by Hans Fallada
In the village he slowed down to a walk, so as not to arouse attention. Nevertheless, his disappearance into Kowalewski’s house attracted a lot of notice. “See that!” they said. “An hour and a half ago he was saying bye-bye to Sophie, and now he’s calling on her again. He’s got rid of that old egg-face he had with him, of course. Well, what do you expect of a Berliner? And he’s a strong fellow, too. Sophie’s also become a bit of a townee—if you’re used to cream, you want cream!”
Unfortunately the young man came out of Kowalewski’s house, accompanied only by the old man, immediately. He probably hadn’t seen Sophie, who went on singing upstairs. Hastily the two left the village, Kowalewski keeping to the young man’s side, half a pace behind, like a well-trained dog. When Pagel had burst into his Sunday quiet, merely saying: “Come along with me, Kowalewski,” the old overseer had followed without a question. A poor man has not to reason why.
Studmann was waiting where the path turned into the fields.
“Good evening, Kowalewski. Glad you’ve come. Has Pagel told you? No? Good. Where does this path lead to?”
“To our outfields, sir, and then into the Geheimrat’s forest.”
“Any peasants’ fields there?”
“No, only our land. Lots five and seven. And on the other side lots four and six.”
“Good. If you had met six or seven people here half an hour ago, silent, with baskets that looked empty on their backs—what would you have thought, Kowalewski?”
Kowalewski pointed. “Going over there?”
“Yes, over there, toward the outfields.”
Kowalewski pointed. “Coming from over there?”
“Yes, Kowalewski, that’s about where they’ll have come from, not from the village.”
“Then they were from Altlohe, sir.”
“And what do Altlohe people want on our field? Now, at nighttime?”
“Well, sir, there’s nothing on the potatoes yet. But there are the beetroots; perhaps they want to pick the leaves. And then further over is the wheat which we cut on Friday and Saturday—perhaps they want a few ears.”
“Stealing, eh, Kowalewski?”
“They need the beetroot leaves for goats’ fodder, nearly all of them have a goat. And if the wheat’s nice and dry, you can grind it in a coffee grinder—they learned that in the war.”
“Very good. Well, let’s follow them. You come with us, Kowalewski. But I suppose you don’t like to?”
“It’s not for me to say, sir.”
“You needn’t have any more to do with it, Kowalewski, than just to give me a dig in the ribs if one of the people tells me a false name.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I suppose they’ll have it in for you, Kowalewski?”
“Even if they’re Altlohe people, they know I have to do what I’m ordered. They understand that much.”
“But you don’t like admitting that they are stealing, Kowalewski, do you?”
“You see, sir, it’s bad if you’ve got a goat and have no fodder for it. And it’s still worse if you’ve got no flour for the children’s soup.”
“But Kowalewski!” Studmann stopped abruptly, then went on into the growing darkness. “How are you going to preserve order if people simply steal what they need? That would ruin the farm, wouldn’t it?”
Kowalewski kept obstinately silent, but Studmann was unyielding. “Well, Kowalewski?”
“That’s no sort of order, sir, if you’ll excuse me, when people work and yet can’t give their children anything to eat.”
“Why don’t they buy things? If they work, they must have money to spend.”
“They’ve only got paper money, sir. Everybody sticks tight to his goods and won’t take the paper.”
“I see! But still you must agree, Kowalewski, that the farm can’t carry on if everyone takes what he needs. You want your wages when they’re due, but where are they to come from if there are no profits? Take it from me, the Rittmeister doesn’t find it too easy.”
“The old Geheimrat always did well; he made a lot of money.”
“But perhaps the Rittmeister has more difficulties—he has to pay the old man rent.”
“The people from Altlohe don’t take any notice of that.”
“You mean they don’t care?”
“No, they don’t care.”
“And do you think it right for them to steal, Kowalewski?”
“If a man has no fodder for his goat …” began the obstinate old man again.
“Rubbish! Do you think it right, Kowalewski?”
