by Hans Fallada
“My dear Prackwitz,” said Studmann somewhat pointedly, “some people regard others as being good only because it is to their interest to do so. But if you don’t pull yourself together now, and if you let your father-in-law notice that you know anything, then you’re done for!”
“That’s impossible!” cried the Rittmeister. “I must be able to tell him my opinion. It makes my blood boil just to think of him!”
“Then you must simply turn aside if you see him in the distance. Prackwitz, for your wife’s sake, pull yourself together. Promise us you won’t talk or begin a quarrel or let yourself be provoked. Go away, say: ‘Herr von Studmann is looking after that.’ Finished! Your father-in-law would find that much more unpleasant! Leave all business matters to me. I’ll find a way out. Why not begin by taking some gold, plenty of gold—the outcome of your work. We’ll see later what we’ll do in the winter.”
“Herr von Studmann is right,” said Frau von Prackwitz eagerly. “This would be the worst moment to give up the lease. Leave everything to him.”
“Well, I suppose I’m just a fool,” growled the Rittmeister. “There’s a man for you, that Studmann! Understands in three weeks more than I do in three years. I—”
“The men are coming!” Vi exclaimed, bursting into the office with Pagel following slowly.
“There,” said the Rittmeister, glad to escape from the hated office, “they’re coming at last! I was beginning to think there would be difficulties there, too! My dear Pagel, will you see that the fellows get some grub right away, that implements are properly distributed, and all that?”
Pagel looked cheerfully at his employer. “Yes, Herr Rittmeister.” He clicked his heels and went.
“What are you doing, Prackwitz?” asked Studmann. “You’ve given Pagel the sack! He’s supposed to take the three o’clock train.”
“I sack Pagel? Don’t be silly, Studmann! You saw that the boy understood me perfectly. A good dressing-down when a young rip like that gets cheeky—and finish! I’m not the one to bear a grudge, you know.”
“No, you aren’t!” said Studmann. “Well, let’s have a look at the men. I’m anxious to know what a gang of fifty convicts looks like.”
V
Yes, there they came. They emerged just where the highway to Meienburg-Ostade turns into Neulohe, in fours, a warder at the side of every fourth row—and they sang loudly and with feeling the song about the nicest place I have on earth, my mother’s grave.
“Lord, they’re singing, too!” groaned Frau Belinde von Teschow to her friend Jutta at the Manor window. “It isn’t enough that the food for these murderers is to be cooked in my respectable washhouse, I’ve got to listen to their bawling as well! Elias, tell the Geheimrat to come to me. Murderers singing—it’s preposterous!”
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” cried the children in the village, and all who were not at work in the fields left standing everything that stood, let fall everything that would not stand, took up positions in the street, and stared—stared open-eyed and open-mouthed.
The prison authorities had spared no pains in doing the thing well. Despite the bad times, they had given the men fresh clothes. There were no worn-out uniforms made up of patches, no trousers reaching only halfway down the calves of the tall men, or jackets which drowned the short ones—their clothes fitted well, were spick and span, and proudly they sang their song: “We’re bold and bad hussars!”
The people in the village street opened their mouths still wider. Where were the cropped heads they had always heard about? Where were the chains and handcuffs? Where was the sinister brooding silence? Where the angry glance suffused with red? No brand of Cain, no wild-beast look. “Say, ma, going to close your mouth again when you’ve had it open long enough?” one of them shouted, and they all laughed.
No. Neulohe had been expecting too much, at any rate expecting something quite different. Large and small, fat and thin; handsome men, indifferent men, ugly men—all were in high spirits. They had escaped from the dead constraint of iron and cement, were able to see the world again, not merely the little section from the cell window, which even so was forbidden them. The fresh air had enlivened them, the sun had warmed them; no more of gray monotony, but new work, different diet, tobacco, the sight of young girls already, of a woman hastily pulling down her sleeve over a bare arm which had been dipped into the flour tub.
They sang:
The Devil’s Hussars are we,
No deed makes us afraid.
We’ve sinned right merrily,
And loved as well, pretty maid.
The warders were smiling too, glad to escape from their monotonous duty, the continual quarrels, objections, complaints, the unceasing worries about breaches of regulations, the outbreaks and revolts. The men would get enough to eat and smoke, they would be contented, there would be no rows—although one could never be quite certain about that. Almost with benevolence the warders regarded their lads—those to whom they devoted their whole life. After having passed through despair, hatred, indifference, they had almost come to love them. The prisoners looked so smart in their new things, they were so merry, they sang so cheerfully. “Warder, did you see the hare?” “Warder, this lunch time I’m going to have three helpings!” “Warder, what have we got for lunch—roast goose?”
They were like children. There were no murderers, no long-sentence men at all in the gang. Four years was already a lot; most were in for short stretches, and all, or nearly all, had served half their time. There were no desperate criminals among them, none of the big shots of the underworld—but in spite of that, in spite of their singing and gaiety, they were still convicts, that is to say, men whose freedom had been taken from them, a freedom which many of them would do everything, or almost everything, to regain. The officials could never forget that they might perhaps have to risk their own lives in keeping those prisoners from a desired freedom.
