by Hans Fallada
But Hans would laugh at me, she thought suddenly. Hans isn’t so silly. “You must take everything,” he always says. “It’s the honest people who are soft.” No, it serves him right, he’ll take more care next time.… But I ought to leave him at least his fare. It’s certain he’s got to go to his office. At least I ought to let him get to his office in time. Oh, what do I care whether he gets there in time? Who ever bothered to see how I got home? The toffs left me standing in the street, too lazy to open the door for me; shoved me out of the taxi when they’d had what they wanted. What’s the idea, fare money?
She was proud of her decision as she stuffed the miserable money into her bag. “You’re right!” Hans would say. And she was right too. Whoever didn’t steal got robbed. Whoever didn’t bite got bitten. Good morning!
And nimbly she ran down the stairs.
II
It was already light even in the forest. Ex-bailiff Meier plodded along angrily: the suitcases were too heavy, his shoes pinched, he hadn’t enough money, the road was much too far to Grünow, he hadn’t slept enough, his head ached like seven monkeys.
In his path, as if sprung from the earth, suddenly stood the Lieutenant.
He was friendly, however. “Morning, Meier,” he said. “I just wanted to say good-by to you.”
Meier stared at him suspiciously. “Well, good-by, Lieutenant!”
“You can walk on. Take your bags and go on; we’ve got to go the same way for a bit.”
Meier remained where he was. “I like walking alone,” he said.
“Now, now!” said the Lieutenant laughing. His laugh sounded false, thought Meier, and his voice uneasy. “Surely you’re not afraid of me now, when you’ve got a pistol in your pocket.”
“It’s none of your bloody business what I’m carrying in my pocket!” cried Meier angrily. But his voice trembled.
“As a matter of fact that’s true,” admitted the Lieutenant. “But it’s important for me because now I won’t fall under suspicion.”
“What do you mean, fall under suspicion?” stammered Meier.
“If you are lying dead somewhere here in the forest, Herr Meier,” said the Lieutenant very politely, but bitterly in earnest.
“Me—dead—ridiculous,” stammered little Meier, deathly white, peering at the other’s face. “I haven’t done anything to you, Herr Lieutenant!”
Begging, anxious, Meier stared into the Lieutenant’s eyes, but there was nothing in them, only an ice-cold look.
“Your pistol and mine, you see, are the same caliber,” explained the Lieutenant pitilessly. “You’re a big fool, Meier, to have taken the pistol.… And then you’ve also recently fired it.… But I aim better than you, Herr Meier. And I am standing so nicely to the right of you. A close shot at six inches in the right temple—every gun expert would say suicide, my dear Herr Meier. And at home the plundered safe … the shot at the girl. No, no, Herr Meier, don’t you worry, there’s no doubt about it: everything points to suicide.”
The Lieutenant talked and talked. But he was not so calm as he pretended. It is one thing to shoot someone in battle or in passion; it’s quite another thing to slaughter in cold blood as a result of rational considerations. Once more he reminded himself that he was risking nothing, that he was not endangering the Cause, but saving it from a traitor. And yet all the time he was wishing—gun experts and risk notwithstanding—that Meier would reach for his pistol. The bullet with which the Lieutenant would anticipate him would be so much easier than the cold-blooded bullet into that gray face.
But Meier was not thinking of the pistol in his hip pocket. “Herr Lieutenant,” he stammered, “I swear to you I’ll never say a word about you and Fräulein Vi.… Nor about the Putsch.… I’ll keep to it, Herr Lieutenant. I would always be afraid you’d get me, you or one of your men. I’m a coward. Please don’t shoot! I swear to you by everything that’s holy to me …” His voice failed him, he gulped and stared fearfully at the other.
“But there’s nothing that’s holy to you, Meier,” said the Lieutenant. He still couldn’t make up his mind. “You’re a thorough swine, Meier.”
Black Meier stared breathlessly at the lieutenant’s lips and whispered quickly, “But I can still turn over a new leaf. Believe me, Herr Lieutenant, I can still become different, I’m still young. Please, please say yes! I’ll turn back, I’ll confess to the Rittmeister that I stole the money. If he sends me to prison I’ll go willingly. I want to reform. Please, please, Herr Lieutenant.”
