by Hans Fallada
“I understood you so, Pagel.”
“Then you’ve misunderstood me. I—” But Pagel broke off, dissatisfied with himself, his blush having betrayed him completely.
“Of course you’re not doing well, Pagel,” said von Studmann mildly. “We can see that, the Rittmeister as well as myself. You’re not an habitual drunkard. You’re drinking for a definite reason, because something’s gone wrong, because—oh, you understand me quite well, Pagel.”
Pagel tilted his wineglass. His bearing was less tense, but he made no reply.
“Why don’t you want us to help you?” Studmann asked. “I let the Rittmeister help me this afternoon without any hesitation. I, too, had a very unpleasant upset.…” He smiled at the remembrance of his fall. He had no actual recollection of it, but Prackwitz had described, very caustically, how he had rolled downstairs in the hotel. Studmann was clear that his case was different from Pagel’s—albeit only physically.
“Perhaps we could advise you,” he continued persuasively. “It would be better still if we could help you in a practical way. When we were advancing on Tetelmünde you fell down with the machine gun and you didn’t hesitate for a moment to accept my help. Why can’t what held good in Courland hold good also in Berlin?”
“Because,” said Pagel morosely, “we were fighting for a cause. Today everybody fights for himself—and against everybody else.”
“Once a comrade always a comrade,” said von Studmann. “You remember, Pagel, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Pagel bent his head as if he were deliberating, watched expectantly by the other two. Then he lifted his head. “I could say a good deal against it,” he said with his clumsy yet distinct articulation. “But I don’t want to. I’m terribly tired. Could I meet you somewhere tomorrow morning?”
In a few words the two friends reached an understanding. “We are leaving Schlesische Bahnhof for Ostade shortly after eight tomorrow morning,” said von Studmann.
“Good,” said Pagel. “I’ll also be at the station, perhaps.”
He stared into space as if everything had been settled. He put no questions: it did not seem to interest him why they were leaving, where they were going, or what was to happen.
The Rittmeister shrugged his shoulders, dissatisfied with this half-promise. But Studmann persisted. “That’s something, Pagel. But not entirely what we would like. You’ve something on your mind; you spoke just now about getting rid of your money.”
“Affairs with women,” muttered the Rittmeister.
“It’ll soon be midnight. Between now and tomorrow morning at eight o’clock you’ve got something on hand, Pagel, the result of which appears so uncertain that you can’t give us a firm promise and also don’t want us with you.”
“Wretched women,” muttered the Rittmeister.
“I differ from Prackwitz,” said Studmann, noticing that Pagel was about to reply. “I don’t believe that some dubious affair with a woman is behind it. You’re not the kind of man for that.” Pagel lowered his head, but the Rittmeister snorted. “I should be grateful, we should be grateful, if you would allow us to spend the next few hours with you.”
“It’s nothing special,” said Pagel, now won over by the other’s tactful insistence. “I only want to make a test.”
The former lieutenant smiled. “A challenge to Fate, Pagel?” he said. “The former Second Lieutenant Pagel submits to God’s judgment! Oh, how enviably young you still are!”
“I don’t consider myself so enviable,” growled Pagel.
“Of course not, and you’re quite right,” agreed Studmann hastily. “So long as one is young one regards Youth as a misfortune. Only later does one discover that Youth is happiness. Well, how about it? Are we coming with you?”
“You won’t prevent me from doing what I want to do?”
“No, of course not. You must behave as if we aren’t present.”
“And the Rittmeister agrees?”
Rittmeister von Prackwitz muttered something, but it was enough for Pagel.
“All right, come with me if you like.” He cheered up a little. “It might perhaps interest you. It’s—well, you’ll see. Let’s go by taxi.”
They set off.
Chapter Seven
Full Moon on an Oppressive Night
I
Amanda Backs stood panting among the bushes.
“Well, Herr Meier, what a strange voice you’ve got. You’re bleating like a woman,” squeaked the Geheimrat in his thin old voice.
Black Meier’s head popped out of the window. “Herr Geheimrat,” he explained, “that’s only because I was awakened suddenly. When I’m asleep I’ve always got a high-pitched voice.”
“It’s all the same to me,” said the old man. “I only hope, when you get married, your wife believes in this high-pitched voice! I’ve got a letter here, Herr Meier.”
“Very good, Herr Geheimrat, I’ll deliver it.”
“Now don’t be in such a hurry, young man. You shall get back to your bed in a minute. This letter is for my son-in-law.”
“Certainly, Herr Geheimrat. I’ll give it to him tomorrow morning as soon as he arrives from the station.”
“No, that won’t do. His wife will be present. This is a business matter, you understand?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat. So I’ll give it to him …”
“Wait a moment, young man. Never mind about the bed creaking. I expect it’s getting bored, eh?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Well now! And you won’t catch a cold at the open window; you’re used to draughts. By the way, do you always sleep without a nightshirt?”
“Herr Geheimrat, I …”
“Better stick to ‘Yes, Herr Geheimrat’—that’s safer, isn’t it? You think I can’t see in the dark. I can see as well as an old tom-cat.”
