by Hans Fallada
“Mine is Pagel,” said Wolfgang after a momentary hesitation.
“It’s very close today,” said the servant in a friendly, low, but very clear and trained voice. “May I bring you something to drink—a bottle of beer?”
Wolfgang pondered a moment. “May I have a glass of water?”
“Beer makes one sleepy,” agreed the -other and fetched the water. The tumbler was on a plate and a piece of ice swam in the water; everything was done in style here.
“Yes, that’s good,” said Wolfgang, drinking greedily.
“Take your time,” advised the other, always with the same kind seriousness. “You can’t drink up all our water—nor the ice,” he added after a pause, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. However, he fetched a second glass.
“Many thanks,” said Wolfgang.
“FräuleinLiesbeth is engaged for the moment. But she will come soon.”
“Yes,” said Wolfgang slowly. And pulling himself together—“I’d rather go now, I’m quite refreshed.”
“Fräulein Liesbeth is a very good girl, very good and very efficient.”
“Yes,” agreed Wolfgang politely. Only the thought of his money in this Fräulein’s pocket still held him there; those few notes so recently despised would take him back to Alexanderplatz. “There are many good girls,” he acquiesced.
“No,” declared the other. “Forgive me for contradicting you: the sort of good girl I mean is rare.”
“Yes?” inquired Wolfgang.
“Yes. For one ought not to do good just for the fun of it but because one loves what is good.” He looked at Wolfgang again, but not quite so kindly. (Queer fish! thought the visitor.)
“Well, it won’t be long now,” the servant concluded, and he left the kitchen just as gently, as deliberately, as he had entered. Wolfgang felt that although he had hardly said anything he had not given the man a good impression.
Now he must move a little; the girl from the stove came with a tablecloth, then a tray, and started to lay the table. “Stay where you are,” she said. “You’re not in my way.”
She too had a pleasant voice. It struck Wolfgang that the people in this house spoke well. They spoke very good German, clearly and distinctly.
“There’s your place,” said the girl as Wolfgang gazed absent-mindedly at the paper napkin in front of him. “You’ll have your lunch here.”
He made a vague but defensive gesture. Something was beginning to disturb him. The house was not far from Zecke’s mansion, yet far removed in other ways. But they ought not to talk to him as if he were a patient, or rather as if he were somebody who had committed a crime in a fit of madness, and must be spoken with cautiously so as not to provoke him again.
“You won’t disappoint Liesbeth, will you?” the girl said. And after a pause: “The mistress is agreeable.”
She laid the table, the silver clinking—not much, though, as she was very neat-handed. Wolfgang did not stir; a kind of paralysis caused by the heat, no doubt. So he was being treated as some sort of beggar from the street, a hungry man who was given a meal with the consent of the lady of the house. In his mother’s case, the beggar was not allowed into the kitchen; Minna would make some sandwiches and at best a plate of soup was handed out through the door, to be eaten on the landing.
Well, here at Dahlem they were more generous, but it didn’t matter much to the beggar. Whether he was outside the door or in the kitchen, a beggar was a beggar, now and forever after. Amen.
He hated himself for not going. He didn’t want food. What did he care about food? He could eat at his mother’s; Minna had told him that a place was always laid for him. It wasn’t that he was ashamed, but they ought not to talk to him as if he were a patient who had to be considerately treated. He wasn’t ill. It was only that damned money. Why hadn’t he taken those miserable scraps of paper out of her hand? He would be sitting in the subway by now …
In his nervousness he had taken out a cigarette and was just about to light it when the girl said: “Please not now, if you can possibly do without it. After I have sent the lunch up to the dining room it will be all right. The master has such a delicate sense of smell.”
The door opened and in came a little girl, the daughter of the house, ten or twelve years old, bright and cheerful. She certainly knew nothing of the evil gray town side. Probably wanted to have a look at the beggar. Beggars seemed to be a rarity in Dahlem.
“Papa is already on the way,” said the child to the girl at the cooker. “In a quarter of an hour we can eat. What have you got, Trudchen?” “Inquisitive!” laughed the girl and raised a lid. The child sniffed eagerly at the steam. “Oh, merely those old green peas again,” she said. “No, tell me honestly, Trudchen.”
