by Hans Fallada
Well, he was hot-headed and impulsive, rushing at things tooth and nail, although afterwards he always became bored with them. Besides, some matters he did not entirely grasp; perhaps his father-in-law, old Geheimrat von Teschow, was right—he would never become a real businessman.
The Rittmeister threw the stub of his cigarette into a corner and lit another. Yes, he mortified himself, he smoked this rubbish instead of his favorite brand. If his wife bought herself a couple of pairs of silk stockings he quarreled with her. But when the cattle dealer came and haggled with him over fat oxen, talked for one hour and bargained the next, allowed himself to be sent away and then came back again, wouldn’t go and was humble when he was barked at—yes, then Herr von Prackwitz gave way. He became bored, and sold the fine oxen at a price which made the old Geheimrat, when he heard about it, exult. Who thereupon said, of course: “Excuse me, Joachim, I mustn’t interfere with your business. Only I’ve never had money enough to be able to chuck it out of the window.”
No, he could easily convince Studmann that at Neulohe he would be a very necessary and very useful assistant, who could not be too highly paid, friendship apart. Meier wouldn’t be there much longer. What Violet had said on the telephone a little while ago (when he rang up about the carriages for the following morning) was beyond a joke. Meier, it seemed, hadn’t brought in the crops, but had drunk himself silly during working hours. The Rittmeister’s blood boiled at the thought. He was too easygoing with such fellows. Meier would go out on his ear.
His glance fell on his sleeping friend, and the Rittmeister’s sense of justice forced him to admit that the friend too had got drunk during working hours. But with Studmann it was, of course, quite different. There must be special circumstances, surely.
But in the end nothing stood in the way of assuming that special circumstances obtained in the case of the Bailiff Meier as well—he also was not accustomed to being drunk while on duty.
“Of course, just while I’m away!” said the Rittmeister to himself. But that didn’t sound right either, because he was often away without this kind of thing happening. And so he lost himself again in speculation about Studmann, on the one hand, and Meier on the other.
Thank heavens, there was a knock, and an elderly gentleman in dark clothes entered, who with a bow introduced himself as Dr. Zetsche, hotel physician.
Von Prackwitz in turn introduced himself and explained that he was an old army friend of Herr Studmann. “I happened to be in the hall when the accident occurred.”
“Accident, yes,” said the doctor, rubbing his nose thoughtfully and looking at the Rittmeister. “So you call it an accident?”
“If somebody falls downstairs, isn’t that an accident?”
“Intoxication!” stated the doctor. “Complete inebriation, alcoholism. The scratch on his forehead is not serious.”
“Do you know …” the Rittmeister began.
“Give him some Eumed or Aspirin or Pyramidon—anything which is handy when he wakes up.”
“But there’s nothing handy,” said the Rittmeister, glancing round the ironing room. “Couldn’t you arrange for my friend to be taken to his own room? It was a bad fall.”
“It is a bad case. There are six people upstairs just as drunk, all of them employees of the hotel. An orgy under your friend’s leadership. And the only participant who wasn’t drunk—Herr Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen, one of the guests—was knocked down by your friend.”
“I don’t understand it,” said the Rittmeister, dumbfounded by these revelations.
“I don’t understand it either,” said the doctor firmly. “And I don’t wish to understand it.”
“But do explain to me …”
“There’s no explanation,” said the doctor imperturbably. “A guest, a Reichsfreiherr, knocked down by a drunken reception manager!”
“There must have been special circumstances,” insisted the Rittmeister. “I’ve known Herr von Studmann for a long time and he’s always done his duty, even in the most difficult situations.”
“Doubtless,” replied the doctor politely, retreating before the other’s agitation. With his hand on the doorknob he also became agitated. “One of the females was half naked—in the presence of the Reichfreiherr!” he shouted.
“I insist,” cried the Rittmeister in a loud voice, “on Herr von Studmann being taken to a room fit for a human being.”
He hurried after the retreating physician.
“I hold you responsible, doctor!”
