by Hans Fallada
“Kniebusch!” cried the old gentleman in a rage, “you can’t pull a hunchback through a lattice fence! Where money begins, decency stops—and now you two old rogues want …”
But no, the forester stuck to it! His forehead was dripping with sweat, and his tone became so sincere and ingenuous that it smelled of lies and deceit for ten miles against the wind. And it must be said that the Kniebusch who had always been subservient to his master had never so impressed Herr von Teschow as did the Kniebusch who was obviously telling him a pack of lies.
“Well, I never!” said the old gentleman when he was alone again. “My Kniebusch is getting on. But just wait! What one won’t tell, the other will babble—and I’ll eat my hat if I don’t worm everything out of Haase this evening.”
But in this he was mistaken: the magistrate kept as mum as the forester, to the old gentleman’s surprise. For such a thing had never happened before.
To be sure, he did not yet eat his hat on that account. The Geheimrat was not one to give up hope so easily.
VIII
Studmann and Pagel had taken leave of their fair companion outside her home, and the villagers had seen with astonishment that these suspicious gentlemen from Berlin had not simply passed on with a nod, as was usually done with a farm girl, but had shaken her hand properly, as if she were a real lady. The older one, with the egg-shaped head, had raised his cap. The younger was not wearing one.
Admiration for Sophie, who seemed to the villagers like a butterfly which has emerged dazzling and gay from its dull chrysalis, had immeasurably risen. What her clothes had begun (and the journey with the Rittmeister) was completed by this formal leave-taking. Mothers no longer found it necessary to admonish their urchins to behave themselves with Sophie—“She’s a real lady now!” Henceforth she was as safe from their mischievous tricks as, say, the young Fräulein in the Villa. None of them wanted to get into trouble with the gentlemen from Berlin, who might be detectives. And the gentlemen had gone on their way without any inkling that they had achieved the isolation in the village of a dangerous enemy.
Räder was waiting for them in the office. Madam would like to speak to Herr von Studmann at a quarter to seven.
Herr von Studmann, glancing at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past seven already. He looked at Räder inquiringly. But the servant did not move a muscle or utter a word.
“Well, I’ll go right away, Pagel,” said Studmann. “Don’t hold up supper because of me; you’d better begin.”
Wolfgang Pagel remained alone in the office. He did not begin his supper, however, but paced up and down, contentedly smoking his cigarette and glancing every now and again through the wide-open windows at the green park loud with the song of birds.
As is the way with all young men, he didn’t think about his situation. He just went to and fro, smoking, moving between light and shadow. Nothing weighed on him, and he desired nothing. If he had thought about his situation and summed it up in the shortest way, he would have said he was—almost—happy.
On closer examination he would perhaps have discovered a slight feeling of emptiness, like the convalescent who has survived a life-threatening illness and hasn’t yet been counted among the living. He’d survived serious danger, but still had no purpose in life; indeed he didn’t fully belong to it. A secret power which wanted him healthy led his actions and, even more, his thoughts. Quite unlike Herr von Studmann, he was not interested in whatever lay behind things; he was only interested in the exterior. He instinctively defended himself against having to worry. He didn’t look at rental contracts and made no painful calculations about rent levels. He considered old Herr von Teschow a good-natured, bushy-bearded old man and didn’t want to know about his cunning and sinister intentions. He was fully satisfied by the simple, tangible life-tasks—going out into the field, the stoking up of the barley, and the deep, dreamless sleep that comes from extreme physical exhaustion. He was carefree like a convalescent, superficial like a convalescent, and still felt, without being clear about it, again like a convalescent, that frightening hint of what he had only barely escaped from.
Tomorrow they would begin gathering in the sheaves again—excellent! They could, of course, have gathered them in today, as all the farms in the neighborhood were doing; but the old lady in the Manor (he had not yet seen her) was supposed to be against working on Sunday. Good. Studmann had planned something for this evening; what it was he didn’t know, but it was bound to be pleasant. Everything was pleasant here. He hoped Studmann would soon return. Wolfgang didn’t like to be alone. He felt best in the midst of people.
