by Hans Fallada
He carried himself rather stiffly, his hands guarding the pockets of his tunic. The money was in danger of getting wet. He did not forget for a moment that he was carrying a sum of 760 millions on him. A quarter of this sum, that is 250 dollars, was in good American notes, magnificent paper dollars, the most coveted currency in the Berlin of the day.…
I could afford to let the whole town dance tonight, he thought, and whistled contentedly. The remainder—570 millions—was in German notes, some of it in incredibly small denominations.
But the way it had been got together! It had been difficult enough to drag this sum out of the art chap that evening. No such amount of money was available in the place, nor could they send to the banks—they were closed by then. An advance certainly, and the balance tomorrow morning, nine-thirty, by messenger to any place in Berlin which Herr Pagel might designate. Herr Pagel would trust them for this sum, would he not? And at that the dealer, a massive man with rather a red face and a black Assyrian beard, had looked along his walls in affectionate pride.
Wolfgang followed this glance. He was sufficiently the son of his father to be able to understand the man’s pride in, and affection for, his pictures—this man who looked as if he had no concern with art.
Across the road, two blocks farther along by Potsdamerstrasse, the “Sturm” gallery also sold pictures. He had stood there now and then with Peter for quite a time and looked at these Marcs, Kampendocks, Klees and Noldes. Sometimes he had had to laugh or to shake his head or to complain, for many of the works were merely a colossal impudence—those were the times of Cubism, Futurism, and Expressionism. Scraps of newspaper were stuck together and made into pictures, and the world was carved up into triangles which one itched to put together again like a jigsaw puzzle. But sometimes, standing there, one had been thrilled. A feeling was stirred, you were affected, a chord had been touched. Would these rotten times give birth to something living?
But here at this rich man’s, who bought pictures only if he liked them, and who was not greatly interested in their sale, here one saw no such experiments or gropings. Even in the reception room there was a Corot, some pond bathed in reddish light; and redder still the cap of the solitary ferryman who was poling his boat off an embankment. There was a magnificent van Gogh, an immense expanse of green and yellow field and an even wider expanse of blue sky already darkened by the threat of an oncoming storm; a Gauguin of mild brown girls with beautiful bosoms; yes, and a Pointillist like Signac, a Rousseau, childlike and awkward, a peaceful animal scene by Zügel, Leistikow’s red sunny pine trees. These, however, were far removed from the experimental stage—they had been tested by the understanding, judged worthy of love, and were now loved. You could trust this man.
But Wolfgang Pagel equally realized that here he could demand whatever he wanted. He could be so unreasonable as to require them, after six o’clock in the evening, where there was no money left in the establishment, to scrape together a sum of 760 millions. He was as wet as a drowned cat when he first entered and produced the picture from under his tunic, where he had endeavored to shelter it from the storm. The gentleman, soft as an over-ripe plum, who had been shown it, said in matter-of-fact tones, but with a suspicious glance: “Certainly, a Pagel of the best period. You are selling on account of whom?” And Pagel felt that they would buy the picture on any condition and that he could dictate his own terms.
On his reply that he was selling on his own account, the over-ripe plum had called in the proprietor who, without making the slightest ado about the man in the tunic (in these times the most unlikely and shabby creatures sold most unlikely and precious possessions), had briefly remarked: “Set it down over there. Of course I know it, Dr. Mainz. Family property. An uncommonly good Pagel—sometimes he transcended himself. Not often—three or four times.… Mostly he’s too pretty for me. Too slick and smooth, eh?”
He had turned to Wolfgang. “But you don’t understand anything of that sort, do you? You only want money? As much as possible?”
Under the sudden attack Pagel started. He felt himself blushing crimson.
“I am the son,” he said as calmly as possible.
It was sufficient.
“I’m tremendously sorry,” the dealer said. “I admit I’m an ass. I ought to have seen the likeness, especially about the eyes—about the eyes if nowhere else. Your father has often been here. Yes, in his wheel-chair, to see some pictures. He liked pictures. Do you also like pictures?”
