by Hans Fallada
No clouds could yet be seen. Perhaps they lurked behind the rows of houses, crouched under the hidden horizon, ready to ascend and pour forth fire, thunder and flood, Nature’s unavailing incursion into an artificial world.
But Wolfgang Pagel walked no faster, for all that. At first he had set forth without a definite goal, merely because he felt he could no longer sit in that lordly kitchen. But when at last the object of his pilgrimage became clear, he went no quicker. He had always been easy-going, slow by nature and by habit; before he replied to a question he liked to make a gesture with his hand, since that postponed the answer a little.
And he was walking slowly now—it postponed the decision a little. In the kitchen, during the conversation with the blind child, he had still been of the opinion that he must leave the responsibility for Petra to others, because he himself could not help her. To help a girl without clothes or food, and in debt, could only mean one thing—money—and he had none. But then it had struck him that he did have money, if not in coin then in what was equally valuable. To put it concisely, von Zecke had presented him with an idea: he owned a painting. This painting, Young Woman at a Window, indisputably belonged to him. He remembered his mother telling him before he went to the Front: “This painting now belongs to you, Wolf. At the Front you must always remember that Father’s finest picture is waiting here for you.”
Wolfgang did not like this picture, but it had a market value. He would not oblige Zecke; there were art dealers in plenty who would gladly take a Pagel, and he decided to approach a big dealer in Bellevuestrasse. There they would certainly not lower themselves to cheat him, since a Pagel was a good proposition without that.
He would receive for the picture numerically an unheard-of sum, hundreds of millions, probably (perhaps even a milliard), but he wouldn’t touch a penny of it; not one note was to be changed. He would go on foot to Georgen-kirchstrasse—that little bit extra wouldn’t mean much to one who had walked from Dahlem into town. No, not one note should be changed. He would overwhelm his waiting Petra with the whole enormous sum.
Pagel walked through the scorching town of Berlin without haste, without stopping, running over his plans time after time, for there were various aspects to be considered. Most of all he thought about the moment when he would count out on the table an immense sum in notes; or, better still, he would let them rain down on the girl in bed so that she would be entirely covered by the money, covered with money in that filthy den. Often he had day-dreamed of this moment, imagining that it would be his winnings. Well, it would be instead money from the sale of his father’s painting. Money gained by gambling—snatched so to speak from the three birds of prey—that would have been better still. However, that idea was now definitely finished with; he would think of it no more.
So he marched on, Wolfgang Pagel, ex-second lieutenant, ex-gambler, ex-lover. Again, he had done nothing, only gone, gone from here to there, and back again. In the morning he did go, and made plans, but only these last ones were the right ones. His were the most excellent of intentions, and therefore he could walk without hurrying. He was completely satisfied with himself. He would sell a picture, turn it into money, and give the money to Peter—magnificent! Not for one moment did it occur to him that money might perhaps mean nothing to his Peter. He was bringing money, a lot of money, more money than she had ever had in her life—could a man do more for his girl? The world rushed on, the dollar rose, the girl starved—but he walked at his ease, for what he proposed to do was as good as done. He wasn’t in any hurry, there was time for everything: we have always muddled through somehow.
He turned into Tannenstrasse, a blind alley. A few steps more and he unlocked the front door and ascended the familiar stairs to his mother’s flat. There was no change: the porcelain name plate on the door, older than himself, with the missing corner which he himself had knocked off with a skate very long ago; the habitual odor in the corridor, its dark chests, oak cupboards, temperamental grandfather clock, and high up on the walls his father’s sketches seeming to float above the dark world as bright as clouds. But the splendid asters in the two china-blue vases on the old-fashioned mirror-table were an innovation, and when Wolfgang looked more closely he found a note from his mother. “Good day, Wolfgang,” he read. “There is coffee in your room. Make yourself comfortable. I had to go out urgently.”