“It was so hot, Herr Geheimrat—you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course I’ll excuse you, my son. I quite understand that you’re feeling hot, not having brought in the crops and having a drop too much afterwards—yes, you’d certainly feel hot.”
“Herr Geheimrat!”
“Well, what can I do for you? Do you know, my son, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get Elias to take the letter. I’m inclined to think you’ll have too much on your mind tomorrow.”
“Herr Geheimrat!” (Pleadingly.)
“Well, good night, Herr Meier, and do put on a nightshirt. I believe I saw Amanda in the park.”
The old man shuffled off. In the bushes, her heart thudding, stood Amanda. She had always known that her Hans was not worth much and was always running after every skirt; but she had thought that she could keep him straight if she was always there when he needed her.… But, nothing doing, no such luck!
Little Meier still leaned out of the window. Once more he had pleaded “Herr Geheimrat!” as if the old man could be of any help, and as if having the letter entrusted to him would have altered anything.… From where she stood Amanda could plainly see him hanging out of the window. He was so stupid. Why did she always take up with such silly, spineless fellows who were no good at all? She didn’t understand it. It made her miserable.
And now the female in his room started to whisper.
Hans turned his head round and said roughly: “Shut up!” That rather pleased Amanda; his insolence to the other woman showed that he could not care very much for her. He would not have dared to talk to herself like that; she would have boxed his ears. She would very much like to know who the other woman was, however. It was no one from the Manor; they had all been at the prayer meeting.
“For Heaven’s sake dress quickly,” she heard Hans say. “If Amanda comes there’ll be the hell of a row. That would just about finish it.”
Amanda almost burst out laughing. He was as silly as ever. The row was waiting outside his very window, but he’d noticed nothing. Hans was always wise after the event. But she would like to have had a few words with the female—everyone in the village, not to
mention the people on the estate, knew by now that she went herself with Meier.
The woman inside did seem to be in a hurry—Amanda heard her moving about. Now her head was beside his.
“Shut the window and switch the light on. I can’t find my things,” she grumbled.
Who could it be? One couldn’t recognize a whisper like that.
“Hush!” said Meier, so loudly and roughly that even Amanda started. “Can’t you keep your trap shut? If I turn on the light they’ll think I’m awake.”
“Who’ll think that? Your Amanda?”
Was it the Hartig woman? That would be the limit. The coachman’s wife with her eight children stealing a girl’s young man! If so, she’d be in for it.
“That’s none of your business. You’ve got to hurry up!”
“But my things …”
“I’m not turning on the light. You must manage the best way you can.”
Complaining, the second head vanished from the window. Amanda was now almost certain that it was Frau Hartig. But almost certain is not quite sure. Amanda was in no hurry; she could catch Hans at any time. Now she had to intercept the woman first. Even if she stood there all night, she must get her. She would have to come out through the door or the window—one must be patient!
It was strange that, although Amanda had grown so angry in the prayer meeting, now when there was much more cause for it she couldn’t feel really angry. Least of all with Hans. He was a fool and remained a fool, and if she didn’t look after him he would do stupid things. Neither was she furious with the woman. Indeed, she was surprised at herself. But perhaps she would be furious when she knew who it was and had had a talk with her. Amanda hoped to be in good form. The woman was not to imagine that she could annex someone who by rights belonged to another.
So she waited patiently or impatiently, according to her thoughts from one moment to another, until—and not without relief—she at last saw the visitor climbing out of the window. The relief was derived from the fact that this proved that Hans could not care much about the woman; she had no power over him if he was too lazy to unlock the front door for her. The woman, too, did not waste much time on an affectionate farewell or look round, but steered straight for the corner of the house in the farmyard.
That’s that, thought Amanda Backs, and followed. The bailiff’s windows were thereupon shut rather noisily, which annoyed her, for a shut window on such a warm night could only signify that Herr Meier didn’t want any more visitors—which Amanda took personally.
“Wait for me, you Hartig woman!” she called.
“You, Mandy?” asked the coachman’s wife, peering at her. “How you frightened me! Well, good night! I must go. I’m in a hurry.”
“Let me come with you,” said Amanda, and hurried with her across the farmyard toward the coachman’s dwelling. “I’m going the same way as you.”
“Are you?” asked Frau Hartig and walked more slowly. “Yes, a girl like you on her legs from morn till night—madam won’t get another like you so easily.”
“I don’t put my legs up as easily as some people,” said Amanda, with meaning. “Well, get along; your husband will be waiting for you.”
But Frau Hartig stopped. They were in the middle of the farmyard. To the right were the pigsties in which there was still an occasional rustling (the sty doors stood open because of the heat); on the left was the midden. The two women, however, stood so that Amanda was facing the coachman’s dwelling at one end of the farmyard, while Frau Hartig looked toward the other end, where she could see a light burning in the bailiff’s window—and, of course, it annoyed her that he should have turned on the light after all.
“Besides, Mandy isn’t the right way to address me,” said Amanda Backs after a longish pause.
“I can call you Fräulein Backs, if you prefer it,” said Frau Hartig submissively.
“Yes, Fräulein,” was the retort. “I’m not yet a Frau—I can go with whom I like.”
