by Hans Fallada
And Sophie also was very much pleased with her disinterested swimming instructor, whom otherwise she had found altogether ill-mannered; and so the two of them were the best of friends when finally a limping, thoughtful Studmann appeared out of the forest.
“Well,” he said, sitting down on the grass and lighting himself a cigarette, “it’s a strange world, Pagel. The earth sweats fear instead of corn, and its fear infects everything. A generation full of fear, Pagel. As I suspected this afternoon, the peace of the fields is an illusion, and someone is not hesitating to make us understand that as quickly as possible.”
“That old geezer,” said Sophie very contemptuously, “has been chattering and gossiping again, I suppose? Perhaps it still works on you—we no longer pay any attention to his claptrap.”
“No, Fräulein Sophie,” countered Studmann, “the old man didn’t chatter, unfortunately. I wish he had been more talkative, for queer things seem to be happening here. Well, I think I’ll get to know them in time. But, Pagel, I ask you one thing: when you see the old man, be a little friendly. And if you can help him in anything, then do so. After all, he’s only an infirm old bundle of fears—Fräulein Sophie is right about that; but when a ship sends out an S O S, one helps it and doesn’t spend too much time asking about its cargo.”
“Good Lord!” mocked Sophie. “I would never have believed that Forester Kniebusch would ever have got two such helpers.” For Pagel had nodded in complete agreement with Studmann. “He certainly hasn’t deserved it, the sneak and tell-tale that he is.”
“Is there anyone here who deserves anything?” said Studmann. “Certainly not me, and probably not Pagel; and you, Fräulein Sophie, decent and good-hearted girl though you are, no doubt you also have not deserved an extra-special reward.”
Here Sophie turned red and felt that the line had a hook, although there was none.
“Well, let’s drop it. I really wanted to ask you, Fräulein Sophie, whether you wouldn’t like to tell us something about the wood thieves. You see, Kniebusch is so worried about them. He says they go about in gangs, and he as an individual is powerless against them.”
“What have the wood thieves got to do with me?” cried Sophie indignantly. “I’m not a spy!”
“I thought, Fräulein Sophie,” said Studmann, as if he had heard nothing, “that you in the village would notice when a gang like that sets out sooner than we who live on the farm.”
“I am not a spy,” Sophie again cried heatedly. “I don’t go around spying on poor people.”
“Wood-stealing is wood-stealing,” persisted Studmann. “Spy sounds ugly, but whoever reports wood-stealing is no spy. I think,” he continued persuasively, “you are interested in the farm and its welfare. Your father has a position like that among the men; he has to report sometimes who’s been working badly, without being called a sneak for it. And then you sat very comfortably next to the Rittmeister in the train and are sitting quite pleasantly here with us—one must know, after all, to whom one belongs.”
Sophie had propped her head on her hands. She looked thoughtfully, now at Herr von Studmann, now at Herr Pagel. But at the same time it wasn’t certain whether she had listened to Studmann’s cunning words; she seemed to be thinking about something. At last she spoke: “Very well, I’ll see. But it isn’t certain whether I’ll really find out anything. The people don’t count me one of them anymore.”
“Fine!” said Studmann and got up. “If you only think of us, that’s already something. The rest will arrange itself. And now if you’ve no objection, let’s all three go into the water again. My feet are in a bit of a mess; I’d like to cool them a little before going home. Our time ought to be up then, and we can go back without fear of reproach. And you must tell us about the Birnbaum pond, Fräulein Sophie. I believe the old gentleman’s capable of not believing the mere word of his forester, but will try and pump us a bit. If he doesn’t turn up here himself!”
And Studmann cast a suspicious glance at the forest.
VII
Herr von Studmann had no ground for his fear that the old Geheimrat might turn up in person at the crayfish ponds. In fact, he judged Herr von Teschow wrongly. The latter did not mind prying around quietly, but he preferred to leave things to his men when it came to open rows. Ten horses could not have dragged him to the crayfish ponds where, on this afternoon, a row was to be expected. Instead he wandered, serene and affable, through the village of Neulohe, stopped whenever he met someone, exchanged a few words, and was indeed just like a prince mingling with his subjects. Old Elias hadn’t done it better three hours previously.
