by Hans Fallada
“Yes, yes, my dear!” said Pagel. “I’m not interested. Don’t you want to go and play a bit?”
But she was not to be got rid of so easily. Nor was she in the least bit hurt; the only time she was offended was when no one intended it.
“You’ve already finished playing?” she asked.
“Yes. No more cash left. Absolutely broke.”
“You little leg-puller!” she laughed foolishly.
He looked at her. She did not believe him. She had heard something about the contents of his pockets, otherwise she would never have wasted so much time and pleasantness on a shabby fellow in a soldier’s tunic, since she deigned to consider only gentlemen in evening dress.
“Please do me a favor!” she cried suddenly. “Stake once for me!”
“What good will that be?” he asked crossly. This Studmann was taking an eternity, and he couldn’t get rid of the woman. “I think you know the game well enough without me.”
“You are bound to bring me luck.”
“Possibly. But I’m not playing anymore.”
“Oh, please—be nice to me for once!”
“You heard me. I’m not playing anymore.”
“Really not?”
“No!”
She laughed.
“Why do you laugh so stupidly?” said Pagel crossly. “I’m not playing any more!”
“You—and not playing! I don’t think!” She gave her voice a soft persuasive tone. “Come, darling, stake once for me; then I’ll be very nice to you, too.”
“Thanks very much for your favors,” said Pagel gruffly. “God, can’t I get rid of her at all? Go away, I tell you. I’m not playing any more, and as for you, I can’t stand you at any price—you disgust me!” he cried.
She regarded him attentively. “You look attractive now, sonny. I never noticed before how handsome you really are. You always sat at the table like a fool.” She tried to flatter him. “Come, darling, stake once for me! You’ll bring me luck!”
Pagel threw his cigarette away and bent very close to her. “If you speak another word to me, you damned whore, I’ll sock your teeth in!” His whole body trembled with senseless rage. Her eyes were right close to his. They were brown—suffused now with a yielding moistness.
“Hit me, then!” she whispered. “But stake for me once, darling.”
He turned round with a jerk and went quickly to the table. Seizing von Studmann by the elbow and breathing rapidly, he asked: “Are we going or aren’t we?”
“I can’t get the Rittmeister away!” von Studmann whispered back as excitedly. “Just look at him!”
IX
It was with extreme reluctance that Rittmeister von Prackwitz had accompanied young Pagel on his mysterious journey through Berlin at night. Already in Lutter and Wegner’s he had borne his company and provoking chatter only with great repugnance, hardly forgiving him the insult of the proffered money. His friend’s interest in this completely dissipated fellow, whose ample funds seemed to be questionable at the very least, he found completely out of place. If to von Studmann the little incident of the retrieved shell splinter in the skirmish before Tetelmünde appeared a little ridiculous, yet also—and especially in the case of such a young fellow—rather heroic, to von Prackwitz the ridiculous outweighed all the heroic; moreover, a character which was capable of such extravagance could seem only suspicious to him.
The worthy Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz found only the extravagances of others suspicious; his own he regarded with perfect benevolence. From the moment he heard that the excursion had nothing to do with some filthy naked-woman business, his pet aversion—but it was merely a little game, or to put it better, a jeu—from that moment the two policemen with their hobnailed boots lost all their terror, the dark house acquired something inviting, the cheeky spotter became enveloped in humor, and Second Lieutenant Pagel changed from a tempter and doubtful character into a decent fellow and an experienced man of the world.
And when the Rittmeister had found himself standing in the little homely anteroom with its overcrowded clothes hooks, and the mustached man behind the small folding table had pleasantly asked: “Counters, gentlemen?” and the Rittmeister, after a scrutinizing glance, had said: “Seen service, eh? Where?” and the mustached fellow, clicking his heels together, had replied: “Nineteenth Saxon Transport Section—Leipzig,” then the Rittmeister had felt himself in the best of moods and completely at home.
