by Hans Fallada
“If I were a goose I wouldn’t like to be in Grandpapa’s old damp park with its sour grass,” declared Vi with a childish pout. “I believe the park stinks.”
Hubert, who well knew how often and how gladly the young Fräulein stayed secretly in the Geheimrat’s park, was enchanted by the naïveté of this precautionary reply.
“But, Vi, the word ‘stink’—and at table!” Frau Eva’s calm and smiling glance passed over Räder’s wooden yet far from youthful face.
“All right, Mamma. I won’t go there, I think it st—smells of corpses.”
“Stop it, Vi!” Frau Eva knocked on the table very energetically with the handle of her fork. “That’s enough. Sometimes I think you might be a little more grown-up.”
“Yes, Mamma? Were you more grown-up when you were my age?” The girl’s expression was completely innocent—nevertheless the servant wondered if the artless young person had possibly heard a rumor of her mother’s youthful pranks. There was a story about the old Geheimrat thrashing a farmer’s boy out of his daughter’s bedroom window; and perhaps it was true. At all events, Hubert found that Frau Eva’s next question fitted in very well with the rumor. “What had you to say to Meier that took such a long time this afternoon?” she asked.
“Pooh!” said Vi disparagingly and pouted again. “Old Black Meier.” She laughed. “Imagine, Mamma, all the girls and women in the village are said to run after him, and yet he’s as ugly as—I don’t know, as old Abraham.” (Abraham was the he-goat they kept in the stable, in accordance with the old cavalry idea that he banished disease.)
“The dessert, Hubert!” admonished madam still calmly, but with rather dangerously flashing eyes.
Räder marched out of the room, not without regret. Fräulein Vi had made a slip. And now she would certainly get a good talking-to. She had been piling it on a little too much in her exuberance; madam was not a fool by any means. Hubert would have liked to hear what the mother said, and above all what the daughter answered. But Hubert was not one to eavesdrop; he marched straight away to the kitchen. Granted common sense, there were many ways of learning what one wanted to know. One needn’t shake, by eavesdropping, an employer’s confidence in an exemplary servant.
Old Forester Kniebusch sat at the kitchen table, waiting.
“Good evening, Herr Räder,” he said very politely, for the detached and taciturn manservant was regarded as a power in the land. “Is supper finished yet?”
“The dessert, Armgard,” said Räder, and started to arrange the plates on the tray. “Good evening, Herr Kniebusch. Whom do you want to speak to? The Rittmeister doesn’t come back till tomorrow.”
“I only wanted to see madam,” said Kniebusch cautiously. After long deliberation he had come to the conclusion that he had better lay his knowledge before the older generation. Fräulein was too young to be of any real use to an old man.
“I’ll announce you, Herr Kniebusch,” said Räder.
“Herr Räder,” asked Kniebusch, “could it be arranged that Fräulein Vi is not present?”
Räder’s face showed even more furrows. To gain time he snapped at the cook: “Get on, Armgard. I’ve told you a hundred times that you’re to arrange the cheese dish before I come.”
“In this heat!” sneered the cook, who hated him. “The butter balls would stick to each other.”
“You need not take the butter out of the refrigerator until the last moment. But if you’re still only cutting up the cheese!” And in low tones to the forester: “Why shouldn’t the young Fräulein be present?”
Kniebusch became visibly embarrassed. “Well, you know … I only thought … not everything is fit for a young girl’s ears.”
Räder regarded the embarrassed man with the inscrutability of an idol. “What’s not for young girls, Herr Kniebusch?” he asked, but without any noticeable inquisitiveness.
Kniebusch turned red with the sheer labor of inventing a lie. “Well, Herr Räder, you understand, when one is so young and the rutting season on …”
Räder gloated over his confusion. “There’s no rutting now,” he said contemptuously. “All the same, I understand. Thanks. Uniform—u-ni-form is the password.”