And while the Geheimrat chattered his way through the village, he was continually thinking what sort of business he could pretend to have at Haase’s, for he didn’t like doing things awkwardly. He had to find out what the magistrate had against Kniebusch; why he had submitted such an unfavorable report on him. If one doesn’t know everything one knows nothing, he had always said, and from Fräulein Kuckhoff he had often heard that no filth is so filthy as to prevent someone coming and growing the finest cucumbers on it.
But he couldn’t think of the slightest excuse and was becoming quite discouraged when, just in front of the village square, where the road descended to the cemetery, he saw old Leege. Old Leege was a very ancient woman; formerly, when she was still able to work, she had been employed on the farm, while her husband, now dead for a long time, had earned his bread partly in the parish as a gravedigger, partly in the forest as a woodman. That was all a long time ago, however, and old Leege had been dwelling for some ten years now, ever since her last grandchild went to America, in an old cottage by the cemetery wall. She was a little odd, and feared by everyone, for she had the reputation of being able to put a spell on cattle. This much was certain—warts and erysipelas disappeared at her incantations.
The old Geheimrat was not very fond of old women, a hunters’ superstition; and so he hurried on his way when he saw old Leege. But she had spied him with her sharp black eyes. She darted across the village square so as to block his path, and began, weeping huskily, to mumble something about her cottage roof, through which the whole of the last rain had come as through a sieve.
“That’s no business of mine, Leege,” the Geheimrat shouted into her deaf ears. “You must go to the magistrate about it. It’s a parish matter, not a farm matter.”
But old Leege would not be put off so easily, for she was firmly convinced that Herr von Teschow was her master and responsible for her welfare, just as he had been thirty or forty years ago—nor would she let herself be hustled out of the way. She filled the whole square with her husky, wailing cries in such a way that the Geheimrat began to feel truly sorry about the business. And since he reflected that a bad excuse is always better than none at all—and why shouldn’t one, after all, talk to Haase about the leaky roof of a poor superannuated farm worker—he yielded and set off with her to Hangman’s Pines, as Leege’s dwelling place was called.
“Well, don’t any of your grandchildren ever write to you?” he asked in order to escape from the roof topic, about which he already knew everything—front, back and gable. Old Leege moaned happily that her grandsons wrote from time to time and also sent her little pictures.
Well, what did they write, and how were things over there?
Yes, what they wrote she couldn’t say exactly, for her old cat had broken her glasses over a year ago; but if the berry crop was good this year, she might perhaps be able to afford a new pair!
Then why didn’t she get someone to read the letters to her?
No, she wouldn’t do that, for if her grandsons should ever write that they weren’t getting on well, it would immediately be spread through the whole village, and she didn’t want people to talk about her grandsons. She would have plenty of time to read them when she had new glasses.
Did they ever send anything for their old grandmother, a little money or a little packet of something to eat?
Oh, yes, they sent her nice pr
etty little pictures; but as to food, they probably hadn’t got so much in the Indian country!
In the meantime they had reached the old cottage, which really looked uncannily like a veritable witch’s hovel out of a fairy tale, there among the Hangman’s Pines. The Geheimrat took a look at the ancient mossy thatched roof, from the front, from the back and from the gable side, always accompanied by the wailing complaints of the old woman. He had suddenly become very thorough and was no longer in such a hurry to escape from her. For a true fox will smell out a goose in a cartload of straw. So he pushed open the door and entered the old hovel—he had smelled something. The inside of the house under the Hangman’s Pines looked exactly as one would expect from the outside; that is to say, just as a pigsty ought not to look if the pigs are to thrive.
But neither dirt nor stench could upset the Geheimrat now, nor the rags and rubbish of extreme poverty. With his cunning old eyes he looked around, and there on the wall he spotted what he wanted, namely, an old photograph behind which something had been stuffed.