“I wouldn’t do it, sir. But of course I get my corn from the farm and potatoes and free pasture for a cow …”
“Do you think it right, Kowalewski?” Herr von Studmann almost screamed. Pagel began to laugh.
“What are you laughing at, Pagel? Don’t be an idiot! Here’s an old man, who himself has never stolen, advocating the right to steal from his own employer. Have you ever stolen yourself, Kowalewski?”
It was laughable. Herr von Studmann screamed at the old man almost as Bailiff Meier used to. But this did not intimidate Kowalewski.
“Do you mean what you call stealing, sir, or what we call stealing?”
“Is there any difference?” growled Studmann. But he knew there was.
Pagel intervened. “May I put a question, Herr von Studmann?”
“If you like. This warped morality seems to amuse you very much, Herr Pagel!”
“It’s now very dark,” said Pagel cheerfully, “and Herr Kowalewski knows that neither of us is familiar with the fields. Tell me, Kowalewski, where does our beetroot field lie?”
“About five minutes’ walk ahead and then to the right over the rye stubble. You can see it in the starlight.”
“And the wheat field?”
“About three or four minutes’ walk along the path. Then we’ll be right on it.”
“Well, Kowalewski,” said Pagel mischievously, “if you think that these people have a right to take their fodder, why don’t you lead us a bit zigzag in the dark. You know we haven’t the faintest notion where things are!”
“Pagel!” cried Studmann.
“I can’t do that, sir. That wouldn’t be right. If you tell me to do something, I can’t lead you around by the nose.”
“Well, then,” said Pagel with satisfaction, “now we’ve got the thing clear. You believe in what’s right, Kowalewski. And what Herr von Studmann does is right. But what the people from Altlohe do is not right. You understand what they’re doing, but you don’t find it right, you don’t find it proper …”
“Well, sir, that may be. But when the goat hasn’t any fodder?”
“Stop!” shrieked Studmann. “Your success didn’t last long, Pagel!”
The stars glimmered in the almost black vault of heaven, and they saw round them nothing but gradations of black and gray. After a while, Pagel began to speak again. Something had occurred to him, and that something made sense. Because he sensed that the rather didactic and pedantic Studmann had developed an anger for the soft Kowalewski, who only thought and felt in a vague and confused way. Pagel felt the urge to try to reconcile Herr von Studmann with Sophie’s father.
“You know,” he said, “Herr Kowalewski is rather worried about our harvest, Studmann. He says we’re three weeks behind.”
“That’s so!” said the overseer.
“Sounds bad,” growled Studmann.
“We’ve got to have men as quickly as possible, Kowalewski thinks. And since the Rittmeister couldn’t dig any up in Berlin, Kowalewski thinks we ought to have a prison gang.”
“Me, sir?” asked the old man, still more astonished.
“Yes, your daughter told me today that you thought since the prison’s half empty on account of the number of gangs they’ve already sent out, we’d better get a move on, otherwise we’ll be left empty-handed.”
“Me, sir?” asked the old man still more astonished.
“Well,” said Herr von Studmann, “I�
��ve already spoken to the Rittmeister about it. But he thinks it involves a lot of expense, especially as the convicts know nothing of farming. So you’re in favor of it, Kowalewski?”
“Me? No, sir. They’re just a lot of criminals.”
“Quite so. Men who have stolen. But Herr Pagel just said that you told him …”
“His daughter Sophie, Studmann.”
“Your daughter, then. Your daughter probably got it from you.”
“From me, sir?”
“Now don’t start acting the fool again. All right, Kowalewski, I shan’t bother you again.” He stopped. “How much farther have we to go?” he asked very crossly.
“Here to the right, sir, is the rye stubble. If we cross that we’ll come to the beetroot field.”
“Do you think the people are really there?” Herr von Studmann suddenly felt qualms.
“Our beetroots aren’t much this year; we transplanted them a bit too late. I think if there are any people they’ll be on the wheat.”
“And the wheat is straight ahead, isn’t it?”
“Another three or four minutes.”
