Wolf Among Wolves

by Hans Fallada

  “Cigarette!” said the other man, and went on extinguishing the fire.

  “I might have been burned to death,” laughed Meier.

  “And no loss either.”

  “Sez you,” cried Meier, coughing with the smoke.

  “Shut up, man,” ordered the other. “To be suffocated isn’t fun, either.” And the two with all their might continued to put out the fire, the bailiff straining his ears in the direction of his two reaping and binding machines, to hear if they were still rattling. For it would not have been pleasant for him if people had noticed anything and told the Rittmeister.

  Contrary to all expectations, however, they were carrying on their work, which in other circumstances would have annoyed the bailiff, for it showed that the fellows were drowsing in their seats and leaving not only the work but also the thinking to the horses, and, that, as far as they were concerned, the whole manor of Neulohe, with all its buildings and eight thousand acres of forest, might have burned down. On returning, they would have gazed at the ashes of the stables as if witchcraft had been responsible. But this time Meier did not get annoyed; he was happy about the ongoing clatter and about the subsiding smoke.

  At last Meier and his rescuer faced each other, rather out of breath, across a blackened patch as big as a room. The rescuer looked a little neglected, with a flutter of reddish whisker round nose and chin; he had keen blue eyes, was still young, and dressed in an old gray tunic and trousers, although with a handsome yellow leather belt and an equally handsome holster. And there must be something—not merely lollipops—in it, that is, in the holster, for it swung so heavily.

  “A cigarette?” asked the incorrigible Meier and held out his case, for he felt that he, too, should do something for his rescuer.

  “Hand us one, comrade,” said the other. “My paws are black.” “Mine, too,” laughed Meier, and he fished out a couple between the tips of his fingers. Smoking, the two sat down comfortably in the grass under the scanty shade of fir trees a little way from the charred spot. They had learned enough from their recent experience for one to use an old stump as an ash tray, and the other a flat stone.

  The man in field gray inhaled a few times, stretched his limbs, yawned unceremoniously and said, profoundly: “Yes … Yes …”

  “Things are not too good,” agreed Meier.

  “Not too good? Lousy,” exclaimed the other, screwing up his eyes to look at the country quivering in the heat. Seeming utterly bored, he flung himself on his back in the grass.

  Actually Meier had neither time nor inclination to share in another morning nap, but he felt nevertheless obliged to stay with the man a little longer. So as not to let the conversation fade away entirely, he remarked:

  “Hot, isn’t it?”

  The other merely grunted.

  Meier looked at him sideways and hazarded: “From the Baltic Army Corps?”

  But this time he did not get even a grunt for reply. Instead, something rustled in the fir trees and Meier’s bicycle appeared, pushed by Forester Kniebusch, who threw down the cycle at Meier’s feet. Wiping away the sweat, he spoke. “Meier, again you’ve left your bicycle in the road. It isn’t even yours, but belongs to the estate, and if it runs away, the Rittmeister’ll storm at you.…”

  And then he saw the blackened patch and flew into a temper (for with a colleague he could indulge in what he dared not risk where wood thieves were concerned), and started to blackguard Meier. “You damned lousy dolt, you’ve been smoking your cursed stinking cigarettes again and setting fire to my trees. You wait, my little friend, that’s the end of friendship and cards of an evening—duty is duty, and the Rittmeister’s going to hear all about it tonight.…

  But it was fated that Forester Kniebusch should not end all his sentences, for in the grass he now discovered the highly suspicious fellow in shabby field gray, apparently sleeping. “Have you caught a tramp and incendiary, Meier? Splendid, that’ll mean praise from the Rittmeister, and he’ll keep his mouth shut for a while about slackness and inefficiency and being afraid of the laborers. Wake up, you swine,” he shouted, and kicked the man heavily in the ribs. “Get up and to jail with you.”

  But the other only pushed his field cap off his face, shot a keen glance at the angry forester, and exclaimed, even more sharply: “Forester Kniebusch!”

  It was surprising for Black Meier, and even more amusing, to see the effect of this simple form of address on his brother-at-cards, that sneaking rabbit, Kniebusch. He jumped as if struck by lightning, the angry words sticking in his throat, stood instantly to attention and said humbly: “Herr Lieutenant!”