With expressionless fishy eyes he looked at the intimidated, confused forester. Then he turned to the cook. “Well, ready at last, Armgard! But if madam scolds, then I shall tell her whose fault it is. Don’t speak to me, I’ve nothing to say to you.” And he went away with the tray in his hand, grave, far from youthful, rather mysterious. “We’ll have a word later, Herr Kniebusch,” he said and vanished, leaving the forester in the dark as to whether he was to be announced or not.
“What a swelled head that donkey has!” grumbled the cook. “Don’t have anything to do with him, Herr Kniebusch. He pumps you—and afterwards tells everything to the Rittmeister.”
“Does he always behave to you like that?” inquired the forester.
“Always,” she exclaimed. “Never a good word to Lotte or me. The Rittmeister’s not nearly so grand as that ass. He won’t even eat at the same table with us.” She stared at the forester, who muttered something unintelligible. “No, he carries his plate to his room. I believe, Herr Kniebusch,” she whispered mysteriously, “he’s peculiar. He has no interest in women. He’s …”
“Yes?” The forester was curious.
“I don’t want anything to do with such a creature,” asserted Armgard. “Do you think he would as much as touch the Rittmeister’s cigarettes!”
“Yes, doesn’t he?” asked the forester hopefully. “All servants do. Elias always smokes the old gentleman’s cigars. I know the smell because the Geheimrat sometimes gives me one.”
“What? Is that true about Elias? I’ll rub it in to the old rascal. Fancy pinching cigars from the master and then storming at me because I haven’t wiped my boots properly at the Manor entrance!”
“For God’s sake, Armgard, please don’t say a word to him. I might have made a mistake.” The old man fell over himself with anxiety. “It’s probably quite a different cigar, and you’ve just said that Hubert smokes the Rittmeister’s cigarettes.…”
“I haven’t said anything of the kind. I said quite the opposite. He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t listen at doors; he thinks himself much too grand for all that, the silly fool.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” a voice rasped, and the two looked intensely startled at Räder’s face. (Old Frog Face, thought Armgard furiously.) “So I’m a silly fool! It’s good to know what people think of you. Go to madam, Armgard; she wants to talk to you. Not that I should have told tales about the cheese, anyway; you’re too stupid for me to bother about. You can tell her, however, that in your eyes I’m a silly fool.… Come, Herr Kniebusch.”
And, obedient but very depressed by all the complications of domestic life, the forester followed with an embarrassed squint at the cook, who, crimson with rage, fought back her tears.
Räder’s room was only a narrow strip of floor in the basement, between the coal cellar and washhouse. It was another reason for his grudge against Elias, who had a proper large two-windowed room in the upper story of the Manor, very cozily furnished with antique furniture. Räder’s room contained only an iron camp bed, an iron washstand, an old iron folding chair from the garden and an old wobbly deal wardrobe. One couldn’t tell that a human being lived in the room. No article of dress was visible, nor the smallest utensil of the occupant’s, not even soap or towel in the washstand, for Hubert Räder washed himself in the bathroom.
“There,” he said. “There, you can sit down on the chair till she comes. Then you can get up and give her your seat.”
“Who’s coming?” asked Kniebusch, confused.
“You’re not to be such a chatterer, Herr Kniebusch,” declared the servant with serious disapproval. “A man doesn’t chatter—above all, with women.”
“I haven’t said anything at all,” the forester maintained.
“Naturally she has to wash her face
first, because she’s been crying, but when she’s finished with madam she’ll come.”
“Who’s coming, who’s with madam?” asked the forester, completely confused.
“A uniform is a uniform,” the servant informed him. “My livery, of course, doesn’t count, nor your green one, because you’re only in private service. If you were a Government forester, that would be different.”
Kniebusch, completely lost, agreed. “Yes, yes.” He was still hoping, of course, that he would in the end understand something of Räder’s enigmatic remarks.
“A civilian shouldn’t get mixed up with uniforms,” announced the servant earnestly. After pondering a long time, his brow puckered, he opened the door a little and listened. Then he nodded, went across the room to the forester and said in a low voice reproachfully: “You’re a civilian, Herr Kniebusch, and you want to get mixed up with uniforms.”
