by Hans Fallada
“A quarter of an hour ago he was nearly unconscious,” interposed the managing director.
“Excellent! But he’ll soon be overbearing again. He teases harmless patients into a frenzy, annoys the attendants, steals cigarettes, drives me and my assistants mad.… And he’s by no means stupid, he’s devilishly cunning. He’s always escaping. Watch him as much as we like, he always finds some fool. Borrows money or steals it.… And I can do nothing,” said the old man gnashing his teeth. “I can’t get rid of him. As he’s not in full possession of his mental faculties, the law’s on his side.” He sat there, grown suddenly older and exhausted. “For twenty-four hours I’ve been chasing him in my car.” He looked round. “If only I could get rid of him,” he groaned despairingly. “But then, as likely as not, he’d regain his freedom—no, I couldn’t take the responsibility. However, let’s at least try the ultimate remedy—expense. Perhaps his mother—he has only one mother, unfortunately—will get tired of paying for him. Herr Director, may I ask you for a bill, a detailed account?”
“Yes,” said the managing director, hesitating. “There’s been a lot of alcohol consumed, champagne, cognac …”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Schröck grew angry. “Those are trifles. Champagne, cognac! No, every person the fellow’s harmed is entitled to damages. I hear of half a dozen persons whom he’s made drunk.… Your friend, for instance, I think?”
“I don’t know whether my friend …” began von Prackwitz awkwardly.
“For Heaven’s sake,” cried the incensed Schröck, “don’t be a fool! Excuse me, I shouldn’t say that, of course, but really don’t be a fool! The greater the expense the sooner there’s a chance of his mother locking him up one of these fine days in a well-guarded lunatic asylum. You’re doing a service to mankind.”
The Rittmeister looked at the managing director, then at the typewriter in which the testimonial was still inserted. “My friend, who is assistant director and chief receptionist here, is to be discharged by the hotel management because he was intoxicated while on duty,” he said.
“Excellent,” cried Dr. Schröck, but this time the managing director interrupted him.
“I must contradict Herr von Prackwitz,” he said hastily. “We’re granting Herr von Studmann a long holiday, say three months, even six months. During that time Herr von Studmann, in view of his efficiency, will easily find another position. We do not dismiss him for drunkenness on duty,” he explained firmly, but without emotion. “We simply ask him to look round for another field of activity because in no circumstances must a hotel employee make himself conspicuous. Unfortunately, Herr von Studmann, when he fell down the hall stairs insufficiently clad and completely intoxicated, made himself very conspicuous in front of many employees and still more guests.”
Dr. Schröck was satisfied. “Together with an indemnity for a lost position we must consider the question of damages. That pleases me immensely; I see light. I shouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t put paid to young Bergen. How do I find your friend? At your place? Many thanks. I’ll make a note of your address. You’ll be hearing from me in two or three days’ time. Splendid. By the way, we pay, of course, in stable currency. I assure you that you can’t put in for too much in the way of expenses. Oh, don’t worry. Do you think I mind? Not a bit. It hurts nobody, I only wish it did.”
The Rittmeister rose. Life was a strange thing. Somebody had actually fallen downstairs for once and got rid of his troubles. Herr von Studmann could come to Neulohe as a man free from worry, as a paying guest if he liked. He, Prackwitz, would be no longer alone.
He took his leave, Dr. Schröck once again regretting that he was not allowed to shake Studmann’s hand for knocking the Baron down.
As von Prackwitz approached the door it opened and there stumbled in, guided and supported by the attendant Türke, a creature bedizened in red and yellow, exceedingly wretched to look at, with his black eye and swollen face, contemptible with his hang-dog glance.
“Bergen!” said Dr. Schröck in a voice like a crow’s. “Bergen, come here!”
The coward broke down, fell on his knees. His gorgeous pajamas were in strange contrast with his miserable appearance. “Dr. Schröck,” he begged, “don’t punish me, don’t send me to a lunatic asylum. I’ve done nothing. They drank the champagne quite willingly.”