  The man slowly and deliberately rose, brushed the dry grass and twigs from his tunic and trousers and spoke. “A meeting this evening at ten at the village magistrate’s. Inform our people. You can bring the little chap along, too.” He straightened his belt and added: “You’re to report what serviceable arms and ammunition are available in Neulohe. Understand?”

  “Certainly, sir,” stammered the old graybeard, but Meier noticed that he had received a shock.

  The mysterious individual, however, nodded briefly at Meier, saying: “All in order, comrade,” and was lost to sight among the bushes and young firs in the wood. He had disappeared like a dream.

  “Confound it,” exclaimed Meier, his breath taken away, staring into the green depths. But everything was still again, shining in the noonday glare.

  “Yes, confound it; that’s what you say, Meier,” the forester exploded. “But I’m to do the running round the village this afternoon, and I’ve no idea whether they’re agreeable or not. Some pull long faces and say it’s all nonsense and they had quite enough with Kapp. But,” he continued, even more depressed if possible, “you’ve seen what he’s like. Nobody dares to say it to his face, and when he whistles they all come. I alone hear their objections.”

  “Who is he?” Meier was curious. “He doesn’t look so marvelous to me.” “I don’t know,” the forester rejoined angrily. “It doesn’t matter what he calls himself. He won’t tell us his right name, you bet. He’s just the Lieutenant.”

  “Well, lieutenant doesn’t mean such a lot nowadays,” reflected Meier, who, however, had been impressed by the way in which the other had dealt with the forester.

  “I don’t know whether a lieutenant is a lot or a little. Anyhow, people obey him,” grumbled the forester. “And they’re surely planning something big, and if it succeeds then it’s all over with Ebert and the whole Red gang,” he added mysteriously.

  “Now, now!” said Meier. “Many have tried to bring that about. But red seems to be a fast color. You won’t scrape it off so easily.”

  “This time it will be,” whispered the forester. “It’s said they have the Reichswehr behind them and they called themselves the Black Reichswehr. The whole district is swarming with them, from the Baltic Corps and Upper Silesia, and from the Ruhr, too. They’re called fatigue parties and they’re supposed to have no arms. But you yourself have seen and heard.…”

  “A Putsch!” said Meier. “And I’m to join? I would have to think it over a good deal first. I’m not doing anything just because somebody says to me ‘All in order, comrade,’ you can bet your life.”

  The forester paid no attention to him. “The old governor has four sporting guns and two three-barreled ones. And a rifle. The Rittmeister …” he said uneasily.

  “Exactly,” cried Meier, relieved. “What’s the Rittmeister’s attitude? Or doesn’t he know anything about it?”

  “If only I knew,” was the doleful reply. “But I don’t. I’ve asked all over the place. Sometimes the Rittmeister travels to Ostade and drinks with the Reichswehr officers. Perhaps we’ll come a terrible cropper, and if things go wrong I’ll lose my job and end my days in jail …”

  “Now don’t start weeping, old walrus,” laughed Meier. “It’s quite simple. Why shouldn’t we ask the Rittmeister whether he wishes us to join or not?”

  “My God,” ejaculated the forester, and threw
up his arms in despair. “You’re really the biggest idiot in the world, Meier. The Rittmeister doesn’t know anything about it, and we’ll then have given it away to him. You’ve read in the newspapers: ‘Traitors punished by the secret tribunal, the Vehmgericht,’ and you know how I …” He suddenly realized what he was saying, the sky turned black, and he went cold with fright. “And I, the chump, have betrayed everything to you. Oh, Meier, do me a favor, give me your word of honor here and now that you won’t tell anybody. I shan’t tell the Rittmeister you set fire to the forest.…”

  “First of all,” said Meier, “I didn’t set fire to the forest—your Lieutenant did. If you betray him you know what’ll happen. And, secondly, suppose I had set fire to it; well, I’m going this evening at ten o’clock to the village magistrate’s to belong to the Black Reichswehr. And if you betray me then, Kniebusch, you know how traitors are dealt with by the Vehine.”

