by Hans Fallada
Von Prackwitz racked his brain. Horse-breaking, he thought. But my nags already have more exercise than is good for them. Scribbling in the office? But I can’t ask Studmann to make out the pay sheets. In his mind’s eye he saw the Manor office with its old-fashioned green safe and ugly deal shelves full of out-of-date law books. A hideously dusty and neglected hole!
Von Studmann was more practical than his friend. “To my knowledge,” he prompted, “they have agricultural students on many estates.”
“They do exist,” confirmed Prackwitz. “A terrible crowd. They pay a premium—otherwise nobody would take them on—keep their own horse, stick their nose into everything, understand nothing, don’t lend a hand anywhere, but hold forth very grandly about agriculture.”
“Well, then, not that,” decided von Studmann. “What other openings are there?”
“All sorts of things. For instance, bailiffs who hand out the fodder, supervise the feeding, milking and grooming of the animals, keep stock books, work with the threshing machine. Then there are outdoor bailiffs who arrange about the plowing, manuring and harvesting, all the fieldwork, and have to be present …”
“On a horse?”
“Bicycle,” replied von Prackwitz. “At least at my place.”
“So you have a bailiff?”
“I’ll sack him tomorrow, he’s a lazy drunken fellow.”
“But not because of me, Prackwitz. I couldn’t become your bailiff straight away. You’d say, ‘Studmann, manure that rye,’ and upon my soul it’d be a difficult job for me. I haven’t the slightest idea about it—except for natural manuring, which would be insufficient, I fear.”
The two men laughed heartily, and stood up. Von Studmann’s brainstorm was over. Prackwitz was sure his friend would join him. Walking along, it was agreed that von Studmann should come to Neulohe as something in between a student, a confidential clerk and a supervisor.
“You’ll travel with me tomorrow morning, Studmann. You’ll have your things packed in half an hour, if I know anything of you. If only I could get hold of another sensible fellow now, to take charge of the people I’ve engaged today, the harvest would do very well. Oh, God, Studmann, I’m so glad! My first happy hour for I don’t know how long. Listen, let’s go to some decent place and have something to eat; it’ll do you good after the wretched drink. What do you say to Lutter and Wegner’s? Fine! Now, if I could get another man, also from the army if possible, an ex-sergeant major or someone like that, who knows how to handle people …”
At Lutter and Wegner’s they went into the cellar restaurant. The army man whom the Rittmeister needed was sitting at a small corner table. He had not been a sergeant major but a second lieutenant and at present was rather drunk.
X
“There’s Second Lieutenant Pagel!” said von Studmann.
“There’s Bombshell Pagel!” said Prackwitz.
And both saw vividly again that scene which had made this same Pagel unforgettable among their many comrades of the World War, or rather, for that war was over, of the last desperate attempt by German troops to hold the Baltic Provinces against the Red onslaught. It had been in the spring of 1919, during that wild attack of the Germans and Letts which finally liberated Riga.
Young Pagel, looking hardly older than a schoolboy, had been one of Rittmeister von Prackwitz’s motley detachment. He may have been seventeen, but more probably was only sixteen. Intended for an officer’s career, he had been thrust from the military college at Gross-Lichterfelde into a delirious world exhausted with fighting and no longer wishing to have anything to do with officers. Uprooted and not knowing what to do, the boy had wandered farther and farther into East Prussia until he fell in with men whom he might call comrades but was not forced to address as “Comrade.”
This beardless youth who had never before smelled gunpowder was both moving and ridiculous in his delight at being among veterans who spoke his language, wore uniforms, gave and accepted orders, and really carried them out, too. Nothing could damp his ardor or his desire to get acquainted with all there was to know in the shortest possible time—machine guns, mine mortars, and the one and only armored train.
Until it came to an attack; until hostile machine guns as well as friendly ones started to rattle and the frist shells whined overhead to burst in the rear; until the enthusiastic schoolboy play turned into reality. Then Prackwitz and Studmann had seen young Pagel turn pale and silent, flinching at every scream of a shell and ducking his head.