No thought of the prohibition of such games had disturbed this good mood. With excited interest he had asked to have explained to him the use and value of the unfamiliar counters—in his time one had played only with cash, or with visiting cards bearing a number scribbled on them. Had he thought of young Pagel at all, it would have been with extreme benevolence. But no thought of this young person crossed his mind. He found the game and the players much too interesting for that. With regret he had to admit that the people here were far from being as distinguished as those in the Officers’ Casino in peace time. Here at the gaming table, for example, sat a fat red-faced man who kept on murmuring aloud to himself, and distributed his stakes with plump, jewel bedecked fingers. When he considered his bull neck with its many folds, there could be no doubt that this was a kind of brother or cousin of that cattle dealer from Frankfurt whom he never cared to admit into his house. What was more, the fellow had also swindled him a few times—the one in Frankfurt, of course. The Rittmeister stared at the fat man with hostility. So it was here that the profits unjustly squeezed from the landowners went—and the man couldn’t even lose with decency! His fear of each loss was clearly noticeable, and yet he renewed it with every fresh stake.
The Rittmeister was also disturbed by the large number of women who thronged round the gaming table; women, in his opinion, had no business gambling, which was purely a man’s affair. Only a man summoned up sufficient cold-bloodedness and intelligence to gamble with success. The women were, indeed, very elegant, but a little too extravagantly dressed, or rather undressed, for his taste. This mode of exhibiting a pair of young breasts in a gaping silk case, so to speak, for the inspection of every onlooker, made him think of the streetwalkers he hated so much. Such women certainly were not allowed admittance here, but even to be reminded of them was painful.
Yet there were also pleasant things to be seen; a fair-skinned old gentleman, for example, with a curiously sharp-pointed nose and monocle. Where this gentleman played, where this gentleman sat, where this gentleman was a guest, there a Rittmeister von Prackwitz could also be present. It was significant that Prackwitz completely failed to see young Pagel, who sat next to him; his eye, usually so sharp, noticed shabbily dressed people only with difficulty.
As far as the roulette was concerned—and the Rittmeister sat down with polite thanks on a chair that was apparently free, but was of course only vacated for him on a sign from the management—as far as the roulette was concerned, it appeared difficult to get used to. There were a surprising number of possibilities—and moreover it was played with such unseemly haste. He had hardly begun to perceive how the stakes were distributed when the wheel already hummed, the ball rolled, the croupier called, here came a rain of counters, there a drought broke out, the game finished, started again, people betting, disk turning, ball rolling, wheel humming, croupier calling—bewildering!
The Rittmeister’s own experience of roulette lay far back in his lieutenant years. Even so, it had been little enough; the game hadn’t been played more than three or four times. That was due to the fact that it had been very strictly forbidden, more strictly, indeed, than all other games of chance, being regarded as particularly dangerous. As a matter of fact the young officers had then known only one gambling game, called “God’s Blessing on Cohen,” which was considered as relatively harmless. All the same it had become so dangerous for the Rittmeister, then unmarried, that after one turbulent night he had had to travel at breakneck speed to his father, a most hot-tempered gentleman holding the rank of general. There, within the space of
half an hour’s fury, he was disinherited and cast off, though in the end both of them—after ample shedding of tears—had signed a whole pile of promissory notes with a swarthy gentleman, for which they received so much money that the gambling debt was eventually cleared. Since that time the Rittmeister had not gambled.
And so he now sat confused before the green cloth, looked at the numbers, gently rattled the counters in his pocket, and did not know how to begin, however much he wished to.
But when von Studmann asked: “Well, Prackwitz, do you really want to play?” he answered crossly: “Don’t you? What have we bought counters for?” And he staked on red. Naturally red turned up. Before he had properly collected his thoughts a little heap of counters fell with a dry rattle on to his own. The unpleasant fellow who looked like a ruffled vulture called out something, and the wheel went spinning again. The Rittmeister was still undecided as to what he should stake on next when the ball settled it for him.
Red had turned up again. Now he possessed a whole mountain of counters.