  Meier stood there, grinning in the middle of the path and looking impudently and defiantly at Kniebusch, the old coward. If the Putsch story does no other good, he thought, it puts paid to this miserable sneak—he’d better not risk saying another word about me to the old gentleman or to the Rittmeister.

  The forester, however, stood facing him, alternately paling and flushing. He may have been thinking: I’ve managed in forty years of service to get along; with many scares and having much to put up with, but always hoping that life would become simpler. But, instead, it gets more and more complicated, and now even in my sleep I wake up with a start, fearing that something terrible has happened. I’ve never felt like that before. Before, it was only the timber accounts and wondering whether I’d added up correctly; or when the old gentleman wanted to shoot a buck and was waiting for it in ambush, whether it would come along that day as it usually did. But now I lie awake in the darkness with my heart beating quicker and quicker. Timber thieves and lieutenants about the place and this rotter getting cheeky, and a Putsch coming off.… It will end by my being in the soup, although I have nothing against the President of the Reich.…

  But aloud: “We’re comrades, Meier, and have played many a game of cards together. I’ve never yet said a word about you to the Rittmeister, and what I said about the forest fire only escaped me in anger. I’d never have given you away, of course not.”

  “Of course not,” and Meier grinned insolently. “Now it’s nearly twelve and I won’t have time for the beet field. But I must be present for the fodder, and so I have to cycle. You can run behind me, Kniebusch, you won’t mind that, will you?” And Meier got on his bicycle and pushed off, calling out: “All in order, comrade,” and was gone.

  The forester stared after him, shaking his head gloomily and wondering whether to take the private path instead of the road to his house. On the road he might come across timber thieves, and that would be embarrassing.

  II

  The pawnbroker sat on a high stool writing in his account books, while an assistant negotiated in an undertone with two women, one of whom grasped a bundle of feather beds wrapped in a sheet, the other holding a black dummy figure like those used by dressmakers. Both had sharp faces and the elaborately unconcerned look of those who only rarely visit a pawnshop.

  The shop itself, situated on the mezzanine floor of a busy building, looked, as always, dirty, dusty and disorderly, although it was scrupulously tidied. The light filtering through the frosted windows was gray and dead. As usual, a huge safe stood wide open, revealing a heap of small packets wrapped in white paper, suggesting costly jewels. As usual, the keys were in the lock of the little wall-safe which held the pawnshop’s cash. From dozens of errands it was so familiar that Wolf took it in without looking. It was quite usual, too, for Uncle to glance at him over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and then continue writing.

  Wolfgang Pagel turned toward the assistant, who apparently could not come to terms with the woman wishing to pawn her tailor’s dummy. Lifting his suitcase onto the table he said in a low voice, but lightly: “I’m bringing the usual. Just have a look.” And he unlocked the case.

  Everything was really there as usual, everything they possessed—a second pair of trousers very worn in the seat, two white shirts, three dresses of Petra’s, her underclothing (scanty enough), and the gem of the collection, a small real-silver handbag of hers, probably the gift of an admirer—he had never asked.

  “Three dollars as usual, isn’t it?” he added, just to say something, for he thought the assistant was looking rather hesitatingly at the things. The man, however, replied: “Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”

  And then when everything seemed settled, a high-pitched voice from the office stool exclaimed, quite unexpectedly: “No.”

  Both Wolfgang, who was known there only as the Lieutenant, and the assistant, looked up surprised.

  “No,” said Uncle once more, and shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant, but this time we can’t oblige you. It doesn’t pay us. You always come and fetch the goods the next day, and we have all that bother—and, besides, these dresses are going out of fashion. Perhaps another time, when you have got something … more up to date.”

  He glanced once more at Pagel, pointed his pen at him—at least it seemed so—and went on writing. Without looking up, the assistant slowly closed the suitcase, snapping the catches. The two women looked at Wolfgang, embarrassed and yet somewhat malicious, like schoolboys with a fellow pupil who has been reprimanded by the master.

