by Hans Fallada
“You’d better get back to your husband,” said Amanda Backs severely. “If anyone is having a look in the staff-house, it’s me.”
“But I should like to know so much, Mandy.…”
“You’re to call me Fräulein Backs. Besides, what will your husband say to your being away so long? And your children.”
“Pooh!” said Frau Hartig indifferently.
“And what’s more, you’re to leave my Hans alone. Another time I shan’t be so easy-going. If I catch you again …”
“You can be sure you won’t, Amanda. I swear it! But you’ll tell me tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Good night,” said Amanda Backs curtly and went toward the dark staff-house.
The coachman’s wife stood for a moment there, looking enviously after her. She was thinking how lucky such young unmarried girls were and how little they knew it. Then she sighed and went toward her home, to her scuffling children and nagging husband.
II
Frau von Teschow, after the shock of that evening’s devotions, felt a craving for peace and quietness. She wished to see and hear nothing more, only to go to bed as quickly as possible.
Supported on one side by Fräulein Jutta von Kuckhoff, on the other by Elias, she staggered upstairs into the big mahogany bedroom with its three windows. Fräulein von Kuckhoff undressed her trembling, tearful friend, and at last Frau von Teschow lay in her wide mahogany bed, looking no bigger than a child, with her little wizened bird’s head, a white nightcap over her thin hair and a loosely knitted bed-jacket round her shoulders.
“Oh, my Lord and my God, Jutta,” she wailed, “what a world! God forgive me for passing judgment—but how shameless the young people are! What will Lehnich say? And Superintendent Kolterjan?”
“Everything is good for something, Belinde,” said Jutta sagely. “Don’t agitate yourself any more. Are you still feeling cold?”
Yes, Frau von Teschow was still cold. Fräulein von Kuckhoff rang for Elias, who received an order to get two hot-water bottles from the kitchen.
“Oh, Elias!” The servant was just about to leave.
“Yes, madam?”
“Tell the cook to make me a cup of peppermint tea. Yes—and very strong. And with plenty of sugar. Yes. Oh, God!”
“Very good, madam.”
“Oh, Elias!”
“Yes, madam?”
“Perhaps she’d better make me some mulled wine, not peppermint tea. Peppermint tea makes one belch so. But no water, only red wine. Red wine already contains water. Oh, God! And a little nutmeg. And one clove. And plenty of sugar. Elias, you’ll see to it for me, won’t you?”
“Certainly, madam.”
“And, Elias, one moment! She’s to put a dash of rum in it—I feel so ill. Not much, but naturally one must be able to taste it. Not too little, Elias, you understand?”
Elias, bald and getting on for seventy, understood quite well. He was going away when a faint call from the invalid reached him in the doorway. “Oh, Elias!”
“Yes, madam?”
“Please come nearer.… You can inquire in the kitchen—but not as if it came from me, quite casually …”
Elias waited. Madam must be feeling very ill; she could hardly talk. It would be better if she had her mulled wine quickly, but he couldn’t give the order yet. Frau von Teschow still had something on her mind.
“Elias—do ask—but without attracting attention—whether she—you know whom I mean—has gone to bed. Yes, do ask, but without attracting attention.”
For a while the invalid still felt very poorly, and Fräulein von Kuckhoff had plenty to do, what with proverbs and advice, or warming the cold hands between hers, or stroking the aching forehead. Then the hot-water bottles arrived and the mulled wine smelling strongly of rum—its fragrance alone revived Frau von Teschow. Sitting up in bed, she received, with compressed lips, the message that “she” had gone out.
“Thank you, Elias. I’m very sad. Good night. I don’t suppose I shall sleep.”
The old servant assumed a suitably troubled expression on hearing this farewell, wished madam good night, and sat down in the anteroom. He must wait for the Geheimrat, to take off his boots. Then his duty would be ended.
But the waiting was not too tiresome for him; he had his own interests. He pulled out a thick pocketbook, formerly brown, now almost black, and a long list with many numbers, names and words. A packet of brown bank notes came out of the pocketbook, the list was unfolded, and he started comparing, marking and writing.