The Lieutenant morosely shook his head. Why had he started talking to this fellow in the first place? He should have fired at once, without a word. But now it was getting more and more repellent. The Lieutenant was not completely depraved, nor did he deceive himself; he knew that he alone had got the fellow into this mess. Meier had to die because he, the Lieutenant, couldn’t restrain himself from an affair with the little Prackwitz girl. But it couldn’t be helped. Meier knew too much now, he was too dangerous, even more dangerous since he had seen the pistol aimed at him.
“Pick up your bags, Meier, we’re going along for a bit!”
Without a trace of resistance Meier obediently picked up his bags and looked at the Lieutenant questioningly.
“Up there along the glade!” came the order.
Meier went in front, his shoulders hunched up, as if that could stop the dreaded shot from behind. The bags were no longer heavy, his shoes no longer pinched; he walked quickly as though he could run away from the death that followed him.
If only it were over, thought the Lieutenant, his eyes never leaving the man in front. But this glade is really much too frequented. Better if they don’t find him for three or four days, when there’s no trace of me left.
These thoughts disgusted him. They seemed so unreal, like something from a wild dream. But here was the man before him, a real, living man. So it isn’t a dream. At any minute it can come true.
“Now to the left, up the footpath, Meier!”
Obedient as a lamb! Sickening! Yes, there at the top he would do it, he must do it.… A traitor is always a traitor; they never change, they don’t reform.… What’s the matter with Meier? What’s he shouting? Has he gone mad? Now he was running, shouting louder and louder. He had thrown down the bags at the Lieutenant’s feet.
The Lieutenant jerked his pistol up—too late; he must shoot at close quarters to make it seem like suicide.
“We’re coming, Herr Kniebusch!” shouted Meier, running.
There stood the forester. Beside him lay a man in the bilberries and moss, bound hand and foot.
“Thank God you’ve come. I couldn’t drag him any further, gentlemen. I’ve been dragging the fellow for hours.”
Freed at last from being alone with the dangerous fellow, the forester was quite talkative.
“It’s Bäumer of Altlohe—you know, Meier, the worst of the whole gang! I’ve made a very good catch, Herr Lieutenant. This man’s a criminal.”
The Lieutenant stood leaning against a tree, his face rather white. But he said calmly: “Yes, you’ve made a good catch, forester. But I?” Full of hatred, he stared at little Meier, who returned his glance defiantly, triumphantly.…
“Well, good morning and good luck to you,” said the Lieutenant suddenly, turning round and marching down to the glade again. Coming to the two cases, he could not restrain himself longer: he trod heavily first on one, then on the other.
“I say!” said the forester in amazement. “What’s wrong with him? Why’s he so queer? Did he have any trouble with his meeting? I ordered everybody to come, as he told me. Do you understand it, Meier?”
“Oh, yes,” said little Meier, “I understand it. He’s in a fearful temper with you.”
“With me? Whatever for?”
“Because you haven’t shot the stag, you know; for the young Fräulein, you know. Well, come along, Kniebusch, now we’ll go together to the farm; I’ll harness the hunting cart, and we’ll fetch this fellow and my bags.”
&nbs
p; “Your bags? Are they yours? Are you going away, then?”
“Lord, no.… They’re the Lieutenant’s bags. I’ll tell you all about it. Come along now, it’s better if we walk side by side; I can’t tell it so well walking behind each other like this.”
III
The taxi stopped in Tannenstrasse. Only with difficulty could the driver be persuaded to come up and help carry the things.
“Yes, you say there’s no one about now, but the thieves here in Berlin are always about. Especially now. And who’s going to buy me a new tire, which you can’t even get now? You won’t, for certain.”
“Well, all right, seeing as you’re going on to the station, for a mug of beer and a schnapps, as they say, although I’d much rather have a coffee. I’m to be quiet? I’m as quiet as a Government when it’s going to pinch money! You don’t hear them, but you lose your money all right, take it from me.”