Thoughtfully he came to a stop in front of the pinewood bookshelf, where the black annual volumes of laws and decrees stood in long rows. Row upon row, volume upon volume, year upon year they decreed, proclaimed, threatened, regulated and punished from the beginning of time to the end of the world, and yet every individual continually battered his skull against this world of law and order.
Pagel lifted down one of the oldest volumes. From the spotty brown paper a decree spoke to him, forbidding that a servant or inmate be given more than six score crayfish a week to eat. He laughed. Today bathers were chased from the ponds, thus protecting the crayfish from the people; in those days people were protected from the crayfish!
He put the volume back in its place, and just below his eye-level was the top edge of another row of volumes of the official District Gazette. Out of one of them peeped the corner of a sheet of paper. He seized it with two fingers and found he held a piece of typewriting paper only a quarter covered with typing. “Dearest! My dearest darling! My only one!”
He glanced at the volume from which he had taken it. It was the Gazette for the year 1900. Pagel felt reassured and read on with a smile, tasting something of the charm which clings to love letters of a century ago, the letters of lovers whose voices have died away, whose love is extinguished, who lie cold in their graves. He read down to the name “Violet.”
That was no common name in Germany; until recently he had come across it only in books. But he had heard it frequently in the last few days, usually in the form “Vi.” In some families, however, names are handed down.… He rubbed his finger cautiously over the typescript. It was fresh! The fingertip showed a faint smear.
Tearing the cover from the typewriter, he typed the words “Dearest! My dearest darling! My only one!”—with repugnance. He, too, had once heard those similar words and did not like being reminded of them. There was no doubt about it. The letter had been typed on this machine, and very recently: the capital E was defective.…
His first impulse was to destroy the letter; his next, to put it back in the Gazette. He didn’t want to know anything of this affair.
But steady, old chap, steady! he thought. This Vi is very young—sixteen, perhaps only fifteen. She won’t like her letters lying about in an office. I ought … Pagel put the letter in his inside pocket. That was no mistrust of Studmann, but Pagel was determined to read this letter only after he had considered everything in detail. Perhaps he wouldn’t even mention it to him. In any case he must be clear about everything first. It was not pleasant; he would have liked to have continued walking up and down in his office without a thought in the world. But that’s life. It doesn’t ask if it suits us. We’re already engaged in it.
So Pagel went thoughtfully up and down his office, smoking. (If only Studmann doesn’t suddenly turn up!)
First question: Was the letter really a letter? No, it was the carbon copy of a letter. Second question: Would the sender have made a copy? Very improbable. Firstly, it wasn’t the sort of letter which is easily written on a typewriter—a thing like that had to be written by hand if it wasn’t to look utterly idiotic. Secondly, it was very improbable that Fräulein Violet would have chosen the office to write her love letters in. Thirdly, she would never keep the carbon copy there. And why make a copy at all? Conclusion: It was therefore, in all probability, the carbon copy of a copy of a letter of Fräulein Vi’s. (One could leave till
later the consideration: Where was the copy itself?)
Third question: Could the recipient have made a copy and carbon for himself? There seemed to be no point in his making a copy, though. Because the recipient would have the original! No, it was quite clear—an unauthorized person was responsible. And it ought not to be difficult to find out who. This third party must have had regular access to the office, otherwise he would not have been able to type or keep anything there. No, there could be no doubt about it. It could only have been that ugly little fellow called Black Meier.
And Wolfgang now recalled Meier’s nocturnal departure, his waking up in a fright, his “He wants to shoot me.” They had thought it was a question of jealousy involving that chubby-cheeked poultry maid, and the Rittmeister had accepted this explanation. So he, too, had no inkling of the real truth. Yes, there was something mysterious and dangerous about the whole affair—although Meier, of course, was a coward who had only imagined he was going to be shot. One didn’t murder people so lightly because of an intercepted love letter.
