompany him to the assembly of the elect in Christ, our Lord.”

  Then again at the top of his voice, the minister shouted, “Amen! Amen! Amen!”

  He got up, folded the white cloth carefully and put it away, and asked, without looking at Quangel, “I take it there’s no point in asking if you want to receive the last rites?”

  “No point whatever, Reverend.”

  The minister hesitantly stre
tched out his hand toward Quangel.

  Quangel shook his head and put his hands behind his back.

  “There’s no point in that either, Reverend!” he said.

  The minister walked to the door without looking at him. He turned back, shot a quick look at Quangel, and said, “Take these words with you to your place of execution: Philippians 1:21, ‘For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.’”

  The door clacked open, and he was gone.

  Quangel sighed.

  Chapter 70

  THE LAST WALK

  No sooner was the chaplain gone than a short, stocky man in a pale gray suit walked into the cell. He threw a quick, astute look at Quangel, then went up to him and said, “Dr. Brandt, prison doctor.” He had shaken Quangel’s hand, and now he kept hold of it as he asked, “May I take your pulse?”

  “Help yourself!” said Quangel.

  The doctor counted slowly. Then he let Quangel’s hand go and said approvingly, “Very good. Excellent. You’re a man.”

  He cast a quick look at the door, which was still half open, and asked in a whisper, “Can I give you something? An anesthetic?”

  Quangel slowly shook his head. “Thank you, doctor. I’ll be okay without.”

  His tongue nudged the vial in his cheek. He wondered for a moment whether to ask the doctor to take a message to Anna. But no, that minister would tell her whatever was needed…

  “Anything else?” asked the doctor in a whisper. He had noticed Quangel’s hesitation. “A note to someone?”

  “I’ve nothing to write with—ach, no, leave it. Thank you, doctor, you’re a good man! At least not everyone in this institution is bad.”

  The doctor nodded gloomily, shook hands with Quangel again, and said quickly, “All I can say is, keep your courage up.”

  And he was gone.

  A guard walked in, followed by a trusty carrying a bowl and a plate. The bowl was full of steaming coffee, and on the plate were pieces of bread and butter. On the rim of the plate were a couple of cigarettes, two matches, and a piece of emery board.

  “There,” said the guard. “You see, we don’t spare any expense. And all without ration cards!”

  He laughed, and the trusty laughed dutifully along. One could tell he had heard the “joke” many times before.

  In a sudden surprising fit of anger, Quangel said, “Get that stuff out of here! I don’t need your last meal!”

  “I don’t need a second invitation!” said the guard. “By the way, the coffee’s made from acorns, and the butter’s margarine…”

  And Quangel was alone again. He straightened his bed, stripped the sheet, dropped it by the door, propped the pallet against the wall. Then he started washing.

  He hadn’t finished yet when a fourth man, followed by a couple of others, entered his cell.

  “No need to wash like that,” said the man boisterously. “We’ll give you a first-class shave and trim! Okay, boys, get a move on, we’re running late!” And apologetically, to Quangel, “The man before held us up, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t see sense and realize there’s nothing anyone can do. I’m the Berlin executioner…”

  He held out his hand to Quangel.

  “Well, you’ll see, I’m not one to make you wait, or make you suffer unnecessarily. If you don’t kick up, I won’t either. I always say to my lads, ‘Lads,’ I say, ‘if someone plays up, and throws himself on the floor and kicks and screams, then you can play up, too. Grab him anywhere you can, even if it’s his nuts!’ But with sensible people like yourself, it’s always ‘Easy does it!’”

  As he continued to talk, a clipper crisscrossed over Quangel’s head, and his hair lay on the floor. The other assistant had worked up a lather and was shaving Quangel’s beard. “There!” said the executioner with satisfaction. “Seven minutes! We’re caught up. A couple more sensible customers like yourself, and we’ll be as punctual as the railways.” Then, to Quangel, “Would you help us out and sweep the floor yourself? There’s no obligation, but we are short of time. The director and prosecutor could be along at any moment. Don’t chuck the hair in the pail; I’ve got a sheet of newspaper here: Wrap it up in that and leave it by the door. It’s a little racket I’ve got going on the side, see?”

  “What will you do with my hair?” asked Quangel.

  “Sell it to a wigmaker. Wigs will always be in demand. Not just for actors, but for everyday use too. You’re a gent. Heil Hitler!”

