by Hans Fallada
The Rittmeister paid no heed. “As if you were purposely creating difficulties for me!”
“Me—create difficulties for you?”
“But, Studmann, think! Where am I to get the money from? First there are these crazy expenses for the reconstruction of the harvesters’ barracks, then this Berlin fellow with seven hundred gold marks whom you think I shall have to pay something, and now Pagel.… My dear Studmann, I’m not made of money! I haven’t got a machine for printing bank notes, I haven’t got a mint, I can’t sweat money out of my ribs—yet you come along with these exorbitant demands. I don’t understand you.”
“Prackwitz,” said Studmann eagerly, “Prackwitz, sit down at once in this chair at the desk. There—comfortable? Good! Wait a moment. You’ll soon see something. I must just take a look at Pagel’s room.”
“But what’s the idea?” The Rittmeister was completely bewildered.
Studmann had disappeared into Pagel’s room and could be heard rummaging around. What was wrong with him? A serious business talk, and he started this nonsense!
“No, sit where you are,” cried Studmann, hurrying back. “Now you’ll see something.… What’s this?”
Somewhat foolishly the Rittmeister said: “A shaving mirror. Probably Pagel’s. But what in Heaven’s name—”
“Wait, Prackwitz! Whom do you see in the mirror?”
“Why, myself.” Like all men, he stroked his chin and listened to the soft scraping of the stubble. Then he shifted his tie. “But …”
“Who is this ‘me’? Who are you?”
“Now, look here, Studmann …”
“Since you don’t seem to know, Prackwitz, I’ll tell you. The man looking at you in the mirror is the most unbusinesslike, the most childlike, the most inexperienced man I have ever met in my life.”
“I beg you!” said the Rittmeister with injured dignity. “I certainly don’t want to underestimate your services, Studmann, but I managed Neulohe successfully even before you came here.”
“Hark at him!” said Studmann energetically. “In order to avoid hurting your feelings—for if I wasn’t your real friend, Prackwitz, I would pack up and go this very minute—let’s call the gentleman in question Herr Mirror. Herr Mirror goes to Berlin to engage men. He finds his way to a gambling den. Against the advice of his friend, he gambles. When he has been cleaned out he borrows about two thousand gold marks from a young man and loses that, too. The young man becomes Herr Mirror’s employee. He is very decent, he never says a word about the money, although he probably needs money very badly, for his cigarettes get worse every day, Prackwitz. Then Herr Mirror kicks the young man out and complains at having to pay him.”
“But he laughed at me, Studmann! Take your damn mirror away.”
“Herr Mirror,” continued Studmann pitilessly, keeping the mirror in front of the Rittmeister’s face despite his attempts to avoid it, “Herr Mirror engages men in Berlin. He expressly tells the agent: ‘Doesn’t matter what they look like, doesn’t matter what they know’! But when Herr Mirror sees the men he gets a shock, and rightly. But instead of trying to come to some settlement with the agent, Herr Mirror avoids the dispute, flies from the enemy, afraid of an open combat—”
“Studmann!”
“And then blames the whole world, with the exception of himself, because he has to pay.”
“I’m not blaming you, Studmann. I’m only asking you: Where am I to get the money from?”
“But these are trifles,” said Studmann, laying down the mirror. “The important thing, the unpleasant thing, comes now.”
“Good Lord, Studmann. No, not now, please. I’ve had enough irritation for one morning. Besides, the men will be here at any moment.”
“The men can …” said Herr von Studmann violently. “You’ve got to listen now, Prackwitz. It’s no use your trying to get out of it; you can’t run around in the world like a blind chicken.” He went to the window. “Oh, Frau von Prackwitz, could you come in for a moment?”
Frau von Prackwitz looked doubtfully at Vi, then at Studmann. “Is it so important?”
“My wife isn’t needed here,” protested the Rittmeister. “She doesn’t understand a thing about business.”