He withdrew them and looked around like a man waking up. The best player at the gaming table was still the gentleman with the monocle. The Rittmeister looked at the long, thin fingers that were bent slightly upwards and which distributed little heaps of counters with incredible rapidity over the various numbers and on the intersections of their fields; and without overmuch reflection he imitated the gentleman. He also placed bets on numbers, on intersections of numbers, but in doing so he avoided out of a feeling of chivalry the areas occupied by the master (so as not to upset him).
Again the croupier called out something, again counters were added to those he had staked, while other little piles disappeared under the rake and fell with a gentle clatter into a bag at the end of the table.
From now on the Rittmeister was as if bewitched. The rolling of the ball, the croupier’s voice, the green cloth with its numbers, inscriptions, squares and rectangles on which multicolored counters were continuously being rearranged—all this held him completely spellbound. He forgot himself, forgot the time and space in which he sat. He no longer thought of Studmann or the questionable Pagel. Neulohe no longer existed. He had to be nimble; the eye, quicker even than the hand, had to spy out free fields onto which counters could be thrown; winnings had to be hurriedly swept up, and as hurriedly he must decide what should be left in.
Once there came a disagreeable pause because the Rittmeister, to his surprise, found himself completely without counters. Crossly he fumbled around in his jacket pocket, irritated at having to miss a game. The fact that he had no more counters did not, however, arouse in him any thought of the loss he had suffered. It was the interruption which upset him. Luckily it turned out that he had been observed; one of the croupier’s assistants was already holding some fresh counters ready for him. And with an absent-mindedness which shut out even the thought that he was now handing over money—indeed, almost all the money he had with him—he took the notes out of his pocket and exchanged them for bone counters.
Shortly after this undesirable interruption of the game, and just when the Rittmeister was beautifully absorbed in placing his stakes, up came von Studmann suddenly and whispered over the player’s shoulder that Pagel, thank Heaven, had now had enough and was wanting to go. What in the world did he care about young Pagel? the Rittmeister asked very testily. He was having a good time here and hadn’t the least intention of going home so soon.
Quite taken aback, von Studmann asked the Rittmeister whether he really wanted to play, then.
Von Prackwitz believed—was almost certain—that that little heap of counters on the intersection of numbers thirteen, fourteen, sixteen and seventeen, which had just won, had been staked by himself—a woman’s hand ornamented with a pearl ring had reached out and taken the little pile away. He encountered the glance of the croupier, who was calmly observing him. Very crossly he requested von Studmann to go away and leave him in peace.
Studmann made no reply and the Rittmeister went on playing, but it was impossible to concentrate on the game now; he felt, without seeing it, that Studmann was standing behind him and was watching his bets. Turning round abruptly he said in a sharp voice: “Lieutenant Studmann, you’re not my nurse!”
This remark, which brought up again an old wartime disparity of rank, was effective. Studmann gave a very slight apologetic bow and withdrew.
The Rittmeister, with a sigh of relief, looked back at the green cloth and saw that in the meantime the very last of his counters had vanished. Throwing an angry glance at the croupier, he thought he noticed a smile hidden somewhere in the bristly mustache. He opened the inner pocket of his wallet, which was secured by a double fastener, and took from it seventy dollars, all that was left to him of foreign currency. With tremendous rapidity the croupier’s assistant heaped up piles and piles of counters in front of him. Hastily the Rittmeister swept them into his pocket without stopping to count them. For a moment, when he noticed that many faces were regarding him critically, he had the vague feeling of something wrong.
Such a lot of counters, however, gave him a feeling of security; pleasure filled him. That idiot of a Studmann, always worried! Almost he smiled as he settled down in his chair and began to stake again.
Yet this good mood did not continue long. With increasing irritation he saw stake after stake vanish under the croupier’s rake; he no longer heard the dry rattle of winning counters on the numbers he had backed. With increasing frequency he had to delve into a pocket which was no longer so full. It was not as yet the thought of his losses which irritated him; it was the incomprehensibly rapid waning of the game.… Already he saw the moment approaching when he would have to stand up and surrender this pleasure which he had but scarcely tasted. The more stakes, the more his prospects of winning, he thought, and with increasing haste he distributed counters over the whole table.
