by Hans Fallada
“Yes, of course, please excuse me, of course.” Suddenly the old gentleman became serious. “Have you gentlemen a moment to spare?” he asked. “I’ve a letter here for my son-in-law, had it for days; haven’t been able to send it over; had so much to do recently.… If you would deliver it at the Villa when you pass by?”
“I can …” began Pagel, whom Herr von Teschow had chiefly been looking at.
But Studmann interrupted him. “Certainly, Herr Geheimrat. We shall tell the servant at the Villa to fetch it.”
“Excellent! Fine!” cried the master of Neulohe, but his tone was no longer good-natured. “Besides, it occurs to me that my old Elias can stretch his legs for once. I’ll send him.” He nodded to the two men and stamped on through the bushes toward the Manor.
“Lord, Studmann,” said Pagel a little breathlessly, “you’ve got into his bad books, I must say! Why so crusty with the gay old boy?”
“I’ll give you the lease contract to read sometime,” said Studmann, passing his hand over his sweating forehead, “which this gay old boy made his son-in-law sign. Only a child as completely devoid of business instincts as the Rittmeister could have put his name to such a thing. It comes pretty close to the Treaty of Versailles. Bound hand and foot!”
“But the jolly old chap makes such an honest impression.”
“Don’t trust him. Never tell him anything. Don’t do anything he tells you. We are employed by the Rittmeister—the old man has nothing to do with us.”
“Ah, Studmann, you’re a pessimist—I’m convinced that he is a jolly old fellow.”
“And I’m convinced that even the letter he wanted us to deliver has its own peculiarities. Well, we shall see. Let’s get on.”
In the meantime the old gentleman was standing in his study. He was ringing up the forester. At last he heard the quaking voice.
“Are you sitting on your ears, Kniebusch? Is sleeping the only thing you can do? Well, just wait, I’ll soon see that you have a rest—without any money from me! Can you still hear there, Kniebusch?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat!”
“Well, praise be to God you can still hear. Then listen to me now! I’ve just seen those two idlers from Berlin, whom my beloved son-in-law has freshly imported, lounging round the farm with bathing suits under their arms. They undoubtedly want to go bathing in our forest, in the crayfish ponds. Stalk them quietly, and when the gentlemen are in the water, but not before, give them to understand that they are my ponds, and that they’ve got no damn business to be bathing there. And you can confiscate their clothes, that’ll raise a laugh. I’ll be responsible, Kniebusch, I’ll protect you.”
“But, Herr Geheimrat, I can’t. One of them is a first lieutenant and a close friend of the Rittmeister’s.”
“Well, what about it, Kniebusch, what about it? What’s that got to do with his bathing in my pond? I tell you to do what I say, and on your own—don’t dare to say I sent you! Otherwise you’ll hear something—no, otherwise you won’t hear anything again.”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat.”
“And one thing more, Kniebusch. Hi, man, what are you in such a hurry for? When your boss is talking to you wait till you are dismissed. Or perhaps you’re in a hurry for your dismissal? Do you hear what I say, Kniebusch?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Well, yesterday the examining magistrate phoned me from Frankfurt—Bäumer has a temperature of over 104° and is still unconscious, said to be the result of your rough treatment.”
“But I couldn’t, Herr Geheimrat …”
“Of course you could, man! You should have run, made a bandage, fetched a doctor, nurses, even the mid-wife Müller if you like—poor fellow, he’s just a simple honest poacher! If he shoots at you it’s only because you, wicked man, begrudge him a roast venison—isn’t that so? An examining magistrate can’t blame him for that, can he? He’s only a poor fellow-being, eh?”
“But, Herr Geheimrat, what am I to do?”
“Don’t do anything. I’m looking after you, Kniebusch, I’ve already told Comrade Magistrate what I think! Now go and get this thing done for me! Off with you, Kniebusch, bathing forbidden, distraint of clothes customary.…”
The Geheimrat hung up and grinned, got himself a cigar and poured himself out a brandy. After his day’s work he sat down in an armchair for a snooze.