For a moment he was taken aback by this greeting. From Minna’s reports he knew that his mother expected him every day, every hour almost—but this was too much—he had pictured her as hopeful rather than assured. It entered his mind not to touch the coffee but to take the painting and go; yet he did not fancy that either—it was too much like a thief in the night. He shrugged his shoulders and the pale man in the greenish mirror opposite did likewise; a trifle embarrassed, Wolfgang smiled at himself, screwed up the note and dropped it into his pocket. His mother, missing it, would guess that he was here—and look for him. The sooner the better.
He went to his room.
Here were flowers, too, this time gladioli. Dimly he remembered having once told his mother that he admired them. And of course she would remember that and put some there for him; he was still expected to like them. And he was also intended to feel how much his mother loved him, since she could think of all this.
Yes, she was great at such things; she weighed and measured love. If I do this, then he has to feel that. Yet nothing was further from his mind than to respond. Gladioli were not really beautiful, but stiff and artificial in their pale colors—mere painted wax. Peter would never love by double entry.
Why is Mamma so exasperating? he reflected, pouring out a cup of the hot coffee. (She must have just placed it there. It was a marvel they had not met on the stairs or in the street.) I’m absolutely furious with her. Is it the house, the old familiar smell, the memories? I’ve only realized, since I lived with Peter, how she has always tied me to her apron strings and lectured me.… Everything she wanted was good; every friend I chose was unsuitable. And now this dramatic reception … Yes, I’ve already noticed there’s another note on the desk. And over the chair hangs a newly pressed suit and underwear. A silk shirt with the studs put in.…
He prepared his third roll, which tasted excellent. The coffee was strong and mild at the same time; its rich flavor gently took possession of the whole palate, quite unlike Madam Po’s insipid yet harsh decoction. (Was Peter having her coffee too? Of course, she must have had it long ago. Perhaps she was now having her afternoon coffee.)
Stretching himself comfortably on the settee, Wolfgang Pagel tried to guess what was written on the slip of paper. Something like this of course: “You must choose your tie for yourself; they are hanging inside the wardrobe door.” Or “The bath water is hot.” Yes, something like that would be written there.
And when he did look he read that the bath-stove was alight. Angrily he thrust this crumpled note with its fellow. That he had summed up his mother so well didn’t please him but only made him angrier still.
Naturally, he thought, I can sum her up so well because I know her so well. Possessiveness. Bossiness. When I came home from school I always had to wash my hands and put on a clean collar, because I’d mixed with the “others”—and we were different, better. This note of hers is an insult to me, but above all to Peter, a calculated insult. It’s not enough to change my clothes, I must also have a bath. Because I’ve been with a creature whose face Mamma slapped outright. Insolence! I won’t stand it.
He stared furiously round his old room with the yellow birch desk, the birch bookshelves and the half-length green silk curtains hanging before them. The birch bedstead glittered like silver and gold. Everything was light and joyful—and outside the window there were trees, too, old trees. Everything was so tidy, clean and fresh; when one thought of the Thumann hovel one realized why this room was kept so neat and ready. The son was to compare the one with the other: that is how you live with the girl, but this is the care that your loving mother has for you. Sheer
insolence and provocation!
Stop! He tried to control his anger. Stop. You’re running away with yourself, the horses are bolting. Part of it’s true; her flowers and notes are distasteful, but the room itself never looked different. Why am I so furious then? Because I can’t help remembering that Mamma slapped Peter? Nothing of the sort. With Mamma one couldn’t take such a thing seriously, and Peter didn’t take it seriously either. It must be something else.…
He went to the window. The nearest houses stood a good way off and one could see the sky. Dark sinister clouds were piling up, high on the horizon. The light was dismal, there was no breeze, not a leaf stirred. On the mansard roof opposite he saw a couple of sparrows squatting, puffed up and motionless; those quarrelsome chaps, too, were cowed by the impending threat in the sky. He must get away quickly. It wouldn’t be pleasant running in a storm with the picture under his arm.