And there still remained the question whether he ought to say nothing and replace this carbon copy—better still, destroy it; or whether he ought to speak about it—with Studmann, perhaps. Or with the passionate little Fräulein Vi. One must not forget, either, that the absconding Herr Meier was carrying another copy around with him. But what, after all, could such a copy prove? Anyone might make up a thing like that on the typewriter. It mentions no name that refers to anybody.
All the same, this business could upset an inexperienced young girl. But perhaps she already knew that this letter had been intercepted and copied. Its intended recipient must have known about it—how else would Meier have been so frightened that night by a rustling at the window? Yes, thought Pagel, if I only knew exactly what Meier cried out then. Was it “He wants to shoot me” or “He wants to shoot me again?” Shooting again would mean that Herr Meier had already attempted something like blackmail—one doesn’t copy a letter of this sort for purely literary reasons—and that he had received a rather violent answer, perhaps with gun in hand.…
Pagel racked his brains, but he could not remember what Meier had actually called out.
Herr von Studmann entered, returning from his meeting with Frau von Prackwitz. Pagel glanced at Studmann’s face. Even Herr von Studmann looked rather lost in thought. Now he could ask him what Meier had shouted back then, but he thought better of it. Such an inquiry would provoke counter-questions. Perhaps he would have to reveal the copy of this letter—and he didn’t want to do that. Its recipient, whoever that might be, had been warned, and Fräulein Vi presumably too. So Pagel decided for the moment to say nothing at all. He had no wish to get into trouble by letting himself be sucked into love intrigues. Nothing would be missed if this letter stayed hidden for the moment, namely, in his pocket.
IX
Studmann was so lost in thought that he did not notice Pagel had not yet eaten, and when the young man poured himself out a cup of tea and took some bread, he looked up. “Eating a second supper, Pagel?”
“I’ve not eaten yet, old man.”
“Oh, so I see. I’m sorry! I was just thinking about something.” Studmann relapsed into thoughtfulness.
After a while Pagel asked cautiously: “What’s on your mind?”
Studmann answered with surprising violence. “The peace of the fields is a bigger fraud than we supposed, Pagel. These people have their troubles. But I expect you’d rather I didn’t bother you with them—” He broke off.
Herr von Studmann also had a letter in his pocket, a letter which Frau von Prackwitz regarded as a rather harmless business communication. To Herr von Studmann, however, it seemed crafty and underhanded—he would rather have been carrying a hand grenade in his pocket. But he was much more preoccupied with something else. Frau von Prackwitz was still a good-looking woman; she had very beautiful eyes, and there had been tears in those eyes, tears which had not made them any the less beautiful. A woman who must always control herself in the presence of a hot-headed husband and a wayward daughter, who must never let her household notice anything, must be able to let herself go before a chosen confidant. This absence of restraint had only made Frau Eva the more charming. A warm sweetness, a helplessness which was all the more seductive in so mature a woman, had captivated von Studmann.
I must help the poor creature! he thought. What does that kid think she’s doing, carrying on in this way! Why, she can’t be more than fifteen!
At this moment Pagel, likewise wrapped in thought, looked up from his cheese. “How old do you reckon Fräulein Violet is?”
“What?” cried Herr von Studmann, dropping his knife and fork with a loud clatter on his plate. “What makes you ask, Pagel? What’s it got to do with you?”
“Good Lord!” said Pagel, taken aback. “I can ask, can’t I? All right, then—not!”
“I was just thinking of something else,” explained Studmann, a little embarrassed.
“It looked damn well as if you had just been thinking of her age, too!” grinned Pagel.
“Not a bit. Little girls like that don’t mean a thing to me—I’m not twenty-two, like you, Pagel.”
“Twenty-three.”
“All right. Well, it’s now just after eight. I think it’ll be a good idea if we toddle along and indulge in a drink at one of the two local inns.”
“Fine. And how old do you think Fräulein Violet is?”
“Sixteen. Seventeen.”
“Much too high! She’s got such soft curves, it’s deceptive. Fifteen at the most.”
“Anyway, keep your hands off her, Herr Pagel!” cried Studmann with a fierce glint in his eyes.