“You know what, Pagel—why should we all three make the detour? You dash across the rye stubble, check up on the beetroots, and then come after us as quickly as you can.”
“Right, Herr von Studmann.”
“And since you probably won’t meet anyone there, let me have the gun. Thanks. Well, good hunting, Pagel!”
“Same to you, Studmann.”
With his hands in his pockets, Pagel sauntered cross the stubble, his glance fixed on the starry sky rather than on the ground. The footsteps of the others had already died away. Through his shoes he felt the cold dew brushed from the stubble. For the first time he was glad he did not have to be with Herr von Studmann. Schoolmaster, nursemaid! But he immediately regretted this thought. Studmann was really a decent fellow, and his pedantry was merely the shadow cast by a perfect reliability, a quality that had almost vanished today. It’ll only make things difficult for him, he thought. Now I’m just the opposite, I’m too lax, I let things slide. This isn’t a hotel business with highly experienced headwaiters and cunning elevator boys—good old Studmann will have to adapt himself. I, on the other hand—well, take this case …
He looked around. The field of rye stubble stretched, gray-white, in front of him. The ground beneath his feet seemed to sink a little. The dark starless patch which he saw over there against the sky was the beetroot field, perhaps.
Take this case, he thought. I ought to get to the bottom of it. Me, sir? No, Kowalewski wasn’t being stupid. He really didn’t know anything about it. But why should Sophie try to fool me? What interest’s she got in a prison gang, to make her tell me that tale? Oh, what nonsense! There’s probably some very simple explanation. I’ve enough with this silly love letter in my pocket. I don’t want any more worries. I’ll do my work and worry about nothing. The beetroots …
He stood still. Only another fifty or sixty paces separated him from the beetroot field, which rose like a hill against the starry sky. But dark though the field was, he could make out darker points moving on it. Sometimes a clear echo resounded when a knife struck a stone. Darker points! Pagel tried to count them. Six or seven? Sixteen? Twenty-six? It could have been over thirty! A swarm of locusts, a flying plague, attacking the fields at night …
“If the goat has no fodder …” But these weren’t hungry goats. This was a robber gang—and must be caught!
Pagel’s hand went to his hip pocket. Then he remembered that he had no weapon. Walking more and more slowly, he wondered if he ought to run back and call the others. But he, who had been able to recognize the thieves against the dark background, must long since have been noticed by them, standing out as he did against the lighter rye stubble. If he went for help, they would be gone! The fact that they so calmly saw him approach proved that they thought he was one of them. Or they thought there was no need to be afraid of one man. That way it’s also probably going to go wrong. But in making all these rash decisions he didn’t even hesitate once.
Step by step he advanced, perhaps a little slowly, but not through fear. Now he was quite close. His feet had left the crackling rye stubble; the beetroot leaves hung over his shoes like wet rags. Soon he would have to call out to them.
If I only catch a few, six or eight … he thought. And an idea came to him. Wrenching his jacket open, he snatched the silver cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket and raised it. “Hands up, or I’ll shoot,” he roared.
The case glittered in the starlight.
If only they see it! he thought. If they only see it straight away! It all depends on the first moment. If those near me put their hands up, the others will do the same.
“Hands up!” he shouted again, as loudly as he could. “I’ll put a bullet into the man who doesn’t put his hands up!”
A woman gave a little scream. A man’s very deep voice said: “Here, what’s all this!” But they raised their hands. Scattered over the dark field, the shadowy horde stood, their hands reaching to the starry sky.
I must shout as loud as possible, he thought with feverish excitement, so that they’ll hear in the wheat field. If only they come quick enough!
