Wolf Among Wolves

by Hans Fallada

  “It’s no doubt,” explained the inflexibly honest Minna, “because the registry office is compulsory, while church is not. He’ll be short of money, the young master.

  “Yes,” said Frau Pagel and heard only what pleased her. “And those who have come together so hurriedly will just as lightly part.”

  “The young master,” ventured Minna, “has always had too easy a time. He’s no idea of how a poor man earns money. First you made it easy for him, madam—and now the girl does. Some men are like that—all their life they need a nursemaid—and what’s so extraordinary, they always find one.”

  “Money,” repeated the old woman. “They will have hardly any money. A young thing is vain, likes to dress nicely. If we were to give her money, Minna?”

  “She would only give it to him, madam. And he would gamble it away.”

  “Minna!” Frau Pagel was shocked. “What are you thinking of? He’ll not gamble any more now, when he’s married. There may be children.”

  “There could have been children before, madam. That has nothing to do with gambling.”

  Frau Pagel did not want to understand; she was staring across the table at the empty seat.

  “Do clear away, Minna,” she cried. “I can’t look at food any longer. Here I’m eating a little pigeon—and he has married.” She wept again. “Oh, Minna, what are we to do? I can’t go on sitting here in my flat as if nothing had happened. We must do something.”

  “Suppose we went there?” suggested Minna cautiously.

  “Go there? Us? And he doesn’t come here! And he hasn’t even written to tell me he’s going to get married! No, that’s quite impossible.”

  “There’s no need to behave as if we knew anything.”

  “I deceive Wolf? No, Minna, I won’t start that now. It’s bad enough to realize that he doesn’t mind deceiving me.”

  “And suppose I went there alone?” Minna again asked warily. “They’re used to me, and I’m not so particular about a bit of deceiving.”

  “That’s bad enough, Minna,” said Frau Pagel sharply. “Very disgusting of you. Well, I’ll lie down now for a short time. I’ve a terrible headache. Bring me a glass of water for my tablets.”

  And she went into her husband’s room. For a while she stood before the picture of a young woman, thinking perhaps: She can never love him as much as I did Edmund. They may separate very, very soon.

  She heard Minna go to and from the other room, clearing away. She’s an old donkey, she reflected angrily. She was to bring me a glass of water; but no, first she must clear away. Well, I won’t do what she wants. She has her afternoon off the day after tomorrow; she can do what she likes then. If she goes today the girl will know at once why. One knows how mercenary these young girls are. Wolf is a fool. I’ll tell him so, too. He thinks she’s taking him for his own sake, but she has seen the flat and the paintings; she’s known for a long time what prices they fetch. And that this picture really belongs to him. Funny, he’s never asked me for it. But that’s just like Wolf. He isn’t calculating.

  She heard the water tap flowing in the kitchen. Minna probably wanted to bring some ice-cold water. Quickly she went to the sofa and lay down, covering herself with a blanket.

  “You could have brought me the water five minutes ago, Minna. You know that I’m lying here with a frightful headache.”

  She looked angrily at the old servant. But Minna wore her most wooden expression; you couldn’t read her thoughts if she didn’t want you to.

  “All right then, Minna. And be very quiet in the kitchen-I want to sleep a little. You can have your afternoon off today. You may leave once you’ve finished the dishes. Leave the window cleaning till tomorrow; you’re bound to make a noise. You’ll make such a clatter with the pails that I shan’t be able to sleep.”

  “Good-by, madam,” said Minna and went, closing the door very softly, avoiding any clatter. Silly woman, thought Frau Pagel. How she stared at me—just like an old owl! I’ll wait till she goes, then I’ll hurry along to Betty’s. Perhaps she was at the registry office or sent somebody there—no one’s so inquisitive as Betty. And I’ll be back before Minna-no need for her to know everything.

  Frau Pagel glanced once again at the painting on the wall. The Woman in the Window was looking away from her. Seen thus, the dark shadows behind her head made it seem as if a man’s lips were approaching the nape. Frau Pagel had seen it often like that; today it annoyed her.

  This damned sensuality, she thought. It spoils everything for the young people. They are always taken in by it.