“Certainly not,” cried the forester, aghast.
“Have you ever considered, Herr Kniebusch, what the Geheimrat loves most?” went on the servant, returning to his post by the door.
“No.… Why? I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Herr Räder.”
“Don’t you really?”
“No. But I believe he loves his forest most.”
The servant nodded. “Yes, he won’t want to give it away before he dies. And to whom will he leave it?” He looked expectantly at the forester.
“There’s the old lady,” pondered the forester, “and there’s his son at Birnbaum. And here is the Rittmeister.” He considered the case.
“Well, whom will he give the forest to?” questioned the servant condescendingly, as one who puts a very easy question to a backward schoolchild. “Or will he split it up in two or three portions?”
“Split up—his forest?” Kniebusch was full of contempt. “No, don’t imagine such a thing, Herr Räder. If they split the forest after his death I believe he’d come out of his grave and pull up the boundary stones. But he’ll have written down somewhere what he wants done with it.”
“And who will he have set down, Herr Kniebusch?” the servant persisted. “Perhaps the old lady?”
“Certainly not. She’s always saying that she won’t go into the wood because of the snakes. No, Herr Räder, she won’t come into it at all.”
“Or the son in Birnbaum?”
“I don’t think so, either,” said the forester. “He hasn’t a good word for him, because he’s much too grand for his liking and is always asking for money. And now he’s gone and bought a racing car … so that he can run away from his debts, as the old man grumbled.”
“So the old man knows about the racing car,” meditated the servant. “You told him that for certain, Herr Kniebusch.”
Red in the face, the old man wanted to protest, but Hubert paid no attention. “Then madam upstairs will inherit the forest,” he said conclusively, pointing with his thumb to the ceiling.
“Even when he can’t stand the Rittmeister?” queried the forester anxiously. “And this business with the geese will also turn out badly.”
“Who, then, will inherit the forest?” persisted the servant.
“I don’t know,” said the forester, perplexed. “There are his sister’s children in Pomerania, but—”
“What about his grandchild?”
“Who?” The forester’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean? Fräulein Violet is only fifteen.” But Räder continued to stare at him. “Of course,” went on Kniebusch thoughtfully, “she’s the only one whom he takes with him when he goes shooting, that’s true.… And when he measures the timber, she’s got to go with him with the yardstick and tape-measure. Oh, God, Herr Räder, nobody knows yet, and the young Fräulein herself may not know either.”
“And you’ve wanted to get mixed up with uniforms,” said Räder contemptuously.
Before the forester was able to protest, however, there were hasty steps in the corridor and Vi walked in. “Thank God I managed it, after all. I couldn’t get away before. Armgard has been sobbing out to Mamma that you’re always so unkind to her, Hubert. Are you really so unkind?”
“No,” replied Hubert seriously. “I’m only strict with her and I don’t lower myself with females at all.”
“Good God, Hubert, how serious you’re looking, like a carp in the pond. I’m sure you live on vinegar. I’m merely a female myself.”
“No,” declared Hubert. “First of all, you’re a lady and then you’re my superior, so I can’t lower myself with you, Fräulein.”
“Thank you very much, Hubert. You’re really magnificent. I believe you’ll burst with vanity and pride one of these days.”
She looked at him, very pleased, with her slightly protruding bright eyes. Suddenly she became graver and whispered mysteriously: “Is it true, Hubert, what Armgard told Mamma—that you’re a fiend?”
Unmoved, Räder’s fishy eyes looked at the inquisitive girl. Not a trace of color rose in his wrinkled gray cheeks. “But Armgard didn’t say that in front of you, Fräulein,” he maintained. “You’ve been listening at the door again.”
Violet also was not in the least embarrassed. With surprise the forester saw how familiar this odd pair were. Räder was much cleverer than he had thought. He must be on his guard with him.
Vi laughed. “Don’t be silly, Hubert. If I didn’t do a bit of listening I wouldn’t hear anything. Mamma tells me nothing, and recently when we saw the stork in the meadow and I asked Papa if it were really true, he went quite red. Lord, poor Papa, how embarrassed he was! And so you’re a demon?”