  “Listen, Herr Feld,” said Pagel briskly and crossed the pawnshop toward the man, who calmly went on writing. “I’ve a rich friend in the West End who’s sure to help me out. I only want the fare. I’ll leave the things here and on my way back this evening, before you close, I’ll drop in and pay back the money. Fivefold if you like. Or tenfold.”

  Uncle looked reflectively at Wolfgang through his glasses, frowned and said: “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant. We don’t lend money here, we only advance money on pledge.”

  “But it’s only the miserable few thousands for my fare,” insisted Wolf. “And I leave you the things.”

  “I am not allowed to retain the articles without a pawn ticket. And I don’t want to take them in pawn. I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant.” And the pawnbroker looked at Wolfgang with a puzzled frown as if he wanted to judge from his face the effect of his words; then he nodded slightly and returned to his books. Wolfgang, too, had frowned and nodded slightly as if indicating that he didn’t take the refusal too badly. But, turning toward the door, he was struck by an idea, and once more went up to Herr Feld. “Look here, Herr Feld,” he said. “Buy the things from me. For three dollars. Then the poor mind will be at rest.” It had occurred to him that the rich Zecke was sure to help him out with a largish sum, and it would be a huge joke to surprise Peter with an entirely new outfit. What would be the use to her then of the old rubbish? No, away with the lot.

  Herr Feld went on writing for a while. Then he stuck the pen in the inkpot, leaned back a little and said: “One dollar—with the case, Herr Lieutenant. As I said, the things are not up to date.” He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes to twelve. “And at yesterday’s dollar rate.”

  For a moment Wolfgang felt like flaring up. It was the most impudent swindle in the world; and he ought to consider Peter, too, her only possessions at that moment being some toilet articles and his very ancient summer overcoat. But just as quickly came the thought that Zecke would give him money. And if he didn’t, he had always managed to get some, somehow. With a quick gesture which was to show how little it mattered, he said: “All right, then. Hand out the dough. Four hundred and fourteen thousand.” It was really nothing when he considered that yesterday evening he had gambled away almost thirty millions on zero. And one had to laugh at such a microbe as this Feld, who toiled for such muck, for such ridiculous amounts.

  Uncle, wicked tough Uncle, the microbe, slowly climbed down from his office stool, went to the safe, rummaged in it for a while, and then paid out Wolfgang four hundred thousand marks.
r />   “But where are the fourteen?”

  “It’s usual to deduct four per cent for cash payment,” said Herr Feld. “Really, only three hundred and ninety-eight thousand are due to you, but I make a present of the two thousand because you’re an old customer.”

  Wolfgang laughed. “You’re smart, Uncle. You’ll get on, you see if you don’t. Then I’ll be your chauffeur. Yes?”

  Herr Feld took it seriously. “Me be driven by you, Herr Lieutenant?” he protested. “No, not even free, since nothing matters to you, not even your things. Oh, no.” And once again the pawnbroker: “At your service when you have something else, Herr Lieutenant. Till then!”

  Pagel rustled the notes and said laughingly: “Perhaps this will help me to get a car of my own.”

  The pawnbroker still looked uneasy, and returned to his writing. Smiling, Wolfgang stepped into the street.

  III

  After the loathsome negotiations at the Harvesters’ Agency the Rittmeister felt that he deserved a little repose. But where could he go so early in the morning? This was an hour at which he had not hitherto been about in Berlin. Finally he thought of a hotel café in the Friedrichstadt where one could sit comfortably and perhaps see a few well dressed women.

  And the first person whom he met in the hall of the hotel was, of course, an acquaintance. (Prackwitz always met acquaintances in the parts of the town he frequented—of course not at Schlesische Bahnhof. Or acquaintances of acquaintances. Or relatives. Or acquaintances of relatives. Or comrades from his regiment. Or comrades from the war. Or mere privates. He knew all the world.)

  This time it was actually someone from his own regiment—Oberleutnant von Studmann.

  Herr von Studmann stood in the hall, irreproachably dressed in a frock coat and brilliantly polished shoes (at such an early hour). He might have seemed momentarily embarrassed at the meeting; but the Rittmeister, in his pleasure at having found a companion for the two hours he had to wait, noticed nothing.