“Bergen, to begin with, you are deprived of your cigarettes.”
“Please don’t do that, Dr. Schröck! You know I can’t bear it. I can’t live without smoking. And I only shot into the ceiling when the gentleman didn’t want to drink.”
Von Prackwitz closed the door softly, and the miserable creature’s wails, a child without a child’s purity and innocence, died away. If only I were back in Neulohe, he thought. Berlin makes me vomit. No, it’s not only the printing of money which has gone mad. He looked down the clean corridor with its dark polished oak doors. It all had the appearance of soundness, but inside it was rotten. Was the war still in everybody’s bones? I don’t know, and anyway don’t understand.
Walking slowly along the corridor he came into the hall and inquired for his friend’s room. A lift took him up to just beneath the roof. There von Studmann sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.
“I’ve a rotten hangover, Prackwitz,” he said, looking up. “Have you time to come with me into the open air for half an hour?”
“I’ve all the time in the world,” said the Rittmeister, suddenly cheerful. “Both for you and the open air. But first let me put on your collar.…”
II
The little bailiff, his head thick and muddled with drink, had thrown himself on his bed just as he was, with mud-stained boots and clothes soaking wet with the rain. Through the open window he could see that it was still pouring down, and he could hear someone scolding from the direction of the cowhouse and the pigsty. What are they doing? he thought. What’s the matter with them? My God, I want to sleep. I must sleep and forget; when I wake up I shall find out it’s not true!
He put his hand over his eyes and it was dark. Ah, this darkness was good! Darkness was the void; where the void is, nothing is; nothing has happened, nothing has been messed up.
But the darkness lightened into gray and the gray became brighter. Out of the brightness appeared the table, the bottle, the glasses … the letter!
Oh, God, what was he to do? Little Meier pressed his hand more firmly against his eyes. It grew dark again. But flaming wheels of many colors were circling in that darkness, faster and faster, till he felt giddy and sick.
He sat up and stared about the room, which was still light. He loathed it. How familiar it all was! The stinking slop-pail beside the washstand! The photos of nude girls around the mirror! He had cut them out of magazines and pinned them on the wallpaper, and he was sick of the sight of them. How he loathed his present life and what had happened! He would like to get out of this situation; to be something quite different. But what could he do? He sat there with protruding eyes and a swollen face. There was nothing that he could do. Everything was going to collapse about him. He must just stay still and wait—and he hadn’t wanted to do anything bad! If only he could sleep …
Thank God, there was a knock at the door of the adjoining office, to break the monotony. “Come in,” he growled, and when the person outside hesitated, he growled still louder: “Come in, you fool!” And was immediately frightened. Suppose it was somebody he oughtn’t to call a fool—the Geheimrat, or Frau von Prackwitz—then he’d be in the soup again. What a life!
But it was only old Kowalewski, the overseer.
“What’s the matter?” Meier shouted, delighted to have someone on whom he could vent his fury.
“I just wanted to ask a question, bailiff,” said the old man humbly, cap in hand. “We had a telegram from our daughter in Berlin; she’s coming tomorrow morning by the ten-o’clock train—”
“So that’s what you wanted to ask, Kowalewski?” sneered Meier. “Well, now you’ve asked it, you can go.”
“Of course,” said Meier. “Tomorrow quite a lot of carriages are going to the station. To Ostade and Meienburg and Frankfurt, too.”
“I just thought whether one of our carriages could also fetch her luggage,” explained Kowalewski.
“Ah, that’s what you thought! You’re a mighty fine cock, overseer, talking about ‘our’ carriages.”
The overseer was not discouraged. He had experienced generations of bailiffs, and this one was perhaps the worst of the lot. But a poor man had to beg a hundred times before one of the powerful said “Yes” for a change; and sometimes little Meier was quite different. He was like that; he liked to have his little joke; one ought not to blame him for it.
“It’s only because of her box, bailiff,” he begged. “Sophie doesn’t mind walking at all; she likes walking.”