With a glance the two officers had understood each other. To the boy they said nothing. Green with terror, with sweating brow and wet hands, he was fighting against his fear; to them he was a bridge between the present and those inconceivably remote days in August 1914, when they themselves had heard this screaming for the first time, and had flinched. All had to go through that experience; everybody, once and for all, had to fight down the terrified cur within. Many lost this secret battle, but the majority were victorious and from that time were masters of themselves.
With young Pagel the result was at first in doubt. One could have spoken to him, shouted at him, and he would have heard nothing. His ears perceived only the wailing overhead; he looked hither, thither, like someone in a nightmare; in the midst of the advance he hesitated. Now he looked back.
“Yes, Pagel, that’s right, the damned Reds are getting the range. They’re landing them nearer. Yes, we’re in for it now, Second Lieutenant!”
And then the first shell was already in their lines—automatically Studmann and Prackwitz flung themselves down. But what was the matter with Pagel? Young Pagel stood looking at the shell hole, his lips moving as if he were mumbling some incantation.
“Lie down, get down, Pagel!” screamed von Prackwitz.
Up went the earth in a welter of dust, fire and smoke—the explosion rent the air.
Fool! thought von Prackwitz.
A pity! thought von Studmann.
But—and one could hardly believe one’s eyes—a shadow, a motionless figure was standing in the fog and smoke. It became clearer, leaped forward, picked something off the ground, shouted furiously “Blast it,” let it drop, took his cap to hold it by, rushed up to Prackwitz, clicked his heels and said: “Beg to report, Herr Rittmeister, a shell splinter!” And in very unmilitary language: “Damned hot!”
He had—forever—vanquished the cur in himself.
Forever?
This scene, this rather ridiculous yet heroic deed of a very young man, was clearly recollected by the two as they saw Pagel sitting, apparently rather the worse for drink, at a corner table in Lutter and Wegner’s. “There’s Bombshell Pagel!” they called out.
Bombshell Pagel looked up. With the hesitating movements of the drunken, he pushed back his glass and bottle before rising to his feet and said without surprise: “The officers!”
“Stand at ease, Pagel,” said the Rittmeister smiling. “We’re no longer officers. And you’re the only one of us who still wears his uniform.”
“Certainly, Herr Rittmeister,” said Pagel stubbornly. “But I’m no longer on duty.”
The two friends exchanged an understanding glance.
“May we sit at your table, Pagel?” asked von Studmann. “It’s rather crowded down here, and we want something to eat.”
“Please do,” said Pagel and sat down quickly as if standing had become very difficult for him. The other two, sitting down, spent some time choosing their food and wine.
Then the Rittmeister raised his glass. “Your health, Pagel! To old times!”
“My respectful thanks, Herr Rittmeister, Herr Oberleutnant. Yes, to old times!”
“And what are you doing now?”
“Now?” Pagel looked slowly from one to the other as if he had to think very carefully about his answer. “I’m not sure.… Something or other.” He made a vague gesture.
“But you must have been doing something during these four years,” said von Studmann. “Perhaps you’ve started something, been employed
, achieved something, eh?”
“Certainly, certainly,” assented Pagel politely. And with the malicious insight of drunkenness, he added: “May I be permitted to ask, Herr Oberleutnant, what you have achieved during these four years?”
Von Studmann started, was about to be angry, then laughed. “You’re right, Pagel. I haven’t achieved anything. As you see me here, I have only six hours ago suffered complete shipwreck again. I really shouldn’t know what to do if the Rittmeister wasn’t taking me back to his manor—as a kind of apprentice. Prackwitz has a big estate in Neumark, you know.”
“Shipwrecked six hours ago,” repeated Pagel, not noticing what was said about the estate. “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange, Pagel?”
“I don’t know.… Perhaps because you’re eating duck and barberries, therefore it seems strange.”
“With regard to that,” said von Studmann, in his turn malicious, “you’re sitting here and drinking Steinwein which, by the way, taken in such quantities is far too heavy. Duck would be much better for you.”