Why did magistrate Haase write so unfavorably about Kniebusch to the court? he wondered. I don’t like that. I’ll show him where he gets off. He’s got to make reports as I like. But something’s rotten there—and what it is I’ll find out, even if it takes me a whole day!
III
“There they go,” said the people in the village, watching the two “Berlin detectives.” “What fools they must think us to believe they’re farmers!—Did you see the hands of the young one, Dad? He’s never handled a pitchfork in his life!—But yesterday he shoveled away with the rest!—Oh, that’s just eyewash! They’ve already put little Meier away. They say he was taken straight to Meienburg!—Then why are they still here?—Don’t you know who’s the next one?—The next is the Rittmeister.—The Rittmeister! You’re crazy! The next one is Forester Kniebusch.—No, it’s the Rittmeister, I tell you—they’re expecting another Putsch now, and if there are weapons buried anywhere then it’s in our district.—But the man with the egg-shaped head is pals with the Rittmeister.—That’s just their cunning, that’s what the old Geheimrat has schemed out, to hoodwink him.”
“There they go!” said Amanda Backs, and watched the two of them go. But they hadn’t seen her. “What do you think of them, Minna?”
“That I can’t say, Amanda,” said Minna cautiously. “But the big fellow knows everything about tidying-up. When he makes a bed you feel like rolling into it straight away.”
“And the young one?”
“Of course you only see the young one, Amanda,” said Black Minna with a pious roll of her eyes. “Don’t you think of your Meier anymore? After you stood up for him in the evening service, Amanda, and pointed to me with your finger. After all, the detective stole him from you.”
“Yes, thank God he did!” But Amanda sounded very gloomy. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
Minna was suddenly vexed. “What should I be doing? I’ve got to go to my kids. They’re certain to be up to some mischief now that I’m away half the day with the cleaning in the staff-house.”
“You ought to be glad you’ve got your kids. Sometimes I think it would have been better for me if I’d had one from him.”
Minna became indignant. “Lord, how can you say that, Amanda, you an unmarried girl! And you’ve already got your eye on another fellow, too. I can understand people sinning, but one’s got to repent of sins, Amanda.”
“Oh, stop your drivel,” said Amanda, angrily going off to the forest, as Minna observed with profound satisfaction.
“There they go,” said Jutta von Kuckhoff to her friend Belinde von Teschow. “Herr von Teschow speaks badly of them—but I do think the older one looks really distinguished. What sort of nobility are the Studmanns—old or new? Do you know, Belinde?”
Frau von Teschow peered eagerly out of the window after the disappearing figures. “They’re carrying bundles under their arms—yes, bathing suits. They had no time for divine service this morning, but for bathing they have time. And you say he’s distinguished, Jutta!”
“You are right, Belinde. It must be very new nobility; our ancestors certainly never bathed. I once saw an old wash-basin at the Quitzows’ in Castle Friesack—the sort of thing you nowadays put in the cage for your canary.”
“Horst-Heinz says he can revoke the lease at once; there isn’t a single farmer on the farm now!”
“I suppose he wants to have little Meier back, does he? The rings round Amanda’s eyes are getting darker and darker.”
“There she goes—the same way!”
“Who?”
“Amanda! But if anything starts again now—efficient or not—she’
ll have to go.”
“And what’s this about Fräulein Kowalewski?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff dreamily. “Wherever there’s a carcass, the flies gather!”
“They’re said to have traveled in the same compartment,” replied Frau Belinde eagerly. “And even if she did sit on the box with the coachman afterwards, they’re said to have spoken to each other quite intimately. And, up until the day before, the Kowalewski parents didn’t know of her visit. Suddenly a telegram arrived, and—Jutta—my son-in-law was already in town when it was sent off.”
“They say she’s dressed like a cocotte. Her brassière is all lace.…”
“Brassière! Please don’t say that indecent word, Jutta. When I was young, girls like that wore drill corsets with alternate stays of whalebone and steel—that was like armor, Jutta. Armor is moral, but lace is immoral.”