“Soup, meat and green peas,” said Trudchen tantalizingly.
“And?” urged the child.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” laughed the girl.
Such a world still exists, thought Wolfgang, half smiling, half desperate. And I had only forgotten it because in Georgenkirchstrasse I lost sight of it. But children innocent and unspoiled, and real innocence, still exist. What the pudding’s going to be is important, even though hundreds of thousands of people have given up asking about their daily bread. Looting at Gleiwitz and Breslau, food riots in Frankfurt-on-the-Main and Neuruppin, Eisleben and Dramburg …
He eyed the child with suspicion. It’s a swindle, he thought, an artificial innocence, a carefully protected innocence—just as they have bars in front of their windows. Life will reach her in spite of all this. What will remain of her innocence in two or three years’ time?
“Good day,” said the child. She had only just noticed him, perhaps because he moved his chair in order to get up and go. He took the hand which she extended. Beneath a frank handsome forehead she had dark eyes. “You’re the gentleman who came in with our Liesbeth?” she asked, looking at him seriously.
“Yes,” said he and tried to smile at so much earnestness. “How old are you?”
“Eleven,” she answered politely. “And your wife has nothing on but your overcoat?”
“That’s so.” He still tried to smile and appear at ease. But it was damnable to hear one’s shortcomings from the mouths of others, especially from a child’s. “And she has nothing to eat—and won’t be able to get anything, not even a pudding with macaroons.”
She remained unaware that he had intended to hurt her. “Mamma has so many clothes,” she said meditatively. “Most of them she doesn’t wear at all.”
“Quite right,” he said, feeling rather shabby with his cheap talk. “Such is life. You haven’t learned that in school yet, eh?”
He felt lower and more miserable than ever before those serious eyes.
“I don’t go to school,” said the child, assuming an air of importance. “I’m blind.” Again that look. “Papa is also blind. But Papa used to be able to see. I have never been able to, at all.”
She stood before him—and he, so quickly punished for his cheap sneering, felt still more strongly that she was looking at him. No, not with her eyes, but perhaps with her candid brow, her pale curved lips; as if this blind child could penetrate further than did Petra with her eyes.
“Mamma can see. But she says she would prefer not to, as she never knows what Papa and I feel like. We wouldn’t let her though.”
“No,” agreed Wolfgang. “You don’t want that.”
“Fräulein and Liesbeth and Trudchen and Herr Hoffmann can tell us what they see. But when Mamma tells us, then it’s quite different.”
“Because it’s your Mamma, isn’t it?” said Wolfgang cautiously.
“Yes. Papa and I are both Mamma’s children. Papa, too.”
He kept silent, but the child expected no reply. The subjects she was speaking about were so self-explanatory that there was nothing for him to say about them.
“Has your wife a Mamma—or has she nobody?”
Wolfgang stood there, a very thin smile round his lips. “Nobody,” he
said decidedly. If only he could get away. Knocked out by a child exposing his unkindness, his want of character.
“Papa will certainly give you some money. And this afternoon Mamma will go and see your wife. Where is she?”
“Seventeen Georgenkirchstrasse,” said he. “Fourth floor,” said he. “At Frau Thumann’s,” said he. Something welled up within him. If only she could get some help! She ought to be helped. She was worthy of all help. Evanescent world in which you have your being, poor thing, both entangled and entangling. Just as you suddenly feel she is freeing herself from you, you notice how useful she was to you. Expelled into the dark, with clear light still existing far away. But now it goes out. You’re on your own, and don’t know whether you can and will return or not. Poor Petra … He was indeed a beggar; and now that the chance of help had arrived he felt that it would be of no use to him, because he was hollow, burnt out, empty.
“I must go now,” he said to the kitchen. He shook hands with the child, nodded, said: “You know the address?” and went. Went into the sultry, the confined, tumultuous town, once more to try and hold his own in the struggle for money and bread. For what? For whom? He did not know and was not to know for a long while.