“I refuse to take any responsibility,” shouted the doctor over his shoulder, “for this orgy and its participants.” And he dashed down a side corridor, followed by the Rittmeister.
“He’s ill, doctor.”
But the doctor had reached his goal. In a most sprightly manner the old gentleman leaped into an ascending lift. “He’s drunk,” he shouted, his feet already level with the stomach of his pursuer, who would have liked to lead him back by force to his duties. But in vain; the defaulting physician had escaped.
Von Prackwitz, who despite all his energy had been unable to do anything for his friend except the insignificant task of ordering some Pyramidon, uttered a curse and made his way back to the ironing room. However, the confusion of white corridors, all with the same doors, rendered him helpless. Searching for the doctor, he hadn’t noticed into which particular hole he’d bolted. He looked hesitantly here and there, up and down all the corridors at least once. If he persisted he would find the right door. He remembered quite clearly having left it open.
Up and down he went—white doors, white corridors. His sense of direction led him to believe that he was farther and farther from his goal, but in the end even the number of cellars in a grand hotel must be finite. But there were the stairs. Had he passed them before? Should he go up or down? He went up, sure that it was wrong, and met an elderly female, with a rather severe look behind a pince-nez, who was putting clothes in a cupboard in total solitude.
The woman turned round at the sound of his footsteps and inspected the stranger.
Counscious that he was there quite illegitimately, von Prackwitz addressed her very politely. The laundry woman nodded her head gravely without saying a word. Von Prackwitz was decisive: “If you please, how do I get to the ironing room from here?”
His polite smile didn’t in the least soften the woman’s severe look. She seemed to reflect, then made a large gesture with her hands: “There are many ironing rooms here.…”
Von Prackwitz tried to describe this one to her, without having to mention Studmann. “There are wash baskets in the corner,” he said. “Oh, yes, and a chaise-lounge with blue flowers on the covering.” And he added, not without a little bitterness, “It was pretty threadbare.”
She reflected again. Eventually she said coldly, “I don’t think we have a chaise-lounge in disrepair. Everything is immediately repaired here.”
This was not exactly the information von Prackwitz wished to hear upon his inquiry. However, in his present and in his former jobs he’d always had to do with people, and the type who is never able to answer a question precisely was well known to him.
Despite this, he tried again. “So where is the hotel lobby?” he asked.
The answer was prompt: “Hotel guests are completely forbidden to enter the service rooms.”
“Totally,” said the Rittmeister seriously.
“What—?” she almost shouted, and quite lost her control and bearing, becoming a bit flustered, like a chicken.
“Totally or, better still, strictly forbidden,” corrected the Rittmeister. “Not completely. So, good evening and many thanks!”
He addressed her with dignity, as if she was the commander of a regiment and he a young lieutenant. He left. Completely or totally confused, she stayed.
The Rittmeister was now more comfortable being lost. He’d been enlivened by the little incident. It was true that he’d once again not been able to do anything for his friend. This he regretfully admitted. Never
theless things like that do one good. Besides, he was now walking on carpets, and if he was perhaps farther and farther from Studmann, he seemed to be approaching inhabited regions of the hotel.
The Rittmeister stood before a row of doors in dull polished oak: massive doors, doors inspiring confidence.
“Cashier I,” he read. “Cashier II.” And went on. There came the Service Cashier, Buying Departments A and B, Staff Inquiries, Registrar, Physician. He looked disapprovingly at the physician’s plate, shrugged his shoulders and went on.
“Secretariat.” Still farther, he decided.
“Director Haase.”
The Rittmeister hesitated. No, not there. Farther along.
“Director Kainz.”
“Director Lange.”
“Managing Director Vogel.”
The Rittmeister knocked perfunctorily and entered.
Behind the desk sat a large man dictating to a very good-looking young secretary at the typewriter. He hardly looked up when the Rittmeister introduced himself.
“Pleased-to-meet-you-please-take-a-seat,” he said with the absent-minded unreal politeness of a man whose profession it is to make the acquaintance of a stream of new people. “One moment, please. Where did we get to, Fräulein? Do you smoke? Then please help yourself.”