“Yes, that’s Ernie,” moaned the old woman. “He was the last to go out there, just at the beginning of ‘thirteen, just before the Great War broke out.”
“And that’s one of the little pictures that Ernest sent you, Leege, eh? Have you got any more?”
Yes, she had some more, and there were some still in the letters, and she had also made a border of the little pictures in the kitchen cupboard.
“Listen, Leege,” said the Geheimrat. “You’ll get a new roof, I promise you. And if you want a goat you’ll get one, too. And enough to eat as well. And a pair of glasses also. And firewood.…”
The old woman raised her hands toward him, as if she wanted to push the abundance of all these gifts away from her breast, and she began to praise her good old master.
But the Geheimrat was in a hurry. “You stay here, Leege, and in half an hour at the latest I’ll be here with the magistrate; perhaps I’ll bring the pastor, too. And you are not to go out, nor are you to give any of the little pictures away.”
Old Leege promised this solemnly.
And everything took place in proper and orderly manner. With the Geheimrat came the pastor and the magistrate, and a search was made, and old Leege could not marvel enough at the three gentlemen who wouldn’t stop turning over and shaking out her things. They even messed her pair of winter stockings about; the magistrate pulled the bed straw from its frame—all in the search for these bright-colored little pictures.
As for old Leege, she understood nothing of this business, and although they trumpeted ten times into her ear that this was “proper” money, gold money, foreign currency—while the other was rubbishy money, worthless money, muck—it still seemed to her as if these worthy three—Wealth, Priesthood and Authority—had turned into little children looking for Easter eggs in her cottage.
Geheimrat von Teschow, however, was once more in his element, and now and again he bubbled over, with a remark to the effect that of course an old man like himself had had to come first and look after his old employee, who, legally speaking, was no concern of his, while the magistrate, who ought to look after the local poor in respect of his office, and the pastor, who ought to look after his parishioners as a religious duty, once again didn’t know a thing about anything, and would have let the old woman, with all her wealth, drown from rain and perish from hunger.
Both the magistrate and the parson made the best reply they could to these continual and pointed remarks—namely, none; and scarcely was the old woman’s fortune ascertained to be two hundred and eighty-five dollars and legally recorded, than the parson hastily departed, for the matter was now in the best hands. The magistrate took charge of the bank notes and in return for the little pictures promised the old woman the thatcher for the next day. Also a basket of provisions. “Also a goat, of course, Leege. Also a new pair of glasses. Very good, Leege.”
“What are you going to do with the money, Haase?” asked the Geheimrat, on the way back.
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat, that’s a business,” said the magistrate. “I shall have to think about it first.”
“I believe I’ve read somewhere that foreign currency must be handed over. To the bank. But that need not be true.”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat, if I take it to the bank I’ll get a worthless bundle of money for it, and if old Leege wants some coffee next week, I shall have to say to her: ‘The money’s all gone, Leege.’ ”
“That’s no good to the old woman, Haase. But I suppose there’s no help for it, if that’s the regulation.”
“Perhaps it isn’t so—the Geheimrat might have read it wrongly.”
“Yes, of course, I might have. There’s so much in the newspapers.”
“That’s true—one gets dizzy merely looking at them.”
The two walked along thoughtfully. The tall, lean Haase with his ravaged, multi-lined face, and the short, fat Geheimrat with his bright red face—which, however, also had its lines.
“The fact is,” began Haase again, “we’re all busy with the harvest; who’s got time to go to the bank in Frankfurt to change the money? And I must give the thatcher something and pay for the straw and the goat—I can’t do that with dollars. In the first place there’d be talk, and anyway I mustn’t do it.”
“Well, in that case someone else must change the money until there is time to hand it in,” said the Geheimrat.
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been thinking all the time. Only, who’s got so much money on hand in harvest time?”
“I think I’ve still got something in my safe. I’ll have a look. I’ll let you know this evening.”