That evening was a bad one for his old mistress, but a good one for him. He had that day succeeded in buying up five prewar brown red-stamped 1,000-mark notes.
Like many Germans, particularly elderly people, faced by the monstrous fantasy of inflation, Elias, too, refused to believe in a general devaluation. A man who had been saving assiduously for more than fifty years had to retain something; it was impossible that the whirlpool should swallow up everything. And it did not require much thought to convince him that “real money” from prewar times would remain “real.” This was already borne out by the statement on the notes themselves that they were redeemable at the Reichsbank for gold. And gold was “real.” Money which had been issued during or after the war was not, of course, “real.” It was the war which had started the fraud of “linen” shirts made of paper and “leather” shoes of cardboard!
When old Elias first noticed the signs of inflation, he began to buy 1,000-mark notes. There were always people who could not think so deeply as he did. Certainly he had heard that the Reichsbank in Berlin no longer redeemed these notes for gold; but that, of course, was only bluff, intended for fools. The Reichsbank wanted to call in its own notes cheaply—to save its scanty gold. Elias, however, being no fool, did not hand over his notes cheaply to the Reichsbank. He waited; he could afford to wait; one day he would receive gold, as was plainly stated on the notes.
Thus it started—in the beginning as a capital investment. Then Elias found that this investment had its own science; in his old age, without knowing it, he discovered the delights of collecting.
There were so many kinds of brown 1,000-mark notes! Of course, one learned at the very outset that only notes with the red stamp were valid. Those with the green stamp originated during the war or postwar times and should not be collected. But there were notes with one red stamp and some which bore two red stamps; bank-notes with no fiber strips and notes with a blue fiber strip on the left side and others with the strip on the right side. There were notes bearing eight signatures, some with nine, and some even with ten. There were notes with the series letters A, B, C, D, followed by seven and eight figures. Yet it was the same brown 1,000-mark note, pictures and text never changing—but with what a multitude of variations!
Old Elias jotted down and compared; he was now no longer collecting brown 1,000-mark notes, he was collecting variations, differences, distinctions. His big, round, smooth head grew crimson over his task. He beamed when he found a specimen which he had not seen before. He was firmly convinced that its distinctive features were secret signs made by connoisseurs for connoisseurs. They possessed a significance. He who knew how to interpret them would be rewarded with much gold thereby.
Let the old Geheimrat laugh at him! With all his cunning the old gentleman understood nothing of these secret matters. He believed what the people in the banks told him; he believed what was printed in the newspapers. Old Elias was not so credulous, and for that reason he was richer than his master; he possessed more than a hundred thousand marks in gold currency—or in currency as good as gold.
Tonight he was very happy; he had three perfectly new specimens among his recent purchases, among them a note from the year 1876. He had not known of any 1,000-mark notes of such an early date—his earliest hitherto was of 1884. He would think twice before going so far as to change these notes for gold. They were so beautiful with their engravings of human forms which, as he had heard, represented Industry, Trade and Transport.
“Industry, Trade and Transport,” he murmured and stared at the notes awe-struck. The labor of a whole people! Except that Agriculture was not included, which seemed a pity.
What would he do with gold? He could not carry about with him over a hundred thousand marks in gold. With gold he would be in a state of perpetual anxiety—whereas this paper money was so beautiful.
The old servant was happy. Each note was carefully folded before it found its way back into his pocketbook. The bank-note presses in Berlin harassed the people in an ever-increasing delirium—but they had presented Elias with happiness, great happiness. With beautiful notes.
The mulled wine had had its effect. From her pillows Frau von Teschow, feeling more lively, spoke to her friend: “Would you read to me, Jutta?”
“From the Bible?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff, quite agreeable.
But this suggestion did not find favor tonight. The evening devotions directed to the conversion of an erring girl had miscarried; the Bible and its God were rather in disgrace.
“No, no, Jutta—we must continue with Goethe.”
“Gladly, Belinde. The keys, please.”
Fräulein von Kuckhoff received them. On the top shelf of the wardrobe, with the hats, was hidden a thirty-volume edition of Goethe in half-calf—Frau von Teschow’s confirmation present to her granddaughter, Violet von Prackwitz. Violet’s confirmation already belonged to the distant past, but it was impossible to predict when the Goethe would be handed over to her.