The telephone rang.
“Vogel speaking—Yes, his doctor? What’s his name? What? Please spell it. What’s his name? Schröck? Medical Superintendent Schröck? When will he be coming? In five minutes? All right, bring him to me at once. Yes, that will be all right, I’ll have time. I’ve only to dictate something and a short interview.” He looked vaguely at the Rittmeister across the telephone. “Say in three minutes. All right. Under no circumstances is he to be taken to No. 37, but brought straight to me. Thanks.” The receiver was replaced. “Where did we get to, Fräulein?”
The young secretary muttered something and the managing director went on with his dictating.
You can only spare me three minutes, thought the Rittmeister angrily. You wait, you’ll be mistaken. I’ll show you.… But he heard a name, started and listened intently.
The director was dictating quickly and mechanically. “We very much regret that Herr von Studmann, whose personal and professional qualities we have learned to appreciate during his eighteen months’ service in our Berlin organization …”
He paused for breath.
“One moment,” cried the Rittmeister and rose.
“One moment,” murmured the director. “I’ll be finished immediately. Where did we get to, Fräulein?”
“No, Fräulein,” protested the Rittmeister. “Excuse me. If I understand you rightly you are dictating a testimonial for Herr von Studmann. Herr von Studmann is a friend of mine.”
“Splendid,” said the director calmly. “Then you’ll take care of him. We were in a fix.”
“Herr von Studmann is lying on a worn-out sofa in an ironing room,” complained the Rittmeister. “There’s not a soul to look after him.”
“Very regrettable,” admitted the director. “A mistake which I must ask you to excuse owing to the momentary confusion created by the occurrence. Fräulein, telephone that Herr von Studmann is to be taken to his room without attracting any attention. Without attracting any attention, Fräulein, please. Without attracting any attention!”
“You want to sack Herr von Studmann,” cried the Rittmeister indignantly, pointing to the notebook. “You can’t condemn a man without hearing his defense.”
The managing director spoke without any show of feeling. “Herr von Studmann will be taken at once to his room.”
“You can’t dismiss him straight away,” cried von Prackwitz.
“We’re not dismissing him,” contradicted the other. Von Prackwitz had the impression that this gray giant could not be touched by any emotion, any entreaty, any human feeling. “We’re granting Herr von Studmann an extended holiday.”
“Herr von Studmann doesn’t need a holiday,” the Rittmeister assured him, intimidated by this unassailable man.
“Herr von Studmann does need a holiday. His nervous system has gone to pieces.”
“You judge without hearing him,” the Rittmeister declared with less conviction.
“In the room occupied by Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen,” said the managing director as monotonously as if he were reading from a statement, “we found nineteen champagne bottles, of which fifteen were empty. Four cognac bottles—empty. Two hotel pages—completely intoxicated. Two adult male employees—also completely intoxicated. An insufficiently clad chambermaid—dead drunk. A charwoman in our temporary employ—dead drunk. The guest, Herr Baron von Bergen, quite sober but with a black eye and almost unconscious as the result of several brutal blows on the head. Doubtless you know how we discovered your friend Herr von Studmann.”
Abashed, Rittmeister von Prackwitz bowed his head.
“On the one hand,” said the managing director a little more cordially, “your loyalty to your friend does you honor. On the other hand, I would ask—does a cultured man with a sound nervous system share in such a bacchanalia?”
“But there must have been some reason for it,” von Prackwitz cried despairingly. “Otherwise Herr von Studmann would never …”
“Can you think of any reason which would have made you take part in such an orgy, Herr von …?”
“Prackwitz,” prompted the Rittmeister.
“Herr von Prackwitz. You will understand that we cannot any longer employ in our organization a man so compromised, if for no other reason than the bad example to our staff.”
There was a curt, important knock. The door flew open and in stormed a little bowlegged old man with a tall forehead, shining blue eyes and a faded beard, which no doubt had once been fiery. He was followed slowly by a thickset man whose jacket fitted so tightly across his shoulders that he looked like a prize-fighter.