VI
The Manor, as it was called in Neulohe, was the old gentleman’s house. Rittmeister von Prackwitz lived about half a mile farther on near the farmyard and among the fields, in a small villa of six rooms, speculative-builder style; a jerry-built erection of the early inflation period, the plaster already in flakes. The Manor—which the old gentleman wouldn’t leave, if only because he wanted to stay near his beloved firs and incidentally keep an eye on his son-in-law was a ramshackle yellow building also, but with three times as many rooms as the younger people had and at any rate a real terrace and steps, a sun porch with French windows, and a park.
Black Meier passed the Manor. He had no business there and was not looking for any, wishing to avoid the angry old lady. He was bound for the staff-house (situated uncomfortably close to the Manor) where he had an office and a bedroom—the other rooms stood empty because of the Rittmeister’s economy campaign. (Yet the Rittmeister was a great man!) Since he wanted to question the young Fräulein about her telephone conversation with her father, he went first to his room to wash his hands and face, and sprinkled his chest profusely with a scent called Russian Leather, which was obviously the right thing for the country, since it was advertised as “Pungent, Manly, Dashing.”
He looked at himself in the mirror. That time was, of course, long past when he had felt ashamed of his small stature, blubber lips, flat nose and bulging eyes. Successes with women had taught him that to be handsome was not essential; on the contrary a somewhat odd appearance attracted the girls as surely as a salt-lick attracted the deer.
Naturally Violet would not be so easy to deal with as, for example, Amanda Backs or Sophie Kowalewski. But little Meier believed—again not in agreement with his employer’s view—that little Vi, although only fifteen years old, was a bitch. Certain glances, a young bosom consciously displayed, certain expressions—sometimes bold, sometimes of the deepest innocence—these could not be misunderstood by such an experienced wencher. It was natural, when you came to think of it. Old Herr von Teschow was said to have thrashed a lover out of the bedroom of her mother, then unmarried, a discipline which the mother subsequently tasted herself. So people said. Well, the world was large and everything possible. Like mother, like daughter. To call the little bailiff, because of his thoughts in front of the mirror, an intriguer and a rascally seducer would be an exaggeration. His thoughts were not plans; only day-dreams full of youthful vanity. He had a young puppy’s ravenous appetite; he would have liked to bite at everything—and Violet was very handsome indeed.
But, as with a puppy, his fears were as big as his appetite, and he was afraid of a thrashing. He was bold enough with Amanda Backs, who had no relatives; but he would never be able to behave like that with Vi, who had the support of a quick-tempered father. Although in his dreams he had arranged everything, including an elopement and a secret marriage, he still funked the return to his father-in-law’s, for he could conceive of no homecoming which would be at all satisfactory; the young wife would best manage that interview. He need have no fear of Vi, nor respect for her; once she had slept with him she would be no better than he was. Aristocratic origin peeled off as varnish did from mass-production furniture, revealing the common pine beneath.
Black Meier grinned at himself in the mirror. “You’re a gay dog” may have been the meaning of it, and, as confirming his valuation of himself, he remembered that the Lieutenant had spoken to him this morning in a more comradely tone than to the sneaking Kniebusch.
Meier greeted himself in the mirror, waved a friendly hand at his reflection—“Good luck go with you, child of Fortune”—and marched off to Violet von Prackwitz.
Frau Hartig was tidying up in the office. The coachman’s wife, still comely, would probably also like to have her fling; but women over twenty-five were as old as the hills, and Hartig was about twenty-seven, the mother of no less than eight children. Today her lips were compressed, her eyes sparkled, and she frowned. That didn’t bother Meier; but, just as he was about to pass by, the iron reading lamp fell from the desk with a thundering crash and the green shade broke into a thousand fragments.
So Meier had to stop and say his piece.
“Well,” he grinned, “broken glass brings us good luck-does this apply to you or to me?” She gave him an angry glance. “What’s the matter with you? Is it the weather? It’s close enough for a storm.” And he looked mechanically at the barometer, which had been dropping slowly but steadily since midday.