My darling said: I love you so,
You must not go from me.
No woman’s arms will hold me, though.
The Devil’s Hussars are we!
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” cried Amanda Backs in the Manor washhouse, and threw the ladle into the pea soup with a splash. “Come on, Sophie, let’s have a look at them. We can see the harvesters’ barracks from the coal cellar.”
“I don’t know why you’re so excited,” replied Sophie coolly. “Convicts—I wouldn’t budge an inch for them. The fellows will give us enough to worry about when they come to get their food. They’re all criminals.”
But she followed Amanda nonetheless, and leaned with her against the dirty coal-cellar hatch. Breathing quickly she looked over, saw the procession and heard the song; but could not see him. Supposing he was not there? Supposing they hadn’t sent him?
“What are you groaning like that for, Sophie?” asked Amanda in surprise.
“I? What do you mean, groaning? I’m not groaning! Why should I be groaning?”
“That’s what I’m asking,” said Amanda rather sharply. For the two were not yet friends, because up to now the question as to who was the cook and who the cook’s help had not been settled.
Behind the convicts came two of the farm wagons, bringing the men’s things; blankets, basins, knives and forks, medicine, water cans, buckets, spades, rakes.… Between the first wagon and the men marched Principal Warder Marofke, alone—a little man but a fine one, commander-in-chief of harvest crew five, Meienburg Prison, in Neulohe, the supreme master of fifty prisoners and four warders. He had very thin, short legs, clad in well-pressed gray trousers. His boots were the only ones which were almost shiny—a prisoner had had to “elbow-grease” them just before the entry into Neulohe. Marofke had a huge potbelly which quivered inside a blue tunic and was belted with a sword strap whereon a saber hung. As for his face, it was as tenderly colored as a young girl’s, white and pink despite his fifty years. At the slightest excitement, however, it turned scarlet. His cat-like bristling mustache
was reddish-yellow, his eyes pale blue, his voice screeching and curt. Yet for all his curtness and sharpness, the principal warder was good-nature itself—so long as his authority was not impugned. Should that happen, he at once became as malicious, as crafty, as vengeful as a panther.
“Company halt!” he screeched.
The convicts stopped.
“About turn!”
They did so, but in no very military way, for in 1923 most men hated anything military. They turned their backs on the harvesters’ barracks and looked toward the staff-house and the farm.
Young Pagel stepped up to the little despot. “Principal Warder Marofke? Your governor has written to us. My name is Pagel, I’m a sort of—apprentice here. If I may present you to the boss, he is standing over there.” Under the last trees of the park, next to the staff-house, stood the Rittmeister with his family and Herr von Studmann.
Bloated with pride, as if every step lifted him from the lowly earth, Principal Warder Marofke approached the Rittmeister. He clicked his heels together, raised his hand to his cap and announced: “Principal Warder Marofke, at your service, Herr Rittmeister; with two warders, two assistant warders and fifty convicts forming harvest crew number five!”
“Thank you, principal warder,” said the Rittmeister graciously, looking at the little fellow with amusement. “Ex-soldier, eh?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister. Twenty-third Transport Section.
“Transport, eh? Of course. Obvious.” A spark glimmered in the principal warder’s eye. “At the front?”
“No, Herr Rittmeister. I had …”
“Whooping-cough? All right! Well, let the men go to their quarters, principal warder. Lunch is probably ready. You’ll look after everything, Pagel, eh? And see that they do some solid work, principal warder, I don’t want to have spent all this money for nothing. Thank you.”
Flaming red, the other went back to his men.
Studmann and Frau von Prackwitz exchanged a glance. Frau von Prackwitz in despair shrugged her shoulders. Studmann whispered soothingly: “I’ll set it right again.”
“Even you can’t set everything right.” Frau von Prackwitz had tears in her eyes.
“What are you pulling faces for?” the Rittmeister asked, turning round. “Queer stick, that principal warder. Got a big idea of himself. A shirker, of course. Well, I’ll put the fellow through it, I’ll show him what service is. Come along, Eva, come along, Vi. Afternoon, Studmann. Must try to get something into my stomach, too—you’ve successfully taken away my appetite this morning. Well, good afternoon!”
VI
“Why does he call me ‘principal warder’—can you tell me that?” the little principal warder asked Pagel heatedly. “We’re not on a parade ground here, he’s not my superior!”
They were sitting in Marofke’s room. In the barracks the prisoners were making an uproar, laughing, swearing, singing, nailing up on the wall photographs of their sweethearts and smuggled pictures of film stars, whistling, putting up beds, already clattering with their tinny knives and forks.
“We want grub!” shouted a voice.
“Like a cigarette?” But Herr Marofke politely refused. “You ought to have a nice cover on your table,” said Pagel, surveying the room. “A few other things, too, mirror, pictures, ash trays. You should shake the young girls up a bit—well, you’ll get round them all right. I suppose you’ve had plenty of experience with young girls.”