And he roared at a non-existent man in the rear that, if he lowered his hands again, he’d have a bullet through him. He was gripping the cigarette case so tightly that its sharp edge cut painfully into his flesh. The people, so many around one man, stood like stiff dolls. This attitude did not necessarily mean surrender to fate. It might also have been a threat, and he was overwhelmed by the helplessness of his position: he was holding up thirty people with a ridiculous cigarette case. Only one of them needed to go for him, and they would all be on him. He was not afraid they would beat him to death—but he would be thrashed, the women would tear his hair out, he would become a figure of ridicule, unable to show himself in the village again …
How much time had passed? Do the seconds pass slowly? The minutes? How long had he been standing here, with pretended power among the powerless, who only need remember their strength to humble him? He didn’t know. Time passed so slowly. He stopped shouting and listened. Weren’t they coming yet?
Someone coughed, someone else moved. The man with the deep voice, quite close to Pagel, spoke: “How much longer are we to stand like this, sir? My arms are beginning to ache. What’s going to happen?”
“Be quiet!” shouted Pagel. “You’re all to be quiet, otherwise you’ll get a bullet!” He had to keep saying that. Since he couldn’t even fire a warning shot he must convince them by words of his dangerousness.
But now rescue came! Across the rye stubble Studmann came running, with Kowalewski following.
Breathless, as if it were he who had been running so quickly, Pagel yelled: “Shoot! For God’s sake shoot, Studmann, shoot into the air and show them that we can! I’ve been standing here for ten minutes with my cigarette case in my hand.”
“Good work, Pagel,” said Studmann—and a shot, strangely small and dry under the expanse of heaven, cracked over the heads of the people.
A few laughed. The deep voice said: “Look out, they’re throwing crackers about!” More laughed.
“Form up in twos!” called Studmann. “Get your baskets on your backs! We’re going to the farm, where we shall take your names. Then everyone can go home. Pagel, you lead the way; I’ll bring up the rear. We’d better leave old Kowalewski out of it; he can shuffle along behind. I hope they obey. We can’t go shooting people on account of a few beetroot leaves.”
“Why not?” asked Pagel.
The roles were changed. Pagel still trembled from the excitement; having felt himself threatened, he regarded his supposed threateners as bad lots, almost criminals. Every measure against them seemed justified to him. Studmann, who had seen how the thirty had let themselves be held up by a cigarette case, inferred therefrom the harmlessness of their activities. It was all a mere trifle.
Neither Studmann nor Pagel was
right. The men from Altlohe were certainly no criminals. Yet they were just as certainly determined not to starve, but to get their food where they could find it, since they couldn’t buy anything. They accepted a first surprisal almost good-humoredly. A second might make them vicious. They were hungry—and saw the huge farm where abundance grew. The smallest fraction of the harvest, a little corner of one field, could still their hunger, silence their ever-gnawing worry. The Rittmeister didn’t know how much a goat gobbled up, they said. What difference did a sack of potatoes make to him? This spring he had sent a thousand hundredweights of frozen potatoes to the starch factory. Last year the rye had been so wet when they brought it in that they couldn’t thresh it. It was all rotten—afterwards it had been thrown on the manure heap!
As long as they had been able to purchase their requirements with their wages, they had bought and not stolen. A few lazy rogues had always done a bit of stealing, but they were rogues and regarded as such. But now the people couldn’t buy anything—and there had been the war with its thousands of regulations which no one could ever remember, and its ration cards which only enabled one to go hungry. Many of the men had been at the front, where it had not been a disgrace to “forage” what you needed. The moral standard had gradually grown laxer; it was no longer thought shameful to break the law, unless one were caught doing it. “Don’t let yourself get caught!”—this increasingly popular saying was an indication of the decay in morals. Everything was topsy-turvy. It was still war. Despite the armistice, the Frenchman was still the enemy. Now he had marched into the Ruhr; horrible things were said to be taking place there.
How could these people think otherwise than they did—behave otherwise? When they passed by the Villa and heard the plates rattling they said: “He doesn’t starve! Do we do less work? No, we work more! Then why should we starve and not him?” From this thought sprang hatred. If they had heard the plates rattling like that ten years ago they would have said: “He eats roast lamb, and our salt meat’s like straw.” That was envy. Envy is not a feeling that makes a man pugnacious—but strong haters become strong fighters!