“But she likes to lie down on her back still better, eh, Kowalewski?” grinned Meier.
Not a muscle of the old man’s face twitched. “Perhaps a farmer will be going to the station,” he meditated, half-aloud.
Meier, however, was satisfied. He had vented a bit of his rage, he had felt not altogether without power. “Well, clear out, Kowalewski,” he said graciously. “The harvesters and the Rittmeister are arriving by the ten-o’clock train. There’ll be room for your little Sophie. Hop it, you stinking old crow,” he shouted, and with a muttered “Very many thanks” and “Good evening,” the overseer retreated.
Black Meier was alone again with his thoughts. “If only I could at least sleep …” he growled to himself, his ill-temper returning. “Any damned fool can sleep when he’s drunk as much as I have, but not me; I never have any luck, of course.”
But perhaps he had not drunk enough. In the inn he had been quite tight; the trouble was, it had blown off by now. He could go back again, but he was too lazy for that. Besides, he would have to pay for all he had had there, and he shuddered at the thought of the reckoning. Well, Amanda was sure to put in an appearance this evening, and she could go and fetch him a bottle of schnapps. It would give her something to do; he couldn’t bear the thought of women today. If Vi hadn’t made such an exhibition of herself, he wouldn’t have behaved so stupidly. But that sort of thing was enough to drive a man mad.
Meier lurched from his soiled, damp bed and stumbled round the room. He had remembered that the forester had told him to pack and get away as soon as possible.
His boxes lay on top of the wardrobe. He had two small suitcases, a cheap dilapidated one of fabric-covered cardboard and a smart leather case which he had taken away with him on leaving his last job—it had only been standing about doing nothing in a loft. Meier squinted up at this suitcase; the cheapness of its acquisition always pleased him.
When you look at a suitcase you think of traveling. And when you think of traveling the money for the fare occurs to you. Thus it was that, without having looked through the half-open office door, Meier had a vision of the safe, bulky and painted green, the gilded decorations of which had become a dirty yellow with the years.
Usually the Rittmeister kept the key and only on pay days or for some special expenditure would fetch from it the necessary money. Meier was, of course, utterly reliable in money matters, but the Rittmeister was a great man and mistrustful! It would serve him right if he came a real cropper through his suspicions.
The bailiff pushed the office door open with his shoulder and planted himself thoughtfully in front of the safe. Yesterday evening the Rittmeister had checked the amount in hand twice over—the safe held quite a handsome packet of money, more than Bailiff Meier could earn in three years. Lost in thought, he fingered the key in his pocket. But he didn’t take it out. He didn’t unlock the safe. No, I’m not such a fool as all that, he thought.
Whatever he did was always on the safe side; he might possibly be sacked, but he couldn’t be jailed for it. To get the sack didn’t matter. One always got a new job after a while; an employer never stated in his testimonial the real reason for dismissal. But Meier had a lively aversion to jail.
I’d only squander the money in a week or two, he told himself. Then I’d be broke and couldn’t get another job, because they were looking for me. No, certainly not.
Nevertheless he stayed before the safe for a long time; it fascinated him. A way out of the dirt, he thought. They don’t catch everybody, by a long way. They say you can get false papers quite cheaply in Berlin. I would only like to know where. How long will it take before the Lieutenant learns that I haven’t delivered the letter? Well, tonight those two are going to miss each other. You’ll have to go to bed hungry, dear Vi. Meier grinned with malice.
There was another knock, and he jumped away from the safe and leaned negligently against the wall before calling out: “Come in,” this time politely. But all his trouble was unnecessary; once again it was no one of any consequence—only the charwoman, the coachman’s wife with the seven urchins, Frau Hartig.
“Your supper, Herr Meier.”
Meier did not want her to see the soiled bed in the next room (Amanda could tidy it up a bit later); he was in no mood for a dust-up now. “Put it on the desk,” he said. “What is it?”