“Why, of course,” said Pagel with astonishment. “Heavens, Studmann, you’re getting like the sphinx itself. Well, about the inns?”
Somewhat more calmly Studmann outlined his plan of getting to know the innkeeper, of becoming regular patrons, and thus trying to discover as much as possible from the village gossip. “Neulohe is much too big. Even if we were to run round night after night looking for field thieves, we might still never find one. And our Rittmeister wants to see results. So a hint from the innkeeper would be worth its weight in gold.”
“True!” agreed Pagel. “Are we taking a gun with us?”
“No use doing that tonight; tonight we just want to get pally. But if you’d like to take one along! You still want to be in full war paint. I dragged one of those things around for over five years.”
It was half-past eight when the two finally set off. The sun had gone down, but it was scarcely dusk even in the shade of the trees. The road to the village was full of people: children ran about, old people sat on little benches outside their doors, the younger folk hung about in groups, a girl dragged a restive goat into its shed. When the two men passed by, the people fell silent, the children stopped running about, everyone stared after them.
“Come along, Studmann,” suggested Pagel, “let’s go on the outside of the village. We’ll find our way somehow. This being stared at gets me down. And anyway they don’t all have to know that the farm officials are going boozing.”
“Very well,” said Studmann, and they turned into a narrow path between the windowless gable walls of two laborers’ houses, and came to a ridge. To the left lay deserted orchards, to the right stretched a flourishing potato field. They came to a churned-up cart track; on the right it led straight into the fields, on the left it approached the last houses in the village. The air was turning gray, one could feel the darkness coming on, the birds had become silent. From the village echoed a laugh which died away.
As Pagel and Studmann strolled along, each in a rut of the track, they encountered a troop of people, some six or seven, men and women, who went by quietly in single file, baskets on their backs, along the grassy strip between the ruts.
“Good evening!” said Pagel loudly.
There was a muffled response, and the ghostly procession was gone.
The two went on
a few steps, uncertain, then stopped as if by agreement. They turned round and gazed after the silent wanderers. Yes, it was true, they hadn’t gone to the village, but had turned into the path between the fields.
“Well!” said Pagel.
“That was queer!” replied Studmann.
“Where are they going to at this hour?”
“With baskets?”
“To steal!”
“They might be going over there into the forest to gather wood.”
“Gather wood—at night!”
“Well, let’s give up our drink and errand, and follow them.”
“Yes, but wait a moment. Let them get over the crest first.”
“I didn’t recognize any of them,” said Pagel thoughtfully.
“It’s getting dark; you could hardly distinguish their faces.”
“It would be marvelous if we caught six first go.”
“Seven,” said Studmann. “Three men and four women. Well, let’s go.”
But after the first few steps Studmann stopped again. “We haven’t thought this out, Pagel. Even if we catch the people we won’t know them. How are we to find out their names? They can tell us what they like.”
“While you’re holding a general staff meeting here, Studmann, the people will slip through our fingers,” urged Pagel impatiently.
“To be well informed is half the battle, Pagel.”
“Well?”
“You go to the village and get some old inhabitant who knows everyone.…”
“Kowalewski? The overseer?”
“Yes, that’s right. He’s a bit slack; it’ll be good for him to come more into conflict with his men; it’ll make him sharper. They’ll be in a rage with him if he has to name them.”
But Pagel had long stopped listening to the opinions of a former reception manager of a city hotel in a period of inflation. He was already running at a steady trot toward the village. It did him good to run. It had been an eternity since he had done anything like this. Not since his time in the Baltic. Since then, he’d always moved as slowly as possible. It was a long day, waiting for play to begin. Now he was glad to see how efficiently his body worked. The mild, somewhat cool damp air filled his lungs, and he was glad that he had such a broad chest; despite his running he inhaled deeply and slowly and pleasurably. In Berlin he had sometimes had a stitch in lungs or heart, and as is the way with young people who have never really been ill, he had then imagined some serious malady. Well, thank God, it had been nothing. He ran like Nurmi. I’m in good condition, he thought cheerfully.