  It occurred to her that, since the couple were married, half of the picture belonged to the young wife. Was it not so?

  But only let her come! I wish she would. I slapped her once and there is more waiting for her.…

  Almost smiling she turned over, to fall asleep the next minute.

  Chapter Four

  An Oppressive Afternoon in Town and Country

  I

  “Listen,” said the Governor, Dr. Klotzsche, to the journalist Kastner, who had chosen that day of all days to visit Meienburg Penitentiary during his tour through Prussia’s strongholds. “Listen. You need attach no importance to the gossip you hear from the townsfolk. If ten prisoners make a noise, in this reinforced concrete building it sounds as if it were a thousand.”

  “But you telephoned for the Reichswehr,” the journalist pointed out. “It’s unbelievable!” Governor Klotzsche was about to fly into a rage over Press spying, which went as far as listening-in to trunk calls, when he remembered that this Herr Kastner carried a letter of introduction from the Minister of Justice. Besides, although Cuno was Reich Chancellor, his position according to rumor was shaky, and it was therefore wiser not to be on bad terms with the Social Democratic Party whose Press Herr Kastner represented. “It is unbelievable,” he continued, but in noticeably more moderate tones, “how gossip in this town exaggerates the putting into force of a regulation. If there is unrest in the penitentiary, I have as a precautionary measure to inform the police and Reichswehr. Within a very short time I was able to cancel the warning. You see, Herr Doctor—”

  But even that title did not soften this man. “Still, in your opinion there was a possibility of serious unrest. Why?”

  The Governor was extremely annoyed, but it didn’t help. “It was on account of the bread,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t good enough for one of the convicts, and he shouted. And when they heard him, twenty others joined in.”

  “Twenty, not ten then,” corrected the journalist.

  “A hundred for all I care,” cried the Governor, whose gall was overflowing. “For all I care, sir, a thousand, all of them! I can’t alter it; the bread’s not good, but what am I to do? Our food appropriations are four weeks behind the mark devaluation. I can’t buy the best flour—what am I to do?”

  “Deliver decent bread. Make a row with the Ministry. Incur debts on behalf of the administration and don’t worry. The men are to be fed according to the regulations.”

  “Certainly,” said the Governor. “I’m to risk my neck so that my gentlemen get the best of food. And the unpunished population starves outside, what?”

  But Herr Kastner was not accessible to irony and bitterness. Seeing a man in convict garb polishing the corridor floor, he called to him, suddenly very amiable. “You there. Your name, please?”

  “Liebschner.”

  “Herr Liebschner, tell me quite honestly—how do you find the food, in particular the bread?”

  The prisoner glanced swiftly from the Governor to the gentleman in mufti, uncertain of what they wanted to hear. You couldn’t tell; the stranger might be from the Public Prosecutor, and if you opened your mouth too wide you fell in the soup. He plumped for caution. “The food? I like it.”

  “Ah, Herr Liebschner,” said the journalist, who was not speaking with a prisoner for the first time, “I’m from the Press. You needn’t be afraid of me. You will come to no harm if you speak frankly. We shall keep an eye on yo
u. What was wrong with the bread early this morning?”

  “I beg your pardon,” cried the Governor, pale with fury. “This borders on instigation …”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Herr Kastner barked. “If I’m asking this man to speak the truth, is that instigation? Speak freely—I am Kastner from the Social Democratic Press Combine. You can always write to me.”

  But the prisoner had made his decision. “Some will always grumble,” said he and looked frankly at the journalist. “The bread is the same as it ever was and I like it. Those here who complain the loudest go shortest when they’re outside and haven’t a whole pair of trousers to their behinds.”

  “So,” frowned the journalist, visibly dissatisfied, while the Governor breathed more easily. “So! What have you been sentenced for?”

  “Fraud,” replied Herr Liebschner. “And then they say harvest crews are to go out; tobacco and meat as much as you like.”

  “Thanks,” said the journalist curtly, and turned to the Governor. “Shall we continue? I should like to see a cell. Besides, I don’t set much store by an orderly’s gossip; they’re all afraid of losing their jobs. And fraud! Frauds and bullies are the most untrustworthy people in the world.”