“There they go,” said the Rittmeister, having coffee on the veranda with his wife and daughter. “They look good. Quite different from that monster Meier.”
“They’re going bathing,” said Frau von Prackwitz.
“They’ll be back in time for the foddering,” said the Rittmeister. “Studmann is punctuality and reliability itself.”
“Oh, Mamma!” cried Vi.
“Well,” asked Frau von Prackwitz very coldly, “do you want anything, Violet?”
“I was just thinking.… I’d also have liked to go bathing.”
“You know, Violet, I have forbidden you to go out until you tell Papa and myself who the strange man was with whom you crossed the yard at night.”
“But, Mamma,” cried Vi, almost weeping. “I’ve already told you a hundred times that it wasn’t a strange man. It was Kniebusch! Räder also told you that!”
“You are lying, and Räder is lying, too. You are not going out of the house until you’ve told me the truth, and the good Hubert can expect sudden dismissal if he goes on telling lies. It’s shameful of you both to lie to me in this way.” Frau von Prackwitz looked very angry. Her ample bosom heaved hastily. Sharp, angry looks shot from her eyes.
“But if it really was the forester, Mamma—really and truly!—I can’t lie to you that it was someone else. Who else could it have been?”
“This is impudence!” cried Frau von Prackwitz breathlessly, trembling with rage. She controlled herself, however. “You are to go up to your room, Violet, and write out yesterday’s French lesson ten times, and without a mistake.”
“Even if I write it out a hundred times, Mamma,” said Vi, white with rage, “it was the forester!”
The door slammed: she was gone.
The Rittmeister had listened to this dispute in silence. Only by the twitching of his face had he indicated how painful it was to him. A quarrel between others he always found distressing. But he knew from experience that his wife, on the rare occasions when she was angry, had to be handled with extreme care. “Aren’t you being a little hard on Vi?” he therefore asked cautiously. “It might really have been the forester. Hartig is just a gossip.…”
“It wasn’t the forester. He says so now, but he can’t tell me why they went into the staff-house instead of the forest.”
“Hubert says they went to see whether there were any more cartridges for Vi.”
“Nonsense! You must excuse me, Achim, but don’t let those two make a fool of you. Räder knows as well as Vi that the cartridges are in your rifle cupboard.”
“They say they didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Disturb me! My light was on till after twelve—and Vi’s never yet been considerate. If she’s got a pimple on her neck she wakes me up at two in the night to have it rubbed with ointment.… All stupid lies!”
“But really, Eva, who could it have been, then? A stranger whom Hartig doesn’t know? And going with Vi at night to the staff-house?”
“That’s the worst of it, Achim: that’s why I can’t sleep. If it had been some young fellow from the district, someone we know, a farmer’s son or something like that—he would never be dangerous for her. A harmless flirtation which we could put an end to at once.… But it’s a stranger, a man of whom we haven’t the faintest inkling. She went with him to the staff-house; she was alone with him during the night. For Räder was in bed. That’s not a lie. Armgard confirms it, and she’d never lie for Hubert.”
“You really think, then, that something could have happened? I’d kill the fellow.”
“Yes, but you don’t know who it is. Who can it be, for all of them to be afraid to speak about him—to lie so desperately? The forester, Amanda Backs, Räder—and Vi! I can’t imagine.”
“But, Eva, I’m convinced you are worrying yourself like this for nothing. Vi’s still a mere child.”
“That’s what I also thought, Achim—but my eyes have been opened. She’s no longer a child, but she pretends to be one, very impudently, and a child who knows all about things.”
“Eva, you are exaggerating.”
“No, unfortunately not. She isn’t as clever as all that; sometimes she gives herself away. It’s sickening, Achim, to have to spy on one’s own daughter.… But I’m horribly afraid something may have happened to her. I searched her room to see whether a letter was lying around somewhere, some note, a picture of him—Vi’s so untidy, you know.”
She broke off and looked in front of her with dry, burning eyes. The Rittmeister stood at the window with his white hair and brown face. He did what all husbands do when embarrassed by their wives’ emotional outbursts. He drummed with his fingers lightly against the window pane.