“She understands more than you,” Studmann whispered back. “Pagel! Look after the young Fräulein for a bit. Fine. Come along, Frau von Prackwitz.”
A little reluctantly, Frau von Prackwitz stepped toward the office. From the threshold she looked back at the two young people.
“Where would the young Fräulein like to go?” asked Pagel.
“Oh, just up and down in front of the windows.”
Frau von Prackwitz entered the office.
III
“Would you perhaps like to see the huge cooking arrangements in the Manor?” asked Pagel. “There’s terrific activity there now.”
“I’ve got to go there with Mamma afterwards. Who is doing the cooking?”
“Fräulein Backs and Fräulein Kowalewski.”
“I can understand Amanda doing it. But I should have thought Sophie considered herself a cut above cooking for convicts!”
“Everyone likes to earn a little money nowadays.”
“You don’t seem to, if you run around here smoking during working hours,” snapped Violet.
“Does my cigarette disturb you?” asked Pagel, taking it out of his mouth.
“Not at all. I like smoking myself. When the people in the office have forgotten us, we can sneak away into the park for a bit. Then you can give me one.”
“We can go straight away. Or do you think your mother considers me too dangerous to be allowed to walk in the park with you?”
“You dangerous!” Vi laughed. “No, but, you see, I’m supposed to be confined to my room.”
“You are allowed to go only with your Mamma, then?”
“How clever you are!” she cried mockingly. “For three weeks the whole district has been talking about my being confined to my room, and now you’ve noticed it, too.”
But her irritation made no impression on him. He smiled cheerfully. “May one inquire why you are confined to your room? Was it for something very bad?”
“Don’t be indiscreet!” she said very pertly. “A gentleman is never indiscreet.”
“I suppose I shall never be a gentleman, Fräulein,” confessed Pagel sadly, feeling his breast pocket with a secret smile. “But if you think the people in the office are talking loud enough, we might steal into the park and smoke a cigarette.”
“Wait.” She listened. Studmann’s voice could be heard, calm but very emphatic. Then the Rittmeister was plaintively protesting against something—and now Frau von Prackwitz was saying a great deal, very determined, very clear. “Mamma’s off, let’s go!”
They walked along the broad path between the lawns into the park.
“They can’t see us now. Now you can give me a cigarette.… Heavens, this is a wonderful brand you smoke. How much do they cost?”
“Some millions, I can’t remember; it changes every day. Anyway I get them from a friend, a certain Herr von Zecke who lives in Haidar-Pascha. Do you know where Haidar-Pascha is?”
“How should I know? I’m not training to be a teacher of kids!”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry.… Haidar-Pascha is on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus.”
“Heavens, Herr Pagel, stop talking such rubbish! Why do you keep grinning like that? Whenever I look at you, you’re grinning.”
“It’s a war injury, Fräulein. Injury of the nervus sympathicus in its central canal. You know, just as shell-shock cases shake, so I grin.”
“Are you trying to pull my leg?” she cried indignantly. “I won’t have it.”
“But, Fräulein, word of honor, it’s a war injury. When I cry it looks as if I were laughing tears—it has got me into the most unpleasant situations.”
“One doesn’t know where one is with you,” she declared, dissatisfied. “Men like you are simply horrible.”
“That makes me harmless; that’s an advantage, Fräulein.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt it!” she said scornfully. “I’d really like to know how you would go about it if …”
“Go about what? Go on, say it! Or are you afraid?”
“Afraid of you? Don’t be ridiculous! I was wondering how you’d look if you wanted to give a girl a kiss.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” confessed Pagel miserably. “To tell you the truth, Fräulein, I’ve thought about it thousands of times, but I’m so shy, and then …”
“What!” Vi gave him a superior look. “You’ve never yet given a girl a kiss?”
“I’ve intended to hundreds of times, Fräulein, word of honor! But at the decisive moment my courage …”
“How old are you?”
“Nearly twenty-four.”