“Nice house—bit gloomy, though … I suppose there’s no central heating? But gas, you’ve got gas, ain’t you? ’Cause gas in the house saves briquettes, and saves you buying a rope to hang yourself with.… Yes, I’m being quiet; you ain’t half as quiet as I am. Take that lock, for instance; I’d have handled it more gently.… Doing a bunk, I suppose—bit behind with the rent, eh?
“Now, don’t be stuck up, I was in the war, too; if you bark at me, I’ll scream so loud that the pictures’ll slide off the wall. I say—so this is what you call your den, eh? Marvelous, with knobs on. I didn’t have this at my mother’s. And a wardrobe trunk as well—that’ll mean two journeys.
“I say! Who’s that lying on the sofa? Gave me a start! An old woman—and she’s sleeping quite peaceful. Well, I won’t make another sound now; we’ll let her sleep. She’s earned her sleep—she’s been packing the whole night, the old woman! She’s your mother, ain’t she? Well, I guessed it straight off. But here, I’d say good-by and bon voyage to her, seeing she’s been waiting the whole night for you.… Been kicking over the traces, eh? Well, youngsters ain’t got no feelings, I was no different when I was your age.… Now I’m sorry for it sometimes, now she’s dead and buried in St. Matthew’s churchyard.… Well, everybody keeps doing the same silly things; there’s always mugs about.
“Well, hurry up, mate, get this traveling wardrobe on me back. I’ll manage it by meself; I’ll be back in a jiffy.… No? You want to help me down with it? Well, all right; let everyone do what he likes—let everyone be as silly as he likes, say I.”
“Well, at least that’s something. Write the old woman a few lines; something nice, understand! Even if it’s a fib. Mothers are always pleased, they know the kids are fibbing, but still they’re pleased. ‘He doesn’t want to hurt me,’ they think.
“Well now, let’s hop it.… Gently, young fellow, careful with the door.… If we wake her up now, it’ll be tough luck.… Getting nabbed when you’re doing a bunk ain’t nice. Look out, can’t you! Careful, idiot! You’ll wake her up! Thank God, we’ve managed it.… Quietly with the passage door.… Quietly, I said. Quietly doesn’t mean kicking up a row! Lord, is your heart hammering like mine? I was afraid we’d wake the old woman; I’m queer that way. I could bust a man like you right on the jaw—I wouldn’t think twice about it—but an old woman like that …”
IV
It stank—it stank suffocatingly in all the corridors and stairways, in all the dormitories, in every cell, workroom and workshop of Meienburg prison. Of lavatory buckets, disinfectants, old oakum, dried vegetables that had gone moldy, dried fish and old socks, cocoa fiber and polish. Yesterday’s thunderstorm had also passed over Meienburg prison, but the cool rainy air had not been able to penetrate into the white structure of cement, steel and glass dominating the town.
“Hell! What a stink again!” said the warders on morning duty, who came at a quarter to six.
“Man, how it stinks in your cell!” The station warder woke his orderly, Hans Liebschner, with a vigorous poke in the ribs. “Get up, man; in ten minutes they’ll be emptying their buckets. Oh, God! It stinks so much already that all my breakfast is coming up.”
“I don’t smell anything, chief warder,” protested Liebschner as he slid into his trousers.
“I’ve told you ten times that I’m a principal warder, not chief warder,” growled the old man. “You won’t get favors from me by sucking up, Liebschner.”
“Yet there was one favor I wanted so much from you, chief warder,” Liebschner said flatteringly, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“And what’s that, my lad?” The warder leaned against the door, swinging the heavy steel plate backwards and forwards with his shoulders, and looking not unkindly at his orderly. “You are a real gallows-bird.”
“I’d like to go on outside work, with the harvest crew,” begged Liebschner. “Would you suggest me for it, chief warder?”
“But why? You’ve got nothing to grumble about here as orderly.”
“I can’t stand the air,” complained the prisoner in a pitiful voice. “My head’s queer; I can’t eat anything, and I always feel so bad from the stink.…”
“And just before you couldn’t smell anything! No, my lad, I’ll tell you what’s on your mind. You want to make a getaway—you’d like to go off on the spree—with the little girls, eh? Well, you won’t. You’re staying here! Besides, a convict isn’t permitted to go on outside labor before he’s served at least half his sentence.”