“Have you still got him?” croaked the fiery old man. “Where is he? For God’s sake don’t let him get away. Türke, see about it! Make haste! Don’t let him escape. Run! I’ve been chasing this boy all over Berlin for the last twenty-four hours. I don’t believe there’s a haunt in this wretched town into which I haven’t stuck my nose, damn it!”
He took hold of the above-mentioned nose and looked breathlessly at the dumbfounded people round him. The thick-set man in the tight jacket, presumably Herr Türke, stood behind.
Probably because his profession had accustomed him to the most extraordinary examples of the human species, the managing director was the first to emerge from stupefaction.
“Vogel,” he introduced himself. “I presume I’m speaking with Dr. Schröck?”
“No, I’m speaking with you,” shouted the old man, letting go his nose. The transition from calmness to rage was so sudden that all—except the imperturbable Herr Türke—were startled. In that bowlegged body a fiery temperament must be concealed. “I’ve been asking you for the last three minutes whether that fellow’s still here.”
“If you mean Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen,” began the managing director, “I know he’s in Room 37.”
“Türke,” screamed Dr. Schröck, “did you hear that? Room 37! Go and fetch the young rotter, alive or dead! Look out—you know how tricky he is. Don’t forget he locked your colleague in his room!”
The thick-set one nodded. “He won’t get away with it this time. He couldn’t have done such a thing to me, sir.” Leisurely he departed.
“An excellent male nurse,” muttered Dr. Schröck. “A man without a trace of sentimentality.” Suddenly his anxiety returned. “He can’t have got away by any chance?”
“No, no,” the managing director reassured him. “He can’t get away. Things have happened, unfortunately.” He gave a glance at the Rittmeister. “I’ll report to you as soon as I’ve dealt with this gentleman.”
With a sigh of relief Dr. Schröck sank into a chair, and mopped his forehead. “He can’t get away then, thank God. Something’s happened. Wherever that
fellow goes something happens.” He gave a sigh of resignation. “Police? Public prosecutor?”
“No, no,” the managing director assured him. “The gentleman is sure to apologize.” He glanced with annoyance at the Rittmeister. “We’ll make good any damage. One of our employees unfortunately so far forgot himself as to strike the Baron.”
The old man leaped out of his chair. “Where is he? Who is it?” He pointed to the Rittmeister. “Did you?”
“He apparently threw a champagne bottle at his head,” wailed the managing director.
“Splendid,” cried the old man. “A champagne bottle! Magnificent! Not you? Your friend? Let me meet him. I must thank him. It isn’t possible? Why isn’t it possible?”
“Your charge seems to have made my friend—and half a dozen other people—mysteriously drunk.”
“There you are,” said Dr. Schröck. “The usual dirty business.” He sat down resigned. “I’ll arrange everything, nobody shall suffer. You, my dear managing director, seem to have been dazzled by the title of Reichsfreiherr and so on. Let me tell you this Reichsfreiherr is the most irresponsible, pampered, vulgar, sadistic little beast in the world. And a coward at that.”
“Dr. Schröck!” implored the managing director.
“That’s the truth! He imagines that because he’s been put under restraint as a result of his extravagance, and was acquitted in some scandal because of paragraph fifty-one, he can do what he likes. He’s lazy and without respect, without a trace of human feeling.” Dr. Schröck flared up. “The fellow ought to be whipped morning and evening; he ought to be put in prison or at least in a State asylum. There they’d cure him of his nasty tricks!”
“But he’s in your sanatorium—this poor fellow.”
“Unfortunately,” grumbled Dr. Schröck. “Unfortunately. I offer him to my colleagues as if he were sour beer, but they won’t take him, although he pays more than any other patient. Patient! My goodness, he’s just a vicious monkey. When I take him back to my institution, behind bars and locked doors in the ward for troublesome cases, of course, he’ll be tolerable for a month or two—especially if your friend has given him a good hiding.”