  “But at first you seemed to attach importance to this swindler’s evidence.” Behind his fair beard the Governor smiled.

  The journalist paid no attention. “And then harvest crews. To do work for the big agrarians which even the Poles consider themselves a cut above. And for wretched wages. Is that an arrangement of your own?”

  “No, not at all,” said the Governor pleasantly. “It’s a decree of your Party comrade in the Prussian Ministry of Justice, Herr Kastner.”

  II

  “Frau Thumann,” said Petra, firmly buttoned up from top to toe in the shabby summer overcoat, and without taking any notice of the lodger from the room opposite, the jaunty but debauched Ida of Alexanderplatz, who sat at the landlady’s kitchen table soaking delicious glazed brioche in her milky coffee, “Frau Thumann, haven’t you anything for me to do?”

  “Lor’, girl,” groaned Madam Po at the sink. “What do you mean by something to do? D’you want to watch the clock to see if he’s coming, or do you want some grub?”

  “Both,” said Ida in a voice hoarse with drink, and sucked her coffee audibly through a lump of sugar in her mouth.

  “I’ve already cleaned the fresh ‘errings and you don’t do the potato salad as Willem likes it—and what’s left?”

  Madam Po glanced round, but nothing occurred to her.

  “I’ve been working my guts out so I’d be at the church door in time for the grand wedding, and now it’s twenty to two and the bride’s still hopping round in a man’s overcoat and bare legs. I’m always being cheated of something.”

  Petra sat down. She felt queer in the stomach, a tugging sensation with a hint of pain to come, a weakness in the knees and now and again a flush of perspiration which couldn’t be altogether caused by the sultry air. Nevertheless she felt quite contented. An enormous and happy certainty was within her. She could let them talk as they liked; her previous pride and shame were gone, she knew whither she was going. What mattered was not that the path was difficult, but that it led to a goal.

  “Sit down gently on the chair, my lady,” jeered the dashing Ida. “Or else it won’t bear you till the bridegroom comes to take you to the wedding.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her in my kitchen, Ida,” cautioned Madam Po at the sink. “Up till now he’s always paid his way, and you have to be kind to paying guests.”

  “But there’s an end to everything, Thumann,” said Ida sagely. “I understand men. I know when the dough gets short and he wants to hop it—hers has hopped it today.”

  “Don’t say that, Ida, for God’s sake,” wailed Frau Thumann. “What am I going to do with a girl with bare legs, with nothing on but an overcoat? Oh, God,” she screamed, and flung a pan down with a clatter. “I’ve no bloody luck. P’raps I’ll have to buy her a dress to get rid of her.”

  “Buy a dress?” said Ida contemptuously. “Don’t be a mug, Thumann. You only need tell a policeman certain things—by the way, there’s one living in the front part of the house—tell him, for instance, she’s swindling—and off she goes to the police station and Alexanderplatz. They’ll give you a dress there, Fräulein—you know, a dark blue uniform and cap.”

  “Why try to worry me?” said Petra peaceably. “No doubt you’ve been thrown over once too.” She had not intended to say it, but out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh—and she had spoken.

  Ida gasped as if someone had struck her in the breast.

  “She got you there!” giggled the Thumann woman.

  “Once, Fräulein?” said Ida loudly. “You say once? You mean a hundred times. No, a hundred’s not enough. The times I’ve stood with icy feet while the hand of the big clock moves on and on until it dawns on me, silly fool, that someone has done the dirty on me once more. But,” and she changed over to truculence, “for all that, a girl who even on her wedding day hasn’t a rag to put on needn’t rub it into me. A girl who can’t keep her greedy eyes off the brioche in my mouth and counts every gulp of coffee I take! A girl like that …”

  “Go on, go on!” rejoiced the Thumann woman.