Fräulein von Kuckhoff took down the seventh volume: Poems. Lyrical. I. It looked oddly swollen. Nearby, Fräulein von Kuckhoff placed scissors and paper.
“Paste, Jutta!” Frau von Teschow reminded her.
The friend added the little pot of paste, opened the book and at the marked place started to read the poem of the goldsmith’s journeyman.
After the first verse Frau von Teschow nodded approvingly. “This time we’re lucky, Jutta.”
“Wait and see, Belinde,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “Never count your chickens before they are hatched.”
And she read the second verse.
“Good, good!” nodded Frau von Teschow and found the subsequent verses praiseworthy.
Till they came to the lines:
Her little foot peeps in and out,
And calls to mind what is above;
I recollect the garter, too,
I’m giving to my love.…
“Stop, Jutta,” cried Frau von Teschow. “Again!” she lamented. “What do you think, Jutta?”
“I told you so,” declared Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.”
Frau von Teschow waxed indignant. “Even present-day writers aren’t worse. What do you say, Jutta?” But she did not wait for a reply. Sentence was passed. “Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up well—suppose the child should read it!” Fräulein von Kuckhoff was already pasting up the lewdness. “Not much left, Belinde,” she said and held up the volume for scrutiny.
“It’s scandalous.” Frau von Teschow was very indignant. “And such a man regards himself as a classic! Oh, Jutta, why didn’t I buy a Schiller for the child? Schiller is much nobler, far less carnal.”
“Don’t forget the old proverb, Belinde—‘No rose without its thorn.’ Schiller, too, is not good for young people. Think of ‘Intrigue and Love,’ Belinde. And then that female, that Eboli woman.…”
“True, Jutta. Men are all like that. You’ve no idea the trouble I’ve had with Horst-Heinz.”
“Yes,” said the Kuckhoff. “Every pig to its sty. Well, I’ll read on.”
Thank God, next followed the poem about Johanna Sebus, the rescuer. That was really noble; but why the poet referred to Johanna Sebus as “Sweet Susan” was not clear.
“He ought to have written ‘Sweet Hannah,’ oughn’t he, Horst-Heinz?” For the Geheimrat had just come in. Smirking, he watched the two little women. “He may have considered Hannah as too common,” he suggested after a close examination of the point. In socks and shirt sleeves he paced up and down the room, the book in his hand.
“But why ‘Suschen’?”
“I think, Belinde, Suschen is an abbreviation of Sebuschen. And Sebuschen, you know, Belinde—well, what do you think, Jutta?” The Geheimrat was serious, but the corners of his eyes were twitching. “Sebuschen, Buschen, Busen, Bosom; that, too, sounds indecent, don’t you think?”
“Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up. Suppose such thoughts occurred to the child!” cried Frau von Teschow excitedly. “Oh, there’s simply nothing left.… Horst-Heinz, you must get rid of the Backs woman on the spot.”
“On the spot I’m only going to bed. Besides …”
“I’m going at once,” grumbled the Kuckhoff. “Let me just lock up the Goethe.”
“The Backs woman is already out of the house. I saw her a moment ago in the park.”
“You know quite well what I mean, Horst-Heinz.”
“If I know, then there’s no need to tell me, Belinde.” And with a warning clearing of the throat: “Fräulein von Kuckhoff, may I point out that I’m just about to take off my trousers?”
“Horst-Heinz! Give her time; she must first say good night.”
“I’m going. Good night, Belinde, and don’t worry any more about the meeting. Sleep well. Are the pillows comfortable? The hot-water bottles? …”
“Fräulein von Kuckhoff! I’m taking off my pants, and then I shall be in my shirt. A Prussian Geheimrat in his shirt! You don’t want to—”
“Horst-Heinz!”
“I’m going at once. Sleep well, Belinde. Good night. The Seidlitz powder …”
“Sebuschen—Sweet Bosom!” cried the Geheimrat, now only wearing his shirt. He shrank, however, from shedding this last veil.… Every evening the same comedy with the two old hens! “Oh, these women!” he shouted.