“So you can,” acknowledged the coachman’s wife. “Any master or mistress would be glad to have a poultry maid like you.”
“Shall we have it out now or shan’t we?” cried Amanda and stamped.
The coachman’s wife remained silent.
“I can talk to your husband if you like,” said Amanda threateningly. “I’ve heard that he’s already wondering how you get such varied children.”
“Varied children,” echoed Frau Hartig with a forced laugh. “How strange you are, Mandy.”
“You’re not to say Mandy. I don’t want to hear it from you.”
“I can say Fräulein Backs if you like.”
“Then say it—and besides, it’s a shame for a married woman to take away a girl’s young man.”
“I haven’t taken him away from you, Amanda,” pleaded Frau Hartig.
“Yes, you have. And one would think that a woman with eight children has got her share.”
“Lord, Amanda,” said the coachman’s wife, conciliatory, “you don’t know anything about what it’s like to be married. You imagine it quite different from what it is.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Hartig,” cried Amanda threateningly. “You can’t fool me that way.”
“When one’s got a steady man,” explained Frau Hartig, “one thinks all that’s over. But you get that queer feeling again …”
“What queer feeling? Don’t talk nonsense.”
“God, Amanda, I’m not talking nonsense. You must know what it’s like when you feel as if you had a prickling all over your body, and no peace whatever you do, and everything’s got to be done in a blazing hurry, as if you hadn’t a moment to spare—and then you find that you’ve been standing about with a swill pail in your hand for a quarter of an hour without knowing where you are!”
“I’ve nothing to do with swill,” said Amanda Backs cuttingly. But actually she was no longer feeling so hostile; she was giving due attention to what she was hearing.
“No, of course not,” assented Frau Hartig.
“And you’ve got your husband whenever you feel like that. So you oughtn’t to put a spoke in my wheel.”
“But, Amanda, that’s just what you can’t foretell,” exclaimed Frau Hartig eagerly.
“What can’t you foretell?”
“That your husband can’t help you in that at all. If I’d known as a young girl what I know today, I’d never have married, you can believe me.”
“Is that really so?” meditated Amanda Backs. “Don’t you like your husband at all?”
“Lord, yes, of course—he’s quite nice in his way. And quite steady, too. But I don’t like him that way anymore. That queer feeling stopped as far as he was concerned a long time ago.”
“So you like—Hans—Bailiff Meier—much more?”
“God, Amanda, what are you thinking about? I’ve told you already that I’m not taking him away from you.”
Amanda’s voice was thick with rage. “So he was the first to start—I mean, Meier?”
Frau Hartig remained silent for a while, thinking it over. In the end, however, she decided in favor of the truth. “No, Amanda, I won’t tell you a story. I wanted him first—and a man feels it. And then he was a bit drunk …”
“So he was drunk, too! But I don’t quite understand—if you don’t like him at all?”
“Well, you know, Amanda, I don’t understand it either, but when one has that queer feeling, and at the same time can’t help being inquisitive …”
“But you mustn’t!” Amanda prepared to end the scene with a tremendously severe lecture which, to tell the truth, would have turned out milder than at first intended. When all was said and done, she understood Frau Hartig quite well.… But she broke off.
Three persons were walking across the farmyard in Indian file—a man, a woman, then another man.…
They walked through the farmyard in the darkness without a word or a sound—and Amanda Backs and Frau Hartig gaped.
When the first man had approached the two women, he sto
pped and said in a peremptory voice: “Who’s standing there?” At the same time there shone on them the light of a flashlight held by the woman in the middle. (The moon had not risen very high yet and the stable buildings were still intercepting her light.)
“Amanda,” said Amanda Backs calmly, while the coachman’s wife automatically shielded her face with her hands as if she had been caught in some criminal offense.
“Hurry up and get to bed,” said the man in front, and noiselessly and stealthily the three figures passed by the women, crossed the farmyard and disappeared round the corner of the bailiff’s house where, as Frau Hartig saw, the light had gone out during her dispute with Amanda.
“Who was that?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“I think it was the young Fräulein,” replied Amanda thoughtfully.
“The young Fräulein in the dead of night with two men!” cried Hartig. “I’ll never believe it.”
“The man behind might have been the servant. The one in front I don’t know. He isn’t from here—I never heard that voice before.”
“Extraordinary!” said Hartig.
“Extraordinary!” said Backs.
“What business is it of his if we stand here?” asked Amanda loudly. “He’s nothing to do with the place and yet he orders us to bed.”
“That’s it,” echoed Frau Hartig. “And the young Fräulein allows him to order us about.”
“Where did they go to?” Amanda stared across the farmyard.
“To the Manor?” suggested Hartig.
“No. Why should they go to the back door? The young Fräulein needn’t enter the Manor by the back way,” snapped Amanda.
“Then there’s only the bailiff’s …” suggested Frau Hartig.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Amanda frankly admitted. “But what are they after, behaving so strangely, one behind the other, and so quietly—as if they wanted nobody to see them?”
“Yes, it was strange,” agreed Frau Hartig. And added: “Shall we go and have a look?”