  “And besides, is it right that a girl like that should come in such a miserable state, into a strange kitchen and ask, as if she were Lady Mud herself, ‘Can I help?’ Those with nothing must beg. My father used a stick to impress that on my back; and if you’d said: ‘Ida, I’m starving, give me a roll,’ you’d have had one. And another thing, Frau Thumann. I pay you a dollar daily for your bug walk, and there’s not even a night light on the stairs, and what with the gentlemen always complaining about it—it isn’t for you to laugh and shout: ‘She’s got you there, my girl.’ You ought to protect me, and when someone like that gets fresh, a woman who sleeps with her bully buckshee, just for fun, and you, Thumann, have to see where you can get the dough—she’s too good to work, she won’t walk the streets and get cash, she’s too good for that—no, Thumann, I’m surprised at you; and if you don’t chuck out that impertinent hussy on the spot, laughing at me for not always having been lucky with the gentlemen, then I’ll clear out.”

  The dashing Ida stood there flushed with anger, a brioche in her hand, getting redder and redder the more it dawned on her how greatly insulted she was. Frau Thumann and Petra looked quite disconcerted at this storm, arisen none knew why or how. (And the dashing Ida, if only she had thought it over, would have been just as surprised at the way her speech had ended.)

  Petra would have preferred to get up and go back to her room, lock the door, and throw herself on the bed. But she felt fainter and fainter, there was a ringing in her ears and everything swam before her eyes. The angry voice was speaking from a distance, but then again it came close, shouting into her very ears. Everything swam again. Then fire ran down her nape and back; the sweat of weakness broke out. Now she reckoned it up, she had for some days eaten practically nothing, except when Wolf had had some money; a sausage with salad, or rolls and liver sausage, on the edge of the bed. And, since yesterday morning, nothing at all, though it was important now that she should have plenty to eat. She must try to get to her room as quickly as possible, lock the door, lock it firmly, not open it even if the police knocked; open it only when Wolfgang returned.…

  In the distance she heard Frau Thumann wailing: “See what you’ve done, my girl. People like you who’ve nothing mustn’t talk away other people’s livings, and Ida’s a first-class lady who brings me her dollar every day—you mustn’t throw mud at a girl like that, understand? And now get out of my kitchen quickly, or you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

  “No,” shrieked Ida. “That’s no good, Thumann. Either she goes or I go. I won’t be insulted by the likes of that—out of the flat with her, or I move this minute.”

  “But, Ida, my child,” wailed Frau Thumann. “You see what she’s
like; so much spit on whitewash, not a stitch on and nothing in her belly—I can’t turn her out like that.”

  “Can’t you, Thumann? Can’t you? All right, we’ll see about that—you can watch me go out of your front door, Frau Thumann.”

  “Ida,” begged Madam Po, “do me a favor. Just wait till her chap comes back. Then I’ll get rid of them both. Get out of her sight, you fool, you,” she whispered agitatedly to Petra. “If she don’t see you, she’ll cool down.

  “I’m going,” whispered Petra. All of a sudden she could stand and could see the open kitchen door as a black oblong against the passage. But she could not distinguish the faces of the women. She went ‘slowly. They were saying something, ever quicker and louder, but she didn’t hear it clearly, did not grasp it.…

  But she could walk, however—from the bright stuffy heat slowly toward the blackness which led to the gloomy corridor with “her” door; she only needed to enter, lock it, and then to bed.…

  She passed it as if in a dream, however, her feet disobeying her. I ought to have made the bed, she thought, casting a glance at the room, and passed. Close by was the front door. She opened it, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door behind her.

  The blurs right and left were the faces of women neighbors. “What’s the row at your place?” asked one.

  “Have they chucked you out, Fräulein?”

  “Lord, she looks like a warmed-up corpse.”

  But Petra only shook her head—if she spoke she would wake up and find herself again in the quarrelsome kitchen.… Softly and gently, or the dream would vanish! … She held the railing cautiously, and descended a step. It was a real dream stair; one went down and down.

  She had to hurry. Upstairs a door opened; they were calling to her. “Wench, don’t be so silly. Where are you going with nothing on? Come upstairs. Ida forgives you, too.”

  Petra made a gesture of dissent and went still lower, lower—to the bottom of a well. But down below was a shining gate—as in a fairy tale Wolfgang had told her. And now she passed through the bright gate, out into the sun, across sunny courtyards … and now she was in the street, an almost empty sunny street.