by Hans Fallada
And indeed, when the two ladies rushed each to her window, there sat the poor homeless creature on the curbstone, her blouse unbuttoned, feeding the youngest fruit of her sins.
“Jutta, we cannot take the responsibility of this new scandal,” her mistress would sigh. And Jutta would remark obscurely: “Wasps do not attack bad fruit,” which Frau von Teschow then regarded as approval of her intentions.
“No, Elias, I’ll go myself,” she would say hurriedly, for although Elias was now well in his sixties it was uncertain whether he was a match for such a temptation. So old Frau von Teschow personally went down to the sinner who, when she saw madam step out, quickly did up her blouse. For her mistress might perhaps notice that it was only stageplay; Black Minna couldn’t feed any of her children, and had brought them all up on the bottle. That, however, was something madam did not need to know.
Then Minna and her mistress would go to the almshouse, the old woman walking beside the ridiculous barrow-load of furniture, the idea never entering her head that people would sneer or laugh. She had softened and humbled her heart, reminding herself how even she had almost yielded to temptation forty years ago when smart Lieutenant von Pritzwitz had wanted to kiss her behind the door—at a time when she was as good as engaged to Horst-Heinz.
And when she had accompanied Black Minna across the threshold of the almshouse, she was at the stage of understanding and forgiving all. Even if she were not quite so silly as to take the sinner’s tears at their face value, she nevertheless thought in her heart: She does mean it a little, after all, and she’s a tiny bit sorry—how do I know how much repentance God demands of us?
That, then, was how old Frau von Teschow thought and acted—and even Amanda Backs would have regarded it as nice and kind, if only madam’s good heart had been inclined as lovingly and forgivingly to all sinners. But man’s heart is strange—and why should an old woman’s heart be any different? What she forgave an artful female like Minna ten times, she would not once overlook in a young girl.
And in Amanda Backs least of all. For Amanda was brazen and shameless in her speech; she smiled joyously at all men; wore skirts so short that they were hardly skirts at all; never wept over a mistake; never repented, and never sang a hymn, only popular songs such as “What are you doing with your knee, dear Hans?” and “What a woman dreams in spring” …
No, Amanda knew quite well what was in store for her at the prayer meeting. But that Black Minna should have been assigned as her supervisor roused her to especial anger, and for a moment she seriously considered whether she should lock the two women up in the coop and slip off to her little Hans—it would be a glorious joke.
But however forward and impudent Amanda was with her tongue, she was prudent and circumspect in deed—which a poultry maid, of course, has to be above all things. For poultry are the most difficult creatures in the world, ten times more temperamental than a circus full of wild beasts, and obey only levelheaded persons. Yes, out of Meier’s window yesterday evening Amanda in her rage had talked big and threatened to leave madam—but all the same (the human heart is indeed strange) she was fond of her little blubber-lipped Hans Meier, and even the Garden of Eden itself would have appeared desolate without him.
So she didn’t slam the door of the hen house but contented herself with chasing out the two wingless hens, and brought her subjects to roost with a click and a cluck, counted their heads and found that none was missing. “There, you old hens,” she said emphatically, “since you have helped me so wonderfully I’ll scrub your pots for you in return.”
“Lor’, Amanda,” groaned the fat cook, her whalebone corset creaking, “if one didn’t know you were only joking …”
“And how do you know that?” asked Amanda Backs very aggressively. Aggressively she walked between the two women, who had now fallen silent, aggressively she bounced along in her short skirt. For she was very young, and the bitter experiences of her childhood had not been able to rob her of an appetite for life or of the freshness of youth; to be young was good fun and rows were fun and love amused her—if her mistress imagined she could rob her of this fun by hymns and prayers, then she was very much mistaken.