And suddenly he understood. He visualized himself with the painting, wrapped in some used brown paper, walking to the art dealer’s. He couldn’t even afford a taxi. He was carrying an object worth millions, perhaps even milliards, huddled under his arm—as if he were a thief. On the sly, like a drunkard secretly taking the bedding from his wife and home to the pawnbroker.
But it is my property, he argued. I needn’t be ashamed.
But I am ashamed, though. Somehow it isn’t right.
Why isn’t it right? She has given it to me.
You know very well how attached she is to it. That’s why she gave it to you. She wanted to tie you all the closer to her. You will hurt her terribly if you take it away.
Then she oughtn’t to have given it to me. Now I can do what I like with it.
You’ve been in a bad way often enough before. You’ve often thought of selling it and you never did.
Because things were never so bad as they are now. They’ve come to a head.
Oh! have they? How do others manage who haven’t got a picture to fall back on?
Others would never have got to these straits. Others would not have let their affairs drift until they became desperate. Others would not in the last resort hurt their mother to give bread to their mistress. Others would not have gambled without any misgivings—without any misgivings because they had a picture in reserve. Others would have looked for work in time and would have earned money; would not have gone so casually to the pawnshop or asked for a loan or begged; would not have gone on taking and taking from a girl without ever thinking of what they could give her in return.
The sky was growing darker and perhaps sheet lightning was already playing, only one could not see it through the haze. Perhaps thunder was already muttering in the distance, but it could not be heard. The town thundered and roared even louder.
“You are a coward,” a voice whispered. “You are a poor devil, who has wasted his twenty-three years. You had everything here, love and gentle care, but you fled. Youth is afraid of happiness. It doesn’t want it. Because happiness means peace, and youth is restless. But where did you run to? Did you run to Youth? No, you went to the place where the old foregather, those who no longer feel the prick of the flesh, who have no passion left.… You went into the desert of artificial passions and yourself became arid, unnatural, prematurely old. You are a coward. And for once you have to make a decision, yet there you stand and hesitate. You don’t want to hurt your mother and yet you want to help Peter. You would prefer your mother to ask you, implore you with desperate gestures of entreaty, to sell the painting. But she won’t do that, she won’t spare you the decision; you will have to act like a man. There is no middle course, no shift, no compromise, no shirking. You have let things drift too long—now you have to decide—the one or the other.”
The clouds rose higher and higher. Wolfgang Pagel still stood irresolutely at the window. He was good to look at, with his slim hips and broad shoulders, the image of a warrior. But he was not a warrior. He had an open face, with a good forehead, a straight nose—but he was not frank, not straight. Many thoughts struggled within him; all were disagreeable and tormenting. All demanded something of him, and he was angry at having to deal with them.
Others have better luck, he thought. They do what they like and don’t bother. With me everything is difficult. I shall have to think it all out again. Is there no way—must I choose between Mother and Peter?
For a while he stood his ground; this time he did not wish to evade his responsibilities. But gradually, as he found no solution although everything clamored for a decision, he grew tired, lit a cigarette, and took another mouthful of coffee. Softly he opened the door of his room and listened. The flat was silent; Mamma was not back yet.
His hair was fair and curly, his chin was not a very strong one—he was soft, he was indolent. And now he smiled. He had made up his mind. Once again he had avoided a decision. He would take advantage of his mother’s absence to remove the painting without a scene. He smiled, suddenly very satisfied with himself. The thoughts that had tormented him were gone.
He went straight across the corridor toward his father’s room. There was no time to be lost, the storm was about to break, and Mamma might come back at any moment.
He opened the door and there, in the big armchair, sat Mamma, black, stiff and upright.
“Good afternoon, Wolfgang,” she said. “I’m so pleased to see you.”
III
He was not at all pleased. On the contrary, he felt like a thievish servant caught red-handed.