The prisoner, his head lowered, tied his shoes. The warder went on swinging the steel door, at the same time observing the closely cropped skull.
“Principal warder!” said the prisoner Liebschner, looking up with determination.
“Well?”
“I don’t like squealing on anyone, but if I have to, then I must. I can’t stand it any longer in the cell; I’m going mad.”
“You don’t go mad so easily, my lad.”
“But I know someone who’s got a steel saw. Will you swear that I shall go on outside labor if I tell you his name?”
“No one’s got a steel saw here!”
“Yes—on your landing, too!”
“Nonsense. Besides, I don’t arrange who goes on the outside gangs; the work inspector does that.”
“But if you put in a good word for me, I’ll get out.”
Long pause.
“Who’s got the saw?”
“Do I get into the outside gang?”
“As far as I’m concerned. Who has the saw?”
“Quietly, principal warder, please, quietly! I’ll whisper it in your ear. But don’t give me away. They’d kill me when I go to the workroom.”
Softly the prisoner whispered in the warder’s ear. The latter nodded, asked something in a whisper, listened, nodded again. Below the bell began ringing; from landing to landing echoed the cry, “Buckets! Buckets!”
The warder straightened himself. “Very well, then, Liebschner, if it’s true you’ll go on the outside gang. What a low-down trick! I’d have been in a nice mess! Now hurry up, man, quick, empty your bucket. Make it snappy, so that we’ll get the stink over quickly!”
V
In Meienburg prison the morning bell rang at six o’clock; in Alexanderplatz police prison in Berlin it was half-past six before the prisoner was allowed to get up, before he knew that the night was over and something new would happen—perhaps even to him.
Petra was awakened by the hurried clanging; for a moment she still had Wolf’s image before her. It laughed—then many things went dark. An old woman (Wolfgang’s mother?) said many bad things to her in a harsh tone. A tree appeared out of the dark, leafless, with skeletal, threatening branches. A line of poetry that Wolfgang often sang sounded in her ear, He doesn’t hang from a tree, from rope hangs he. Then her eyes were wide open. The gypsies were chattering again in the corner, gesticulating, crouched upon their mattress; the tall girl was still lying in bed, her shoulders shaking—so she was crying again; the little fat woman was standing in front of the cell mirror, no bigger than a hand, wetting her fing
er in her mouth and then smoothing her eyebrows with it. And Frau Krupass sat up in her bed, braiding her miserable plaits. On the floor the Hawk, in her bundle, lay motionless.
Outside, divided by iron window bars, the sky was pale blue and softly touched by sun. A new day. Now for new work! How was one to wash? There was hardly any water left in the jug. “Listen, girlie, what we agreed on last night stands, eh? Or have you changed your mind?” said the old woman.
“No,” said Petra.
“I’ve got a feeling that you’ll be getting out today. If we don’t see each other again, you’re to go to Killich—Lawyer Killich, on Warschauer Brücke. Will you remember that?”
“Lawyer Killich, Warschauer Brücke,” repeated Petra.
“Good. You are to go there right away. But what a sight you are! Still thinking of that fellow?”
“No.”
“Now, now!”
“But I believe I dreamed about him.”
“Well, you won’t be able to do anything about that for the moment. That’ll go away by itself in time, that dreaming. But don’t eat roast potatoes in the evening; tell Randolf’s wife she’s always to give you cold meat. Roast potatoes in the evening, and especially with onions, always bring on dreams; you mustn’t eat anything like that, girlie—understand!”
“Yes,” said Petra. “But I am really not so sensitive.”
“What do you want to get all upset about a fellow like that for? There are plenty of men, much too many—don’t you bother with them. Always cold meat and a glass of beer, then you’ll go to sleep easier. Well, you’ll get over it. I’m not worried about it.”
“I’m not, either.”
“Well, go and look after your patient; I can see you’re dying to. Once a fool, always a fool. You’ll never learn. I say, girlie!”
“Yes?” Petra turned round.
“I think you won’t stick it, you know. If he’s standing on the other side of the street and whistles and beckons, then you’ll run off, out of my nice flat and away from the good food and the bath and the bed—you’d run to him just as you are, wouldn’t you?” There was suspicion in the old woman’s eyes.