Again this abrupt, sudden—well, it was really an attack. At least Wolfgang felt it so. He had never considered whether the picture he had taken away from his mother was a good one or not. Fundamentally, the dealer had guessed correctly; even if he were the son, the transaction was only a question of money—although the money was for Peter.
With vexation mingled with sadness he realized that he really was the man he was estimated to be.
“Yes, I like them quite well,” he replied, sullen.
“It’s a very fine work,” said the dealer pensively. “I’ve already seen it twice; no, three times. Your mother didn’t want me to look at it. Does she agree to a sale?”
Again an attack. Pagel became annoyed. God, what a fuss about a picture, barely half a yard of painted canvas. A picture was something to look at if one wanted to; one wasn’t compelled, it wasn’t necessary. One could live without pictures; but not without money.
“No,” he said crossly. “My mother doesn’t agree to a sale.”
The dealer looked at him politely and waited in silence.
“She made me a gift of this”—with feigned indifference—“thing here; one makes presents to members of one’s family, you know. As I needed money, I remembered it. I’m selling it,” he added emphatically, “against my mother’s wishes.”
The dealer listened quietly; then he announced casually, but in a noticeably colder voice, “Yes, yes, I understand, of course.”
The over-ripe Dr. Mainz, who had vanished unnoticed, now re-entered. The dealer looked at his assistant (fine arts degree), and the assistant nodded briefly. “In any case,” said the dealer, “your mother raises no objection to its sale. I have just had her rung up,” he added, in answer to Pagel’s inquiring glance. “Now please don’t think I’m suspicious. I am a man of business, a prudent man of business. I don’t want any trouble.”
“And what will you pay?” Pagel asked abruptly. His mother could have prevented the sale with a word. She had not done so, and Wolfgang felt that the break was final. He could go his own way; from now onwards and forever his way was alone. She had no further interest in him.
“I’ll pay,” said the dealer, “a thousand dollars; that is, seven hundred and sixty millions of marks. If you would let me have the picture on commission I would exhibit it here and sell it on your account, and you might get a very much higher figure. But if I have understood you correctly, you need the money at once.”
“At once, within an hour.”
“Now, let’s say tomorrow morning,” smiled the dealer. “That’s pretty prompt. I’ll send my messenger with the money to whatever place you like.”
“Now!” said Pagel. “This very hour. I must …”
The dealer looked at him attentively. “We’ve sent our cash in hand to the bank,” he said kindly, as if he were explaining to a child. “I don’t keep money here overnight. But tomorrow morning …”
“Now,” said Pagel and laid his hand on the frame of the picture, “or the sale will not come off.”
He had correctly summed up the situation. True, the dealer disapproved of a rebellious son who took away from his mother and sold a cherished picture; true, since he had learned that fact the temperature of the conversation had fallen; but in spite of his disapproval he would not for one moment hesitate to make use of that combination of circumstances to buy. This man with the black Assyrian beard, tall, assured and rich, had his weak spot—we all have. There was not the slightest reason for Pagel to feel ashamed; on the contrary. He (Pagel) w
as forced to sell; the big man was not obliged to buy.
Pagel spoke quietly. “I must have the whole amount in half an hour. I need the money this evening, not tomorrow morning. There are other buyers …”
The art dealer made a gesture which signified that this picture at any rate was no longer the concern of any other dealer. “The money shall be found somehow. At the moment I don’t exactly know how. But it will be found.”
He whispered to his assistant, Mainz, who nodded and went out.
“Please come with me, Herr Pagel. Yes, you can leave the picture here—I have bought it.”
Pagel was shown into the dealer’s office, a large gloomy room. Here the only pictures on the walls were some bold and dashing charcoal drawings by an unknown artist.
“Please sit down. Over there. Here are cigarettes. Whisky and soda I’ll put within your reach. It may take”—slightly sarcastic—“even thirty-five minutes. So make yourself comfortable—come in!”