  Then they, too, were gone. A spirited bunch, really: they knew their business, and you couldn’t slaughter hogs more calmly. And yet Quangel decided that these rough heartless types were more to his liking than the reverend of a moment ago. He had shaken hands with the executioner as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Quangel had just done what the executioner had asked him to do in regard to tidying the cell when the door opened again. This time there walked in, accompanied by a uniformed escort, a fat, pasty-faced man with a red mustache—the prison governor, as immediately became apparent—and an old friend of Quangel’s, the prosecutor from the trial, the yapping Pinscher.

  Two guards seized Quangel and thrust him roughly against the wall, forcing him to stand to attention. Then they stood on either side of him.

  “Otto Quangel!” one of them yelled out.

  “Aha!” yapped Pinscher. “I thought I remembered the face!” He turned to the director. “I got him his sentence!” he said proudly. “A shameless piece of work. Thought he could sass the court and me. But we showed you, son!” he yapped, facing Quangel now. “Eh, didn’t we show you! How are you feeling now? Not so fresh anymore, ha?”

  One of the men flanking him elbowed Quangel in the ribs. “Answer!” he whispered.

  “Oh, take a walk!” said Quangel, bored.

  “What? What?” The prosecutor was jigging from one foot to the other in his excitement. “Director, I demand…”

  “Ach, never mind!” said the governor, “lay off him! You can see he’s a perfectly quiet chap. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Of course!” said Quangel. “I just want to be left in peace. If he leaves me in peace, then I’ll leave him in peace, too.”

  “I protest! I call for…!” yelled Pinscher.

  “What?” said the director. “What more can you want? We can’t do any more than execute the man. Go on and read him the sentence!”

  At last Pinscher calmed down, unfolded a document, and started to read from it. He read hastily and unclearly, skipped sentences, got tangled up, and came to a sudden stop. “There, now you know!”

  Quangel said nothing.

  “Take him down!” said the red-bearded director, and the two sentries grabbed Quangel tightly by the arms. He freed himself angrily.

  They grabbed him again, harder.

  “Let the man walk!” ordered the director. “He won’t make any trouble.”

  They stepped out into the corridor. A lot of people were standing around, in uniforms and civvies. Quickly, a column formed, with Otto Quangel at its middle. Prison guards led the way. There followed the minister, now wearing a gown with a white collar, mumbling inaudibly to himself. Behind him went Quangel, in a cluster of guards, but the little doctor in the pale suit was close at hand, too. Then came the director and prosecutor, followed by more men in uniforms and suits, and some of those in suits had cameras.

  So the column passed through the ill-lit corridors and down the iron staircases, over the slippery linoleum flooring of the death house. And wherever he passed, a groan went up from the cells, a muffled sigh from the depths of prisoners’ chests. In one cell a cry went up: “Farewell, comrade!”

  And quite mechanically Otto Quangel responded, “Farewell, comrade!” and only a moment later did it strike him how absurd that “Farewell” was, addressed to one about to die.

  One more door was unlocked, and they stepped out into a courtyard. Nighttime darkness hung between the walls. Quangel looked left and right, and nothing escaped his attention. At the windows of the cell
s he saw a ring of pale faces—his comrades, like himself sentenced to death, but still living. A loudly barking Alsatian approached the column, was whistled back by the sentry, and retreated growling. The gravel crunched underfoot. It was probably yellowish by day; now, bled of color by the harsh electric lighting, it looked gray-white. Looming over the wall were the bare limbs of a winter tree. The air was chilly and damp. Quangel thought, In a quarter of an hour, I won’t feel cold anymore—strange!

  His tongue felt for the glass vial. But it was still too soon…

  Strange, to be able to see and hear so clearly, and yet it all felt so unreal. It was like something he had heard about once. Or he was lying in his cell, dreaming it. Yes, it was quite impossible that he was physically walking here among all these people, with their indifferent or crude or evil or sad expressions—they were none of them real. The gravel was dream gravel, the crunching of stones underfoot was a sound in a dream…

  They passed through a door and entered a room that was so garishly lit that at first Quangel saw nothing at all. His guards suddenly pulled him forward, past the kneeling chaplain.

  The executioner approached him with his two assistants. He held out his hand again.

  “No hard feelings!” he said.

  “Nah, why would I?” replied Quangel, and mechanically shook his hand.

  While the executioner helped Quangel out of his jacket and cut off the collar of his shirt, Quangel looked back on those who had accompanied him on this last walk. In the dazzle, all he saw was a ring of white faces, all turned toward him.

  It’s all a dream, he thought, and his heart began to pound.

  One form detached itself from the gaggle of onlookers, and as it came closer, Quangel recognized the helpful little doctor in the pale gray suit.

  “Well?” asked the doctor with a watery smile. “How are you doing?”