Such thoughts as Amanda’s might well carry one over the scrubbing of the sootiest pot, but they were not quite suitable for evening prayers in the Manor. By this time people had been sitting there quite a while—the usual crowd, a rather imposing assembly. For madam saw to it that not only those who were in her service came to these meetings, complete with chick and child, but that any villager who wanted a little firewood from the forest in the winter, or to gather berries and mushrooms there in summer, obtained permission for this only by sitting through many a service. Pastor Lehnich often did not have so many parishioners in the church of a Sunday as the old lady did evening after evening in her chapel.
“And you, Amanda?” she had asked. Amanda, starting out of her sinful thoughts, had stared around, and knew nothing of what was happening. The little geese on the back benches, the ones in their early ‘teens who laughed at everything, had of course begun to snigger. Madam, however, spoke quite mildly. “And your verse, Amanda?”
Oh, yes, they were having “singing in turns.” That meant that everybody had to name from the hymn book a verse which was then sung by all; which often led to a medley of vesper songs, dirges, hymns, penitential chants, hymns of the Passion, hymns of Jesus, and christening hymns. But it entertained them and livened up the wearisome evening. Even the old lady at her organ got red in the face, so quickly did she have to turn over the pages of her music book and leap from one melody to another.
“ ‘Commit thy ways unto the Lord,’ ” Amanda called out hurriedly before the sniggering could turn into laughter.
Madam nodded. “Yes, you should do that, Amanda.”
Amanda bit her lips for mentioning a first line that had given her mistress such an opening. She was rather flushed as she sat down.
But at least there was no pause, for Frau von Teschow knew this hymn by heart. The organ struck up at once and all joined in immediately. And then it was the turn of Black Minna, who was sitting next to Amanda—that hypocrite chose, of course, “Out of my deep anguish I cry to Thee.”
And they were singing again.
Amanda Backs, however, allowed herself no more day-dreams, but sat there erect and watchful; she did not want to be laughed at again. For quite a while nothing happened. All went on with their singing—in the end without any enthusiasm, because they grew bored and the old lady had become tired and more and more frequently struck a wrong note or didn’t keep time. Then the organ started to whistle strangely and groan; the little geese on the back benches sniggered again, and Frau von Teschow turned crimson.
She’s getting tired, thought Amanda. There’s not much left of her, actually. Perhaps she doesn’t feel disposed to make a long story about me, and I can quickly get to my Hans!
Amanda Backs had no idea how the sins of others can warm up an old woman, how the errors of her sisters can revive her. For one moment it looked as if the mistress wanted to make an end of the meeting. But she changed her mind. Stepping before her little flock, she cleared her throat and said, rather hurriedly and somewhat embarrassed: “Yes, dear children, now we can say the Benediction and go quietly home, every one of us, and sleep with a good conscience in that we have ended our day well. But is that true of us all?”
The old woman, no longer embarrassed, looked from one face to the other. She had stilled the motions of that conscience which warned her that she was about to do something strictly prohibited.
“Yes, is this true of all of us? Looking at Neulohe and even more at Altlohe, where they are most likely still sitting in the pothouse, then we can well be satisfied with ourselves. But, if we look more closely within, what do we see? We are weak human beings, and every one of us errs every day. It is a good thing then if we confess our sins in public and tell our assembled fellow Christians in what way we have transgressed. Only our sins for on
e day! I myself will make the start.”
With that old Frau von Teschow quickly knelt down and at once prepared herself in silent prayer for an open confession. Through her flock there rippled a barely concealed agitation, however, for not one among them was ignorant that Pastor Lehnich, and even the superintendent at Frankfurt, had strictly forbidden madam to confess her sins in public. It was quite against the spirit of Christ and Luther, and smelled of the Salvation Army, the Baptists, and above all, of the objectionable auricular confession of the Roman Catholic Church!
But if none of those present got up and marched out as a protest—and old Fräulein von Kuckhoff or Elias were the ones to do it boldly—it was because they were all of them on tenterhooks to hear the old woman. Hardly one of us can listen to the sins of others without a thrill. Each person there hoped that it would not fall to his lot to have to confess after madam, and everyone quickly rehearsed his recent sins, both secret and revealed, and thought that he would not come off too badly.