“I thought she hadn’t noticed anything. I was ashamed and took care to leave everything lying as it was.… But yesterday she came into her room very quietly just when I had her album in my hand. I was very embarrassed.”
“And?” The Rittmeister was now very intent.
“And she said to me maliciously: ‘No, Mamma, I don’t keep a diary, either.’ ”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Achim, that showed me she understood quite well what I was looking for, that she was making fun of me. She was really proud of her cunning! … And that’s the same girl, Achim, who asked you only three weeks ago about the stork. You told me so yourself. Inexperienced? She’s crafty. She’s been corrupted by these cursed times!”
The Rittmeister now stood there in a different way, expectant. His brown face looked gray—all his blood flowed to his heart. He made an angry step toward the bell. “Räder shall come here,” he murmured. “I’ll break every bone in the fellow’s body if he doesn’t confess.”
She stepped in his way. “Achim! You’ll spoil everything by that. I’ll find it out, you’ll see! I tell you they are all mortally afraid of him; there’s some secret. But I’ll find it out and then you can take action.”
She forced him against a chair and he sat down. “And I thought she was still a child!”
“It’s all bound up with little Meier somehow,” she said broodingly. “He must know something. It was certainly very clever of Herr Studmann to get rid of him so quietly, but it would be better now if we knew where he was. Don’t you know what he had in mind?”
“No—he wanted to get away, he was suddenly afraid.” The Rittmeister became animated. “But that’s just what you were saying! Meier, too, was mortally afraid.… Sacked by Studmann? No! He didn’t want to stay! He pleaded with Studmann to let him go, to give him a little money for his fare. Studmann gave it to him.”
“But why was Meier afraid so suddenly? He went off in the middle of the night, didn’t he?”
“With Amanda Backs. Amanda went with him to the station. The thing was like this—wait, Studmann told me about it—everything was so topsy-turvy in the first few days, I hardly paid any attention, and I must confess I was glad that Meier had gone; I never could stand him.…”
“In the night, you were saying,” prompted Frau Eva.
“Yes. In the night Pagel and Studmann were still in the office, looking at the books—Studmann’s thoroughness itself. Me
ier was sleeping in the next room. He’d handed over the money in the safe to me and Studmann in the evening, not a penny missing.… Suddenly they heard him scream, frightfully, in mortal fear; ‘Help! help! He’ll kill me! …’ They jumped up, dashed into Meier’s room—he was sitting up in bed, as white as a sheet, stammering: ‘Please help me! He wants to shoot me again!’ ‘Who?’ asked Studmann.… ‘There, at the window—I distinctly heard him. He knocked. If I go, he’ll shoot! …’ Studmann opened the window, looked out—nothing.… But Meier insisted he was there, that he wanted to kill him.”
“But who?” asked Frau von Prackwitz, very excited.
The Rittmeister rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Who? … Well, listen. Meier insisted so firmly that someone had been at the window to shoot him that at last Studmann sent Pagel outside to have a look. In the meantime he calmed Meier down a bit. The chap began to dress himself, and Pagel came back with a girl he had found in the bushes—Amanda Backs.”
“I see,” said Frau von Prackwitz, disappointed.
“Amanda Backs admitted straight away that she had knocked at the window. She said she had to speak to her friend. When Studmann saw it was only a love affair he left the two alone and went back to the office, with Pagel.”
“If he had questioned them properly, he might have found out everything.”
“Perhaps. After a while Meier came to the office with Amanda and said he must go away, at once. Studmann didn’t want to let him. Studmann is exactitude itself. He said it was impossible without notice; he must first ask me. Meier was very quiet and diffident, which is usually not like him; he said he had to go away now, but he would like to have the wages due to him, as fare money.… Finally Amanda Backs pleaded that Meier must get away, otherwise a calamity would happen.… And Studmann didn’t like to ask any more questions. He thought it was a case of love and jealousy. In the end he agreed because he knew I’d be glad to get rid of Meier, and the two went off.”