One after another the employees of the establishment entered, beginning with the historians of art with their degrees and ending with the totally unlettered charwomen who had by now started their evening work. Dr. Mainz had instructed them, and they went without a word to their employer’s desk, pulled their fortunes out of pockets, waistcoat pockets, purses or wallets, and laid it down while their chief counted. “Dr. Mainz, one million four hundred and thirty-five thousand. Fräulein Siebert, two hundred and sixty thousand. Fräulein Plosch, seven hundred and thirty-three thousand. I thank you, Fräulein Plosch.”
There must have existed in this firm a good relationship between employer and employee, for everyone gave as a matter of course. These shorthand-typists, accountants, gallery attendants, forwent what they had intended to do that evening. Sometimes they cast a look at the gentleman in the chair who was drinking whisky and soda, and smoking; it was not a look of hostility, but of detachment. Immaterial to them why this man in the shabby tunic needed money so urgently that they had to forgo their evening pleasures; but it did concern them if a picture which their chief wanted to buy was taken away from the firm. The giving up, counting, noting down of the money, was taken by both sides quite naturally; without exaggerated thanks or facetiousness and without embarrassed explanations on the side of the employer—a naturalness which almost induced Pagel to explain and excuse himself, to say that he really needed the money that evening, that his girl was in prison and he ought …
Yes, what ought he to do? Have money at once, at any rate, plenty of money!
Wolfgang Pagel said nothing.
“Stop, Fräulein Bierla,” said the dealer. “I see you have still fifty thousand in your purse. Excuse me, but this evening we have to scrape together every mark.”
Embarrassed, the beautiful brunette muttered something about fares.
“You don’t need any money for fares. Dr. Mainz has ordered taxis for closing time. The drivers will take you wherever you want to go.”
The paper money piled up. The dealer, rummaging in his own pocket-book and emptying it, said disparagingly to Dr. Mainz: “If you read the newspapers and listen to what people say, you hear that everyone is swimming in money. It’s in every pocket, it crackles in every hand. But here is what twenty-seven people, you and me included, carry on them. Not even seven hundred marks in peace time. A ridiculously exaggerated affair, this era of ours. If the people saw clearly, for once, how few figures stand in front of so many noughts they wouldn’t allow themselves to be so bemused.”
Dr. Mainz whispered something hurried and urgent.
“Yes, of course, telephone immediately. Meanwhile I’ll go to my wife. I’m sure to get money there.”
While Dr. Mainz telephoned some Herr Director Nolte, who ought to be receiving 250 paper dollars that evening, but was now asked to wait till tomorrow morning, Pagel reflected what an unaccustomed disorder had been brought into this place by his demand. But he realized with surprise in what an orderly fashion the disorder was being cleared up, without noise or bustle—taxis waiting at the door, every employee being driven where he wanted, the individual amounts neatly noted on a piece of paper.… In the moment disorder arose everything was being done to remove it in the shortest possible time.
I’ve also let disorder arise, he thought gloomily, but it never occurred to me to remove it. It has increased, has invaded spheres of which I never dreamed. Now all my life is in disorder.
He remembered how often he had asked Petra to dress before Frau Thumann brought in the morning coffee. I’ve always played a part to myself and, above all, to her, he thought. Disorder is not turned into order by putting a blanket over it. On the contrary—it is turned into something which no one dares to defend. Into a lying, cowardly disorder. Did Peter understand that? What did she really think? Was that the reason why she put so much value on our marrying? For the sake of order? She always did what I suggested, without protest. Fundamentally I know nothing about what she really thought.
The dealer returned, laughing and flourishing a fat wad of notes.
“At my house everyone’s staying at home tonight. My wife’s delighted; she was going to some ghastly first night, followed by a celebration of the dramatist already bursting with his own importance. She’s glad that we can’t go now, and is telephoning all the world enthusiastically, declaring that we’re without a penny—tomorrow I shall read about my insolvency in the newspapers. And you, Dr. Mainz?”
It appeared that Dr. Mainz, too, had been successful. Herr Director Nolte would wait for his 250 dollars till tomorrow morning.