“That’s not the way to play!” said a disapproving voice near him.
“What?” burst forth the Rittmeister, and looked indignantly at young Pagel, who had returned to the neighboring chair. But here young Pagel was neither uncertain nor embarrassed. “No, that’s not the way to play!” he said again. “You’re playing against yourself.”
“What am I doing?” asked the Rittmeister, trying to be angry and wanting to snub the fellow just as thoroughly as he had snubbed Studmann. But to his surprise his anger, which usually was ever ready, failed him and he was seized with embarrassment, as if he had been behaving like a foolish child.
“If you stake on red and black simultaneously then you can’t win,” said Pagel reprovingly. “Either red wins or black—never both!”
“Where have I …?” the Rittmeister asked in confusion and looked at the table, just as the croupier’s rake intervened and the counters rattled.
“Go on, take them,” whispered Pagel sternly. “You’ve had luck. That over there is yours! And that! Madam, if you don’t mind, that is our stake!”
A woman’s voice said something very heatedly, but Pagel paid no attention. He continued giving orders, and the Rittmeister followed his instructions like a child.
“That’s right. And this time we won’t bet at all. We shall first see how the game runs. How many counters have you left? That won’t be enough for a big coup. Wait, I’ll buy some more.”
“You wanted to go, Pagel!” Studmann’s unbearable nursery-governess voice made itself heard.
“One moment, Herr von Studmann,” said Pagel, smiling pleasantly. “I just want to show the Rittmeister quickly how to play in a correct way. Please, fifty counters of five hundred thousand and twenty of a million.”
Studmann made a gesture of despair.…
“Only one moment, really,” said Pagel. “You can take it from me the game doesn’t amuse me at all. I’m no gambler. It’s just for the Rittmeister’s sake.”
But von Studmann was listening no longer. He had turned round angrily and was gone.
“Just watch, Rittmeister,” said Pagel. “Now re
d will turn up.”
They waited anxiously.
There came—red.
“If we had only staked then!” mourned the Rittmeister.
“Just be patient!” said Pagel comfortingly. “First we must see how the land lies. One can’t yet say anything definite—anyway, it’s very probable that black will turn up.”
But it was red.
“You see!” said Pagel triumphantly. “What a good thing we didn’t. We’ll soon start, though, and you’ll see, in a quarter of an hour …”
The croupier smiled imperceptibly. In a corner von Studmann was cursing the moment that he had spoken to young Pagel in Lutter and Wegner’s.
Chapter Eight
He Goes Astray in the Night
I
In the bushes in front of the staff-house Violet von Prackwitz stood on guard; inside the office another girl, Amanda Backs, came out of her hiding place. She did not understand by a long way everything that these two, the Lieutenant and Fräulein Violet, were doing together. But much could be guessed. She had already heard of the Lieutenant who traveled the countryside gathering the people for some revolt; and at that time there was a saying current throughout Germany, darkly threatening: “Traitors will be punished by the secret tribunal, the Vehme!”
It is not pleasant to have to think of one’s lover as a traitor; and though Amanda Backs might be as sturdy a piece of vulgarity as one could imagine, she would never be a traitress. She loved and she hated without restraint, with all her powerful and unbreakable nature; but she could never betray. Therefore she continued to stand by her Hans, despite everything she knew about him. He too was just a man, and one cannot make much show, God knows, of any man—a girl has to take them just as they are.
She stole quickly into the room, knelt down by the bed and shook the sleeper vigorously. But he was not so easily to be shaken from his drunkenness. Amanda had to adopt strong measures, and when the wet face-cloth also failed to work she simply decided to tug at his hair with one hand while cautiously placing the other over his mouth so that he couldn’t make a noise.