“I thought you were out shopping, Mamma,” said he lamely and gave her a limp hand which she pressed energetically and meaningfully. She smiled. “I wanted to give you time to feel at home again; I didn’t wish to overwhelm you at once. Well, sit down, Wolfgang, don’t stand about so irresolutely.… You’ve no engagements at present; you aren’t here on a visit, you’re at home.”
He sat down obediently, the son once again under maternal command and care. “Only on a visit. Just for a few minutes,” he muttered, but she did not hear him, whether intentionally or not he was to learn later.
“The coffee was still hot, was it? Good. I had only just made it when you came. You haven’t bathed and changed yet? Well, there’s plenty of time. I can quite understand that you wanted to have a look at your home first. It’s your world after all. Our world,” she modified, watching his face.
“Mamma,” he began, for this emphasis on the world that he belonged to, the insinuation that the Thumann flat was Petra’s world, annoyed him—“Mamma, you’re very much mistaken …”
She interrupted him. “Wolfgang,” she said in a changed, a much warmer voice, “Wolfgang, you needn’t tell me anything or explain anything. I know a good deal, I don’t need to know more. To clear the situation up once and for all, however, I’d like to admit here and now that I didn’t behave well to your girl-friend. I regret some of the things I said and even more what I did. You understand me! Is this enough, Wolfgang? Come, give me your hand, my boy.”
He scrutinized his mother’s face. He could not believe it at first; he knew his mother, knew her face and there was no doubt she meant it sincerely. She had repented. She had made her peace with him and with Peter—she was therefore reconciled, and Heaven alone knew how it had come about. Perhaps the suspense of waiting for him had softened her.
It was incredible. He held her hand. “Mamma,” he said, “that’s very nice of you. But perhaps you don’t know yet that we intended to marry today. It’s only …”
She interrupted him again—what readiness, what eagerness to meet him halfway! She was making everything easy for him. “It’s all right, Wolfgang. Now everything is settled. I’m so glad to see you sitting here again.”
An immense relief overwhelmed him. A moment ago he had stood at the window of his room tormented by doubts as to which of them he should hurt—his mother or Petra. Except these alternatives there seemed to be no escape. And now everything had altered; his mother had seen her mistake, and the way into this orderly home stood open to both of them.
He got up, he looked down on the white parting in his mother’s hair. Suddenly he was seized by something akin to emotion. He swallowed and wanted to say something, and cried out that he wished life were different, no, that he wished he were different, then he would have behaved differently.
The old woman sat at the table with an immobile wooden face. She didn’t look at her son, but she rapped her knuckles smartly on the table. It sounded wooden. “Ah, Wolfgang,” she said, “don’t be childish, please. In the Easter term when you hadn’t moved up to a higher form you always cried out ‘I wish …’ And when your engine was broken you were sorry afterwards about the way you had treated it. But that’s futile, and you’re no longer a child. Retrospective repentance is useless, my boy; you must learn in the end that life goes on, ever on and on. One can’t change the past, but one can change oneself—for the future.”
“Certainly, Mamma,” he said like a good boy. “I only wanted to …”
But he did not finish. The outer door opened and shut hurriedly, more than hurriedly. Steps hastened along the corridor …
“It’s only Minna,” explained his mother.
Their door opened without a preliminary knock; it was flung open, and Minna stood in the doorway, elderly, gray and shriveled.
“Many thanks, Minna,” said Frau Pagel quickly, for at the moment she did not wish to have any news from Georgenkirchstrasse; she had got here all that had interested her there. “Many thanks, Minna,” she therefore said, as severely as possible. “Please prepare the supper immediately.”
Minna, however, for this once was not the obedient servant; her eyes were angry and suspicious, her yellowish cheeks flushed. She didn’t look at her mistress, her hostile stare was directed at the hitherto beloved young master.
“Shame on you,” said she breathlessly. “Shame, Wolfgang. So you are sitting here?”