“A thousand dollars—seven hundred and sixty millions,” said the dealer. “It took,” he pulled out his watch, “thirty-eight minutes to collect, however. I must apologize for the eight minutes.”
Why does he scoff at me? thought Pagel, exasperated. He should rather ask me why I need the money. People often do find themselves in situations where they need cash immediately. People very easily find themselves in such situations, but the question of responsibility also arises. Am I to blame for the blunders of the police? He became annoyed.
“It’s rather a lot of paper, but such is the spirit of our age,” the art dealer smiled. “Shall I have it tied up for you? You would rather put it in your pockets? It’s raining hard. Well, you’ll probably take a taxi.… Immediately to the right, as you go out of the door, in front of the Hotel Esplanade.… Or shall I call one?”
“No, thank you,” Pagel had replied grumpily, stuffing the notes into his pockets. “I’ll walk.”
And now he was passing through Königstrasse, wet through, his hands protectingly over his two outer pockets. People might get angry with him as his mother did, or mock him as this picture chap did; they might get into difficulties as Peter did; but he was going to do exactly what he wanted, and full steam ahead. He wouldn’t break into the money; he had no intention of taking a taxi even though his pockets were bursting with money. If he didn’t want to, then neither rain nor necessity could force him.
Nor did he go straight to the police station where Petra was confined; he went first to Frau Thumann, to look round. Now as ever he was convinced that there was plenty of time for everything. He was like a mule: the more he was thrashed the more obstinate he became.
Or was he, perhaps, afraid of what he would learn at the police station? Was he afraid of the shame he would feel when he saw Petra in such a deplorable situation?
Whistling, he crossed Alexanderplatz and turned into Landsbergerstrasse. What would give Petra greater pleasure—a tobacco shop or a flower shop? Or perhaps an ice-cream bar?
IX
Oberwachtmeister Leo Gubalke was not the sort of man who, on duty or off, was inclined to interference, spite, or bickering. That terrible temptation was not his which besets a man into whose mouth the words of power are placed: “Obey or die!” Although now and then he was subject to those petty meannesses from which no self-esteem is immune, it was always his exaggerated sense of order and punctuality which led him astray.
It was this which had made him remove Petra Ledig from the doorway in Georgenkirchstrasse. It was this which, in reply to his superintendent’s reproachful “What’s the matter with you, Gubalke? You—of all people—twenty minutes late,” made him report: “An arrest. This girl is connected with gamblers.”
These last words, which he would never have uttered had he not been delayed—nothing being further from his thoughts than to do harm—were for some hours all that the police station knew about the arrest. Oberwachtmeister Gubalke had only wished to remove a half-naked girl from the streets, intending to give her a seat in the police station, and then get her something to eat. During the course of the evening he would have found out what sort of girl she was, would have begged some garments for her from a relief committee and, after a lecture on order and unseemly conduct, discharged her into the world again.
And instead of carrying out these good intentions, Herr Gubalke had reported that she was connected with gamblers. An unpunctuality which can only be excused by a kind heart and compassion remains an unpunctuality; this remark about gamblers turned the unpunctuality into a necessary official action. Until the moment when that remark, never to be recalled, escaped his lips, Gubalke had not even dreamed of ascribing to the girl any complicity in the vice of gambling, which he knew about only through women’s gossip. But man is a weak creature and with most of us—men and women alike—the tongue is weakness’s weakest point. Under the necessity of justifying himself, Gubalke entangled Petra’s fate with that of a gambler; and, as a finishing touch, turned a single gambler into gamblers.
It is certain that the Oberwachtmeister did not realize the far-reaching consequences to Petra Ledig of these few words. Hastily he buckled on his pistol, hooked on his rubber truncheon and thought only of going as quickly as possible to the assistance of his comrades in Kleine Frankfurterstrasse, in trouble with some street gangs. He was in such a hurry that he did not even look at the girl on his way out. If he thought of her again, it was certainly not with a bad conscience. At any rate she had been removed from the street into the safety of the police station, and at the latest he would be back in a couple of hours to deal with the matter.