“Of course,” Pagel readily agreed. “I did think about it. But eating’s so terribly boring, drinking’s much easier. Besides, I’ve something on hand.”
“Whatever you may have on hand, Pagel,” remarked Studmann casually, “food will serve your purpose better than drink.”
“Hardly, hardly,” replied Pagel. And, as if to prove his point, he emptied his glass. But since this demonstration made no impression on the others, their faces being still skeptical, he added by way of explanation: “I have to spend a lot of money.”
“By drinking you’ll certainly not be able to spend much more, Pagel,” interposed von Prackwitz, more and more annoyed by the casual attitude of Studmann, who was rather encouraging this young puppy. “Don’t you see, man, that you’re full to the brim already?”
Von Studmann winked at his friend as a hint to desist, but Pagel remained surprisingly calm. “Possibly,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ll get through my money all the easier.”
“So it’s something to do with women,” von Prackwitz cried angrily. “I’m no moralist, Pagel, but to be in such a drunken condition—that’s not good.”
Pagel made no reply except to fill his glass again, empty it and refill it deliberately. Prackwitz made a furious gesture, but von Studmann was not in agreement. His friend was an excellent fellow, but certainly no psychologist; he was not observant, and he always thought that everybody must feel as he did. And when things were not just as he wished them he would flare up at once.
Seeing Pagel refill his glass, Studmann was very painfully, and therefore very vividly, reminded of a certain room—No. 37. There, too, glasses had been filled and emptied in a similar manner, and he also clearly remembered a look of fear and insolence which he had observed then. He was not at all sure that Pagel, in spite of his heavy drinking, was actually drunk. Certainly, however, he didn’t like being questioned and would probably much prefer to be alone. But Studmann had no intention of allowing himself to be influenced by Pagel’s indifferent or even hostile mood. He sensed they had met the former second lieutenant in a critical situation; now, as before, they had to keep an eye on him. And von Studmann, who that afternoon had suffered a defeat, swore to himself not to fall for any tricks that night, but to throw the champagne bottle hand grenade in good time—there were many kinds of precedents for such actions.
Pagel was smoking, apparently lost in thought and not altogether conscious of the others’ presence. In an undertone Studmann informed Prackwitz of his scheme and was answered by an impatient gesture of refusal, but in the end Prackwitz agreed.
Pagel tilted the bottle over his glass, but no wine flowed forth. Avoiding their eyes, he attracted the waiter’s attention and ordered another bottle of Steinwein and a double cherry brandy.
The impatient Prackwitz started to speak, but Studmann placed an imploring hand on his knee, and the other maintained an unwilling silence.
When the waiter brought the wine Pagel asked for the bill. The charge, either because of the guest’s condition or because he had been drinking there for some hours, was heavy, indeed extortionate. Pagel pulled a wad of bank notes out, selected a few, gave them to the waiter and refused the change. The man’s unusually servile thanks gave a hint as to the size of the tip.
Again the two gentlemen exchanged glances, the one angry and the other pleading for patience. They still said nothing, however, but continued to observe Pagel, who now drew from every pocket large and small bundles of notes, piling them on top of each other. Then he took his paper serviette, wrapped it round them, searched his pockets again for a length of string, and tied the parcel up. Pushing it aside, he leaned back as after a task finished, lit a cigarette, swallowed the cherry brandy and poured out a glass of wine.
Then he looked up. His expression was remarkably gloomy and uncompromising, and his glance rested mockingly on the two friends. At once Studmann was aware that Pagel was only showing off. His drinking, his apparent indifference to them, the provocative display and wrapping up of his money—all was histrionics, performed for their benefit.
The lad is utterly wretched, though Studmann, strangely moved. Perhaps he would like to tell us about his trouble or ask our help, but he can’t get himself to do so. If only Prackwitz wouldn’t …
But the white-haired choleric Prackwitz could no longer restrain himself. “It’s rotten, Pagel,” he shouted, “the way you’re behaving with that money. You mustn’t treat money like that.”
Studmann got the impression that Pagel was pleased with this outburst, although he did not show it.