“And you’ve never yet kissed a girl?”
“I’m telling you, Fräulein, my shyness …”
“Coward!” she cried with the deepest contempt. And for a while they walked in silence down the avenue of tall lime trees which led to the pond.
“Fräulein, may I ask you something?”
Ungraciously: “Well, what is it?—hero!”
“But you mustn’t be angry with me.”
“What is the question?”
“Sure you won’t?”
Very impatiently: “No! What’s the question?”
“Well—how old are you, Fräulein?”
“You idiot! Sixteen.”
“You see, you are angry—and I’m just beginning my questions.”
Stamping her foot: “Well, get on with them—you weakling!”
“You’re sure you won’t be angry?”
“Ask your questions!”
“Fräulein—have you ever kissed a man?”
“I?” She pondered. “Of course. Hundreds of times.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Thousands of times!”
“You’re joking!”
“It’s true. My Papa!” And she burst into a peal of laughter.
“There you are!” said Pagel when she had finally quieted down. “You haven’t the courage either.”
Vi was indignant. “I haven’t got the courage?”
“No, you’re just as afraid as I am.”
“Well, I have kissed a man. And not just Papa. A young man, a brave man”—her voice almost sang now—“not a weakling like you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true, it’s true. He’s even got a mustache, a little fair one, it prickles. And you haven’t got one!”
“I see,” said Pagel, crestfallen. “And you’re really only sixteen, Fräulein?”
“I’m only fifteen, even,” she declared in triumph.
“I say, but you have got courage,” he said admiringly. “I could never be as brave as that. But, of course, you have never kissed a man. You only let yourself be kissed. That is quite different. To get hold of a man’s head and smother him with kisses—you couldn’t do that.”
“I couldn’t do that?” she cried with blazing eyes. “What do you think of me, then?”
He lowered his glance before hers. “Please, Fräulein! I haven’t said anything. Of course you could do it, I believe you. Please, don’t …” But he pleaded in vain. Her flaming eyes, her half-opened mouth, came closer to him, although he tried to retreat. Her mouth laid itself on his.…
And she felt a change come over him, as if her lips had given strength to him. She felt herself crushed in his arms, his lips returned her kiss.… Now she wanted to draw away, now she was afraid.… But the kiss of those lips grew hotter and hotter; she wanted to resist, and she felt herself yielding. Her head, which had been proudly erect, gave way, nestled.… Her back became soft, she hung in his arms.… “Oh!” she sighed and sank into the ecstasy she had missed for so long. “Oh, you …”
But his arms ceased to hold her. His face was again far away; it looked serious, no longer wearing the smile.
“Well, Fräulein, that was that!” he said calmly. “Anyone as weak as you shouldn’t play with men.”
“You are mean!” she cried with flaming cheeks, partly from anger and partly from shame. “A gentleman wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“It was mean,” he admitted. “But there was something I had to know about you, and you would never have told me the truth. Now I know it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket. “I found this letter, this copy of a letter, in the office hidden in a book. I suppose it was yours?”
“Oh, that silly old letter!” she cried scornfully. “That’s why you’re carrying on this performance. Meier must be crazy, making a copy of it. You should have torn the thing up, instead of deceiving me so horribly.”
Pagel looked at her critically while he tore the letter into tiny pieces. “There,” he said, putting the little heap into his pocket. “I shall burn it at once. But there is at least still one copy in existence, and if this Herr Meier sends it to your father, what then?”
“Anyone could type out a thing like that!”
“Quite so! But you are confined to your room—it seems therefore that there is already a suspicion. Without the suspicion the copy would carry little weight. But with it?”
“I’ve got the original back. If I admit nothing, nothing can be proved.”
“But you might be outwitted.”
“Not me.”
“I outwitted you very quickly.”
“They’re not all as crafty as you.”