“Here is Forester Kniebusch,” interposed Räder, unshaken.
“Yes, of course. Good evening, Kniebusch. What’s the matter? Hubert behaves mysteriously, but, as a matter of fact, he always behaves like that. What’s the matter with you?”
“Lord, Fräulein,” said the forester miserably, for he saw to his horror the moment coming when he had to tell his tale. Already everything was confused and he no longer knew what he had really seen and what he had only surmised. And neither had he the courage to tell everything to her face; maybe Black Meier had not been bragging and she really loved him. Then he would be nicely in the soup.
“I really don’t know.… I only wanted to ask … I’ve caught a glimpse of the stag which the Rittmeister wants to get so much, and if the Rittmeister is coming home this evening … He was standing in the clover, but now he has gone into Haase’s field …”
Vi looked at him attentively. Räder, however, eyed him coldly and contemptuously, waiting quietly till the forester had got himself completely bogged. Then he was unmerciful. “It’s about the un-i-form, Fräulein. If I hadn’t been here he would have told madam and not you.”
“Kniebusch,” said Violet, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Always sneaking and telling tales behind one’s back.…”
And now the forester had to reveal everything, if for no other reason than to exonerate himself; starting with the errand round the village, down to the summons into the inn. His account of Meier’s drunken twaddle was faltering and exceedingly embarrassed. He would have liked to beat about the bush, but could not succeed. Vi and Räder were unrelenting investigators.
“No, you’re leaving something out, Kniebusch. Tell me everything. I promise you I won’t blush.”
Nevertheless she did blush. She leaned against the wall, she half closed her eyes, her lips trembled, and she breathed quickly. But she did not falter. “Go on, Kniebusch—what did he say next?”
And now came the affair of the letter.
“Did he read it all out? What did he read to you? Tell me every word he did read.… Oh, and you were idiot enough to believe that I’d written that to him? Him!—That cad!”
Now came the part about the encounter at Haase’s.
“What? You saw the—gentleman and you told him nothing? Didn’t even give him a hint? Of all the fools, Kniebusch, you’re the biggest!”
The forester stood confounded and guilty. He, too, realized th
at he had done everything wrong.
“Haase was present,” Räder interposed.
“True, but he could have passed him the letter.”
“The forester didn’t have the letter.” (Räder again.)
“Oh, yes, I’m quite muddled. But Meier still has it—is still sitting in the inn, perhaps, and showing it to others.… You must set off at once, Hubert.”
“Meier has been back in his room for a long time,” said Hubert imperturbably. “I myself told you that he came back quite drunk from the inn some time after six o’clock. But I suggest the un-i-form.…”
“True. Go off, Hubert, and tell him. You’re bound to find him; he’s sure to be still at Haase’s. No, tell him nothing at all; merely tell him that I must speak to him at once. But where? Tell him at the old place.… How can I get away, though? Mamma won’t let me go out so late.”
“Hush! Madam is coming,” the imperturbable Hubert warned her.
“Well, what kind of a plot is going on here?” asked Frau von Prackwitz, standing very surprised on the threshold. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Violet, and I find you here!” She glanced from one face to the other. “Why do you all look so embarrassed? I want to know what’s going on. Will you tell me, Vi?” she added in a sharper tone.
“Excuse me, madam, if I speak.” It was Räder. “There’s no longer any purpose in not telling madam.”
Breathless silence. Despairing hearts.
“To tell the truth, madam, it’s about the buck.”
“About what buck? What’s this nonsense? Vi, I ask you—”
“Yes, the buck in the clover, which the Rittmeister was talking about,” said Räder. “Forgive me, madam, for having heard about it. It was the day before yesterday, at supper, when I was serving the tench.” His persuasive, slightly pedantic voice shrouded everything in a mist. “And the buck suddenly disappeared just when the Rittmeister was stalking it; and you’ve heard about it yourself, madam, the Rittmeister set great store on it.”
“I still haven’t heard what this assembly is about.”