“I don’t want any of your dirtiness,” cried the woman shrilly. “Do you think I’m going to tidy up any longer after you two?” And she slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and showed him three hairpins. (In 1923 bobbed hair had not yet conquered the great plains.) In your bed they were,” she almost shrieked. “You filthy beast! But I won’t tidy up that, I’ll show it to the mistress.”
“Which one, Frau Hartig?” laughed Meier. “The old one knows about it already—and she’s praying for me at this moment; the young one has guessed and’ll laugh all the more.” He looked at her with a superior and mocking air.
“Such a common bitch, too,” shrieked Frau Hartig. “Can’t she have a look in the bed before she clears out? But no, I’m to tidy up after a poultry maid! Creatures like that have no shame.”
“Oh, yes, they have, Frau Hartig,” said Black Meier seriously. Then he grinned again. “What handsome red hair your youngest son has, exactly like the head stableman’s. Is he to become a coachman like his father, or stableman like his stepfather?” And with that Meier marched off, giggling to himself, pleased as Punch, while Frau Hartig, still angry but already partly mollified, stared at the three hairpins in her hand. He was a rotter, but he knew his way about, small as he was.
She looked at the hairpins once more, then stuck them resolutely in her own hair. I’ll get hold of you yet, she thought. Amanda won’t rule forever.
Cheerfully she cleared away the fragments of the lamp shade, of a sudden firmly convinced that they would bring her the good luck.
Meier, too, was thinking of the broken glass and the good luck it would almost immediately bring him. In the best of moods he arrived at the Rittmeister’s villa. First he peeped into the garden, for he would much prefer to meet Vi out of earshot of her mother; she was not there, however. This was not difficult to establish since, although the garden was not small, one could see all over it at a glance. Already partly dried up, it had been recently created by Frau von Prackwitz and conjured up at a moment’s notice from a bare field.
Nothing, by the way, could better symbolize the position in Neulohe or the gulf between owner and tenant than a comparison of Teschow’s park with Prackwitz’s garden: in the former were sumptuous trees a hundred years old, abounding with foliage and sap; in the latter a few b
are sticks with scanty and fading leaves. In the one were wide green lawns; in the other a thin dry grass struggling hopelessly against advancing mare’s-tail, couch-grass, and meadow heartsease. There a fair-sized lake with rowboat and swan; here an artificial stone basin filled with green ditchwater. In one place a growth inherited and full of promise for the future; in the other, growth hardly born, yet already withering. (Still, the Rittmeister’s a great man!)
Bailiff Meier was just about to ring the bell when he heard a call from the side. A ladder led up to the flat roof of the kitchen annex where stood a deck chair and a big garden sunshade. It was from there that the voice had called, “Herr Meier!”
Meier stood to attention. “At your service.”
An ungracious voice from above: “What’s the matter? Mamma is quite done up by the heat and wants to sleep. Don’t you dare disturb her.”
“I only wanted to ask, Fräulein … Herr von Teschow told me that the Rittmeister had telephoned.” Rather angrily: “It is about the conveyances … Am I to send them to the station or not?”
“Don’t shout like that,” shouted the voice from above. “I’m not one of your farm girls. Mamma wants to rest, I tell you.”
Meier looked despairingly at the flat roof. But it was too high to see anything of the girl he had eloped with in his dreams and married; only a corner of the deck chair and part of the sunshade. He decided to whisper as loudly as he could. “Am I to send conveyances—this evening—to the railway?”
Silence. Meier waited.
Then from above: “Did you say anything? I could only hear “Run away.”
“Haw-haw-haw.” Meier guffawed dutifully before repeating his inquiry somewhat louder.
“You’re not to shout,” came her command.
He knew quite well that she only wanted to torment him. He was merely Papa’s bailiff. Had to do what he was told. Had to stand and wait till it graciously pleased Fräulein. You wait, my dear, one day you’ll have to stand and wait—for me.
However, he now seemed to have been kept waiting long enough, for she called to him (surprisingly loud, too, for such a considerate daughter): “Herr Meier, aren’t you going to speak? Are you still there?”