“Little Fräulein,” said Pagel with kindly admonition, “let’s agree that from now on you’ll be just as polite to me as I am to you. Let’s forget the letter which I have torn up. What I did, doesn’t seem very nice. But it was better, anyway, than if I’d gone to your mother and told tales. Perhaps I ought to have done so, but I didn’t care for that.”
“Don’t be so solemn!” she mocked. “You’ve probably also written love letters and received them.” But her mockery no longer had its old force.
“Very true,” he said calmly, “but I’ve never been a scoundrel. I’ve never yet corrupted fifteen-year-old girls. Come along,” he seized her arm, “let’s go to your mother. She’s sure to be getting worried.”
“Herr Pagel,” she said imploring, resisting. “He’s not a scoundrel.”
“Of course he is, and you know it quite well, too.”
“No,” she declared, struggling with her tears. “Why are you all so unkind to me now? Before it was different!”
“Who is unkind to you?”
“Mamma, who is eternally tormenting me, and Hubert.”
“Who is Hubert? Is Hubert his name?”
“No. Our servant, Hubert Räder.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes,” she said weeping. “Please let go my arm, Herr Pagel, you are crushing it.”
“Sorry. So the servant torments you, does he?”
“Yes.… He is so mean.”
“And who else knows?”
“No one that knows anything definite.”
“Not Bailiff Meier?”
“Oh, him! But he’s gone away!”
“Then he knows too? Who else?”
“The forester—but he doesn’t know anything definite.”
“Who else?”
“No one—really, Herr Pagel! Don’t look at me like that, I’ve told you everything. Really I have.”
“And the servant torments you? How does he torment you?”
“He is mean—he says mean things, and he puts dirty books under my pillow.”
“What sort of books?”
“I don’t know—about marriage, with pictures.”
“Come along,” said Pagel again, seizing her arm. “Be brave. Now we shall go to your parents and tell them everything. You have fallen into the hands of scoundrels who torture you till you no longer know what to do. Your parents will understand. They are only angry with you because they feel you are lying.… Come along, Fräulein, be brave—I’m th
e coward of the two.” And he smiled at her.
“Please, please, dear Herr Pagel, don’t do that!” Her face was streaming with tears; she had seized his hands as if he were wanting to run away with the bad news, she caressed him … “If you tell my parents, I swear to you I’ll jump into the water. Why do you want to tell them? It’s all over, anyway.”
“It’s all over?”
“Yes, yes,” she wept. “He hasn’t come for three weeks.”
He became thoughtful. Inevitably the vanished Petra stood before his eyes. When he had felt those lips under his own, felt that body soften as it surrendered itself to the seduction of pleasure, not to the ecstasy of love—her picture had arisen, distant but clear; a face sweet and composed, greeting him from the past. Reluctantly he found himself forced to make comparisons. What would Petra have done here? Would she have said that? She would never have behaved so.…
And the sweet face, seen a thousand times, the face of the girl who had forsaken him, whom he had forsaken, triumphed over this other schoolgirl face, and seemed to admonish him to kindness. She triumphed—and this triumph of the one who had abandoned him at least warned him to be good to this new one, and not to burden her with everything. If you’ve been too hard on me, he heard in his head, don’t do the same thing again to this one.
He reflected and considered. She read his face.
“What is he?” he asked.
“A Lieutenant.”
“In the Reichswehr?”
“Yes.”
“Do your parents know him?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know for certain.”
Again he pondered. The fact that it was an officer, that is to say a man who, whatever he might be, was subject to a certain code of honor, was a little reassuring. If the young fellow had once forgotten himself and had withdrawn in fright, then to some extent it wasn’t so bad; just a momentary lapse, perhaps when he was drunk—no repetition need be feared. But he ought to find out. Could one, however, ask such a young girl whether it had only happened once, whether there had been any sequel? If it had happened several times, it was scoundrelism. Then he would have to tell her parents.
No, he did not like asking. Perhaps he would have to reproach himself afterwards, but he could not.
“You are sure it is over?”