“If I may be permitted to ask a question, Herr Rittmeister,” said the young man, mouthing the words with exaggerated politeness, “how does one treat money?”
“How?” screamed the Rittmeister, the veins in his forehead swelling and his face almost purple with fury. “How does one treat money? In a proper manner, Second Lieutenant Pagel! Properly, conscientiously—as one ought to, you understand? You don’t carry it about loose in your pocket, you put it in a wallet …”
“There’s too much of it, Herr Rittmeister,” said Pagel apologetically. “No wallet would be large enough.”
“One doesn’t carry so much money about with one,” shouted the Rittmeister at white heat. Already people were looking at them from the adjoining table. “It isn’t right. It isn’t done.”
“Why not?” asked Pagel like an obedient inquiring pupil.
Studmann bit his lips so as not to burst out laughing. Von Prackwitz, however, had too little humor to understand that his leg was being pulled.
“As soon as I’ve drunk my wine I’ll try and get rid of the stuff as quickly as possible,” said Pagel apologetically. He drank, an amused boyish smile spreading over his face. He looked very much as he did on his first day in Courland, so Studmann thought—no trace of a resemblance to Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen. Taking hold of the packet of money, Pagel hesitated and then impulsively held it out to the Rittmeister. “Or would you like it, sir?”
Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz started out of his chair, his face flushing crimson. It was an insult, a deliberate insult, all the more heinous in that it came from a former second lieutenant. An officer, and particularly a Rittmeister von Prackwitz, may leave the Service, but he still retains his old conceptions and views. Studmann and Prackwitz were good friends, but the friendship originated at a time when one was a captain and the other a lieutenant; and it continued on that basis. If the first lieutenant wished to criticize the captain he had to do so while carefully observing the formalities proper between a superior officer and his subordinate. Pagel, however, was not even a friend of von Prackwitz; he had said something very unpleasant, even insulting, to his face, without preparation and without observance of the proper forms. Rittmeister von Prackwitz therefore exploded. Something dreadful might have resulted had not von Studmann laid a firm hand on the Rittmeister’s shoulder and forced him back into
his chair. “He’s stupidly drunk,” he said in low tones. And sharply, to Pagel, “Apologize at once!”
The boyish smile faded slowly. Pagel looked thoughtfully at the angry Rittmeister, as if he were not quite clear as to what had happened, then at the parcel of money in his hand. His face darkened. Putting the money back again on the table near him, he reached for his glass and drank hastily.
“Apologize?” he said sullenly. “Who attaches any importance nowadays to such tomfoolery?”
“I do, Herr Pagel,” cried the Rittmeister, still very angry. “I have retained my manners, whether others consider them antiquated and foolish or not. I attach importance to this tomfoolery!”
“Let him alone, Prackwitz,” suggested von Studmann. “He’s overwrought, he’s drunk, and perhaps he intends to do something vicious.”
“I’m not interested,” cried the Rittmeister furiously. “I’ll let him alone with the greatest pleasure.”
Pagel glanced quickly at Studmann but made no reply.
Studmann bent across the table and said in a friendly way: “If you were to offer me the money, Pagel, I’d accept it.”
The Rittmeister made a gesture of extreme astonishment. Pagel, however, hastily reached for the packet of money and drew it nearer.
“I’m not going to take it away from you,” said Studmann, rather mockingly.
Pagel turned red, ashamed of himself. “What would you do with it?” he asked sullenly.
“Keep it for you—till you felt better.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t need money anymore.”
“Exactly what I supposed,” agreed the Oberleutnant calmly. “How was it that you, too, suffered shipwreck six hours ago, Pagel?” he inquired with an exaggerated indifference.
This time the young man went completely crimson. With an almost painful slowness the flush, starting from his cheeks, spread over his whole face. It crept under the high and creased collar of his tunic, and went up into the roots of his hair. Suddenly one could see how very young he was, how terribly he suffered under his embarrassment. Even the angry Rittmeister looked at him with new eyes. Pagel, however, annoyed at his very obvious confusion, asked defiantly: “Who told you that I had suffered shipwreck, Herr von Studmann?”