“I don’t know why the women think so much of you,” said Frau Hartig, taking the lid off the dish. “Now Armgard is starting, too.… A roast and red cabbage in the evening for a bailiff.…”
“Rot,” said Meier. “I’d have preferred a herring. Whoa! Look at the fat! To tell the truth, I’ve had a drop too much.”
“I can see that,” confirmed Frau Hartig. “Why can’t you men lay off the booze? Supposing women did the same! Was Amanda with you?”
“What next! I don’t need her for boozing.” He laughed, suddenly quite lively and in high spirits. “What about it, Hartig? Would you like the grub? I can’t eat tonight.”
Frau Hartig beamed. “My old man’ll be pleased. If I quickly cook a few potatoes to go with it, it’ll be sufficient for us both.”
“No,” drawled Meier by the wall. “That’s for you, Hartig, not for your old man. Do you think I want him to get strong on it? You’re crazy. No, if you want the food you must eat it here. On the spot!” He looked hard at her.
“Here?” she asked, returning his stare.
Their voices had changed, become almost soft.
“Here!” answered Black Meier.
“Then,” said Frau Hartig in even lower tones, “I’ll close the windows and draw the curtains. If somebody saw me eating here …”
Meier didn’t answer, but he followed her with his eyes as she closed the two windows and carefully drew the curtains. “Lock the door as well,” he added softly.
She looked at him, then she did so. She sat down in front of the tray on the desk. “Well, it’ll taste good to me,” she said with simulated vivacity.
Again he did not reply. He watched her as she put the meat on the plate, then the potatoes, then the red cabbage. Now she ladled gravy over it all.…
“Hartig, listen,” he said quietly.
“What is it?” she asked without looking up, apparently only concerned with her food.
“Yes, what was I going to say?” he drawled. “Yes, where do you button up your blouse—in front or at the back?”
“In front,” she whispered, starting to cut the meat. “Do you want to have a look?”
“Yes,” said he, adding impatiently, “well, get on.”
“You must do it yourself,” she replied. “Or else my food will get cold. Ah you … ah.… Yes, darling … such good food … yes … yes.…”
III
Violet von Prackwitz was having supper with her mother. The manservant stood stiffly by the sideboard. Räder, although not much over twenty, was of the “serious servant” type. He was obsessed by the notion that his employers would one day move out of their jerry-built place into the old people’s mansion, where he would no longer be the manservant but the
butler. Therefore, in spite of his faultless demeanor, he regarded the old Geheimrat and his wife as people who withheld from his master and mistress something which by right belonged to them. Most of all, however, he hated old Elias, who lorded it over the silver at the Manor. How could anyone bear to have a name like Elias, anyway! His own Christian name was Hubert, and his employers called him by it.
Hubert had one eye on the table, in case they needed anything, and both ears on the conversation. Although he did not move one muscle of his somewhat lined face he was filled with glee at the way in which the young Fräulein was duping her mother. For, as Hubert had little to do, what with Armgard the cook and Lotte the servant, he made it his business to be acquainted with all that went on, to see everything, to know everything. Hubert knew a great deal—he knew, for instance, exactly how the young Fräulein had spent her afternoon. Which madam didn’t know.
“Have you seen to Grandpapa’s geese this afternoon?” Hubert heard Frau von Prackwitz ask.
Frau Eva von Prackwitz was a very good-looking woman, perhaps a trifle plump, though one noticed it only when she stood beside the tall, lean Rittmeister. She had all the sensual charm of a woman who was glad to be a woman and who, in addition, loved country life, and whom the country seemed to reward for this with an inexhaustible freshness and cheerfulness.
Vi pulled a reproachful face. “But, Mamma, there was a storm this afternoon.”
Hubert understood. This evening Fräulein Violet was playing the role of a small girl, which she particularly liked to do whenever she had been up to some very grown-up mischief. This would stop her parents from thinking any wrong of her—that is, from thinking of her aright.
“You would really do me a favor, Violet, if you kept an eye on Grandpapa’s geese. You know Papa gets so annoyed when the geese get into his vetch. And the storm only started at six o’clock.”