The one person, however, who knew definitely that she would be among the two or three whom Frau von Teschow would subsequently call upon, and who knew that the pastor’s and superintendent’s prohibitions had been disregarded on her account only—that particular individual sat very tensely, though without showing it. In a bad temper she listened to the old woman stammering; she must be very agitated, she was mixing her words up and constantly hiccuping. People would have laughed had it not been for the excitement. Frau von Teschow counted it as sinful that she had read another installment of the wicked serial in the newspaper—hiccup—that she had been impatient with her dear husband—hiccup—and that she had again kneaded margarine into the butter intended for the servants—hiccup!
Amanda Backs listened to all this with an impatient, scornful face. People listened to this silly stuttering, ten times more thrilled than if they were hearing God’s word, and yet the whole confession was only a sham. In spite of her show of piety, madam didn’t mention the things that really mattered. As for the margarine, they had all tasted it for themselves—there was no need to tell them about that. The bit about the serial was rubbish, and everybody in the house knew how often she quarreled with her “dear husband.” It was all eyewash. Madam ought rather to confess that she had staged this performance solely for the purpose of dealing a blow at her, Amanda Backs. That would, indeed, have been a confession! But madam didn’t see it like that at all.
In her excitement the cook was panting like a boiler; her cheeks were flushed crimson, and her whalebone casing creaked. Minna looked stupid and dull, her mouth gaping as if she expected it to be filled with roast chicken.
Amanda Backs’s cheeks also reddened, not with excitement and shame, but with defiance and anger. Madam was now brazenly talking about yesterday evening, when she had surprised a girl (alas, a girl of her own household) as she was climbing into a man’s room in the darkness (hiccup).
A downright start went through the whole assembly, and Amanda saw the faces rigid with sheer astonishment and anticipation. Now it was coming!
But no, not yet. Madam, interrupted by many hiccups, accused herself of letting anger get the better of her, so that she had warmly rebuked the girl and threatened her with dismissal, instead of considering that we were all sinners, and that this erring lamb should be guided patiently to the fold. Ruefully she confessed that she had neglected her duty, since this young girl had been entrusted to her care, and she begged that He might strengthen her with forbearance and long-suffering in her struggle against evil.…
Amanda, utterly contemptuous and very angry, listened to this twaddle. Hardly had Frau von Teschow said the last “Amen” and risen from her knees (certainly she had not had time to indicate by word of mouth or movement of finger the next who was to kneel down on the little stool of repentance and prayer), when Amanda rose with bright red cheeks and eyes dark with anger, and said that madam need not trouble herself, she (Amanda) knew very well who was referred to in all this talk, and there she stood, and perhaps madam was satisfied.
On top of these words, however, Amanda Backs, in a perfect fury, turned on Black Minna, who was pushing her forward so that she should be clearly seen by the whole assembly. “Will you take your muddy paws off my clean dress? I won’t be pushed forward—and least of all by you! The confession and penitence in this show have nothing at all to do with God!”
Having, with this angry hiss, crushed Minna, her enemy, Amanda turned again to the assembly and said (for she was now well wound up) that she had climbed through a window last night and, so that they should know everything down to the smallest detail, it had been the staff-house window, Bailiff Meier’s window. And she was not ashamed of it, and she could point to at least ten women present at the meeting who had climbed through other windows to other fellows! And with that she lifted her finger and pointed at Black Minna, who thereupon cowered down with a screech on her bench. And Amanda lifted her finger again, but before she could point it the bench where the younger girls sat in the dark corner at the back fell over with a crash, so exceedingly occupied had they all been in making themselves inconspicuous.
Then Amanda Backs laughed (and, alas and alack, a good many people joined in), but unexpectedly her laughing turned to weeping. Furiously she cried out: “It would be better if you paid us a decent wage.” And, sobbing unrestrainedly, she rushed out of the chapel into the dark park.