“I wish you good night, Herr Geheimrat,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff with dignity. “And He created man in His image—that is, a long time ago.”
“Jutta,” weakly protested Frau von Teschow against this disparagement of her Horst-Heinz; but the door had closed behind her friend and not a moment too soon.
“What was the matter with the evening prayers?” inquired the Geheimrat, diving into his nightshirt.
“Do not evade the issue, Horst-Heinz. Tomorrow you must dismiss the Backs.”
The bed groaned under the old gentleman. “It’s your poultry maid and not mine,” he said. “Do you want to burn the light much longer? I want to sleep.”
“You know I cannot bear agitation, and when such a person becomes insolent … You ought to do me a favor for once, Horst-Heinz.”
“Was she insolent during prayers?”
“She’s immoral,” said Frau von Teschow furiously. “She’s always climbing through the window to the bailiff.”
“I believe she’s doing it tonight as well,” said the Geheimrat. “Your prayers seem to have had no effect, Belinde.”
“She must go. She’s incorrigible.”
“And then the to-do with your poultry starts again. You know the position, Belinde. No one else has lost so few chicks or had so many eggs either. And she uses less feed than anyone.”
“Because she’s hand-in-glove with the bailiff.”
“True, very true, Belinde!”
“So she gets much more feed than she notes down.”
“We can’t grumble about that; it’s our son-in-law’s corn. No, no, Belinde, she’s efficient and has a lucky hand. I wouldn’t give her notice if I were you. What business is it of ours what she does of a night?”
“Our home must remain pure, Horst-Heinz!”
“But she goes to him at the staff-house; he doesn’t come here.”
“Horst-Heinz!”
“Well, it’s true, anyhow.”
“You know quite well what I mean. She’s so brazen!”
“She is,” admitted the Geheimrat, yawning. “However, that’s always the same. The efficient people p
ut up with the least nonsense. That little fellow Meier, her friend—you can kick him in the behind for hours on end and he only grows more polite.”
Since Frau von Teschow refused to hear any coarse expressions from her husband, she missed the word “behind.” “Then tell Joachim to send the fellow away. Then I can keep the Backs.”
“If I tell my grand son-in-law to fire his employee,” said the old gentleman pensively, “he’ll keep him till his dying day. But cheer up, Belinde, I believe Amanda’s friend will be fired tomorrow.… And if he isn’t, then I’ll praise him up, and he’ll have to pack his trunks at once.”
“Do so, then, Horst-Heinz!”
III
Man is not free from the prejudice of investing other creatures with his own failings; for instance, there is said to be no truth in the story that the ostrich when frightened hides its head in the sand. Yet some people certainly shut their eyes to an approaching danger and then maintain it does not exist.
After the departure of Frau Hartig, Bailiff Meier had turned on the light to look for something to drink. His fuddled brain, the rebuff by the old Geheimrat on whose favor he had been relying, the approaching quarrel with Amanda—all these awakened in him the desire to drink. He wanted to think no more of the whole filthy business, as he put it.
Having secured the windows against a surprise attack by Amanda, he stood for a moment looking at his untidy room, with its disheveled bed and scattered garments. He felt his brain to be just as ravaged and, what was more, a sharp pain stabbed his forehead. He knew there was nothing to drink in his room, no cognac, no schnapps, no beer—but when someone felt as he did, then there was always something to drink, if only he could remember where it was.
But the only idea which came to him was that of returning to the inn and fetching a bottle of schnapps. He shook his head peevishly. He had long ago concluded that he didn’t want to be seen there again because of the bill. Besides, he had nothing on—that sly old dog the Geheimrat had noticed that. The others would also notice if he went to the inn like that. He looked down at himself and began to chuckle gloomily. A fine sight! What rubbish! Wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. “Shame doesn’t lie in the shirt,” he said aloud. He had heard this saying once and remembered it because it seemed to justify any shamelessness. But now he had to look for his shirt, and he started to kick the clothes about on the floor in the hope that it would emerge. But not so. Instead he ran a splinter into his foot.