“I’ve been doing my threshing yesterday,” said Haase, “and I think I’ll deliver tomorrow. I’m only doing it, Herr Geheimrat, because I have to pay your forester the day after tomorrow.”
The Geheimrat said not a word.
“I wonder whether the forester would perhaps wait a few days.”
“I don’t understand this. Excuse me, Haase, I’m probably deaf in both ears. I suppose you’re talking about Kniebusch’s mortgage for ten thousand prewar marks?”
The magistrate bit his lip. “I don’t understand it either, Herr Geheimrat,” he said sulkily, “but your Kniebusch is an old hound. He’s swindled me. I can’t cancel the mortgage now, and I have to give him forty hundredweights of rye a year as interest, and that’s why the rye’s going away tomorrow.”
“Well, well!” grinned the old gentleman, extremely pleased that someone had been caught out (for there was nothing in life he esteemed so highly as swindling a person properly). “You do get up to mischief! … Now I understand why the examining judge in Frankfurt speaks so badly about Kniebusch.”
“I only wrote what was right,” cried the magistrate hotly.
“Of course, Haase, what else?” said the old Geheimrat, delighted. “Always in accordance with justice and law and order! But we’ll talk about that this evening. For I’ll bring you the money so that you can change the dollars, since what you get for your rye won’t cover everything. I’m glad to help you, Haase. And if I go to Frankfurt I’ll hand in my dollars, and when you go there you’ll hand in yours—the Government will certainly have learned how to wait. And Kniebusch also. I’ll see to that, you can rely on me. He’s a cunning dog, old Kniebusch; I’d never have thought him capable of taking in a farmer. Well, you’ll tell me all about it this evening, Haase.”
“The dollar is now one million one hundred thousand marks—that’s what we’ll exchange at, I suppose?” asked the magistrate thoughtfully.
“Why, of course,” said the Geheimrat. “What else?”
“And supposing it rises tomorrow? Then I’ll be landed with all those marks and won’t be able to buy her anything.”
“Oh, you’ll be able to buy something for a little while, and lay in a few supplies, anyway. When it’s gone, it’s gone. If someone else had seen the little pictures she would have got nothing. And, anyway, in the letters it says that the g
randson sends her ten dollars every month, with twenty dollars extra on her birthday and at Christmas, so there’s always something coming in. Why, old Leege’s got more now than she had in her whole life!”
“We ought to be certain, though, that no one will talk,” said Haase. “Otherwise there’ll be trouble.”
“Who’s to talk, Haase? Pastor Lehnich will keep his trap shut, having made a fool of himself. And we two won’t talk. As for old Leege, she didn’t get wise—she thinks it’s a holiday in heaven. If she does talk no one will understand, and supposing someone does, just let him come and say that Geheimrat Horst-Heinz von Teschow is up to something shady. We’ll hand the dollars in—that’s agreed, eh, Haase?”
“As soon as I go to Frankfurt, without fail, Herr Geheimrat.”
And so the two separated, Haase not quite content, for he would have preferred to manage the business himself; but he knew that the fattest pigs squeal the loudest for food. The Geheimrat, however, was perfectly content; he had not only learned what he wanted to know, he had also done a little business. However rich a man may be, he never feels he is rich enough. Forester Kniebusch, though, was very much astonished at the indifference with which his surly master heard about his unsuccessful search of the crayfish ponds. And still more astonished was he that Herr von Teschow knew all about the readjustment of the mortgage and was even interceding on Haase’s behalf, asking for him to be allowed to pay two weeks later. To this Kniebusch willingly agreed; but all the more obstinate did he prove when the Geheimrat wanted to discover how Haase had been moved to such an unheard-of concession.
The forester swore by all that was holy, his pale blue eyes becoming even bluer and more honest, that Haase was a thoroughly decent man and had done what was right out of sheer decency. “And as a matter of fact it should have been sixty hundredweights of rye, Herr Geheimrat, but I’m not so particular, like Haase.”