In the meeting place many other things besides the bench had crashed down, the old lady’s views and beliefs among them. Trembling she sat in her chair, gulping wretchedly; and this time even her old friend Jutta von Kuckhoff stood before her and said mercilessly: “You see, Belinde, you can’t touch pitch and remain undefiled.”
People, however, were making their way as fast as possible out of the chapel. They were looking very quiet and almost dumbfounded, but, alas, there was no doubt that before they reached home they would have recovered their powers of speech. And there could be no doubt about who was destined to be the subject of their gossip—it would not be Amanda Backs, the victress in the combat.
She, tear-stained and still very agitated, was running about the park, not feeling at all victorious, but calling herself donkey and goose for having mismanaged her own and Hans’s case. Once she stopped, because she saw someone who turned out to be the old Geheimrat fumbling with the fence. She had wanted to take her courage in both hands and ask him for mercy, but her experience—young though she was—warned her not to ask anybody for anything.
However, roaming in the park, she became calmer, washed her face in the cool pond water and went to her Hans; and arrived just as the Geheimrat was knocking at the window and calling for Bailiff Meier. And heard, in Hans’s room, a frightened woman scream out.
VII
The dusk was thickening into darkness. It was after nine o’clock and the street lamps were already lit. From the window of Wolfgang’s room Frau Pagel looked out into the gardens now almost shrouded by night. In the background, however, there were twinkling lights and a reddish glow over the town—perhaps the mother was reflecting under which of the distant lights her son now sat squandering the filched money.
Impatiently she turned round to Minna, who was packing a trunk. “Hurry up, Minna,” she said. “He may come any moment for his things.”
But Minna did not look up from the shoes with their carefully inserted trees. “He won’t come, madam,” said she, placing the shoes in their small linen bags.
Frau Pagel grew angry. Minna’s answer sounded almost as if she were being talked out of expecting her longed-for visitor. “You know quite well what I mean,” she replied curtly. “Then he’ll send somebody for his things.”
Minna, unruffled, unflurried, went on with her packing. “There was no need to give him your best cabin trunk, madam. You won’t have a decent one to go away with next spring to Ems.”
“Silly creature!” said Frau Pagel, looking out of the window. She couldn’t see the street for the treetops, but in the deep silence
she heard every footstep, every approaching car.
“Shall I put the bathing wrap in, too, madam?” asked Minna.
“What? Oh, the bathing wrap! Of course. Everything which belongs to him is to be packed.”
Minna made a sour face. “Then I must go up into the loft and fetch his books. I don’t know whether the porter is still up. I couldn’t manage the heavy cases by myself.”
“There’s time for the books,” said the old woman, annoyed by these continual difficulties. “You can ask him whether he wants them, when he comes.”
“He won’t come, madam,” said the old servant, monotonously dogmatic.
This time Frau Pagel had not been listening; this time she had no need to get angry at her maid’s obstinacy. Leaning out of the window, she strained her ears, listening for one footstep.…
The maid, although she had her back to her mistress, felt that something was happening. She stopped her packing, turned round, a bathing suit in her hand, and saw the listening figure. “Madam!” she said pleadingly.
“Wolfgang!” Frau Pagel called out of the window, doubtingly at first, then with certainty. “Wolfgang! Yes, wait, my boy, I’m coming. I’ll let you in immediately, I’ll open the front door for you at once.”
She wheeled round, her face flushed, the eyes under the white hair shining as of old.
“Hurry, Minna, the key! The young master’s waiting. Run!” And without heeding Minna’s imploring words, she ran into the dark corridor, switched on the light, seized some keys at random from the shelf beside the console table and, followed by Minna, ran downstairs.
She tried the house door, but the keys did not fit. “Quick, Minna, quick!” she called feverishly. “In case he changes his mind—he was always changeable.”
Minna, who had fallen silent, pressed the handle, and the house door, which had not been locked, opened. Frau Pagel ran through the small front garden and pushed open the little iron gate which led to the street. “Wolfgang, my boy! Where are you?”