“If the governor says to me ‘principal warder,’ then it’s all right. But he—he hasn’t any right to. I could also say to him ‘Rittmeister.’ I’d like to see what sort of face he’d make then!”
“We want grub!” Spoons began to beat on cooking utensils.
“The boss is a queer chap,” said Pagel. “An hour ago he kicked me out. It’s true, Herr Marofke, sacked me on the spot for laughing while on duty. I’m not pulling your leg, word of honor! Well, I suppose he felt sorry for me, and keeps me on because I’ve nowhere else to go. But since he’s still angry he calls me ‘Herr.’ When he’s in a good mood he just says ‘Pagel’ or ‘young rip.’ ”
Pagel sprawled comfortably over the table, blowing very artistic smoke rings and not looking at Herr Marofke at all. The officer scrutinized him suspiciously. “Why does he talk about whooping-cough to me? When I’ve got a double rupture in the groin! It isn’t everyone can get a wound!”
“Poof!” said Pagel scornfully. “Wounds are nothing to the Rittmeister! He calls them whooping-cough, too. It’s just his way of speaking. Forget it.”
“We want grub!” The shouts outside were louder.
“What does mean anything to the Rittmeister, then?” asked the principal warder curiously. “I never heard that before, calling wounds whooping-cough. Supposing a man’s leg has been amputated?”
“He calls it whooping-cough, too. Well, forget it. It’s not worth worrying about. Herr Marofke, I want to ask you a great favor.”
“Yes?”
“When you take your men to fetch their food you’ll see two girls in the kitchen. I’ve got a crush on one of them, so be a sport and don’t queer my pitch for me. The other one’s also quite pretty.”
“My boy, it’s as you say. Don’t be afraid!” Herr Marofke felt very flattered.
“That’s decent of you,” Pagel blurted out in confusion.
“Man, when I was your age! I don’t know what’s wrong with you young men today. At your age I wouldn’t have gone begging to a fifty-year-old like myself. Still, consider it done. No need to be embarrassed. I’ll also keep an eye on the warders—two of them are unmarried; you tip me off which girl is yours. I think I’ll fetch the food myself.”
“We want grub! We want grub!”
“Yes, it’s time. Tell me quickly, what’s wrong with your boss? You don’t mind if we’re pals, do you? Of course, when the others are around we’ll have to be a bit stand-offish to each other.”
“Pals we are, Herr Marofke! And the boss—but you must promise not to breathe a word on any account.”
“Me? I don’t talk. I’m an official—even the public prosecutor can’t get a word out of me.”
“Good. Entirely between ourselves, the boss was buried alive in the war. When they dragged him from the dugout they thought he was dead. Ever since then—”
“Yes, that’s what he looks like—a warmed-up corpse!”
“Ever since then he’s got ‘buried alive’ on the brain. Everything else he calls whooping-cough!”
“So your boss is loony! All right—don’t be afraid, I won’t give you away.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Herr von Studmann. “Well, everything in order? Satisfied, officer? House solid enough? I don’t think any of your fellows will get away from here. Excuse me, my name is von Studmann. I’m sort of business manager here. If you need anything, no matter what, if there’s anything wrong with the food, you can always come to me—it’s better not to bother the Rittmeister with such matters.”
The principal warder gave young Pagel a glance full of understanding. “Yes, sir; I wonder if I could have a tablecloth and an ash tray?”
“You shall have everything you want,” said Herr von Studmann pleasantly. “We’d like you to feel comfortable here. Pagel, go and get your lunch; it’s already on the table. The officer and I will supervise the sharing out of the food.”
Pagel gave the principal warder a glance of profound disappointment, but, at the other’s amiable nod, he said: “Right, Herr von Studmann,” and disappeared.
“Warder Siemens!” the principal warder screeched into the passage. “Have four men ready to get the food. Choose old men, married; there are pretty girls in the kitchen.”
Laughter and cat-calls arose in the barracks.
“Who told you about the pretty girls?” asked von Studmann in surprise. “Was it young Pagel?”
“A prison official has to know everything,” smirked the principal warder. “I have to be on the look-out with the boys—they get up to all sorts of trick
s!”
“You haven’t told me where you got your information from, officer,” said von Studmann dryly. “It was Pagel, wasn’t it?”
“Well,” said the principal warder patronizingly, “I think the young fellow is in love. Between ourselves, in strictest confidence, he asked me to keep an eye on his girl.”
“Really!” Studmann was very surprised. “Which of the two is it? Amanda or Sophie? Of course, it’s Sophie, isn’t it?”
“He hasn’t told me yet. He was going to point her out when we went to fetch the food, but then you came along.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” laughed Studmann. “Well, he’ll be able to do it some other time.” Thoughtfully he followed the principal warder, and listened to a somewhat excited dispute as to why there were not four elderly married men detailed to fetch the food, but only three—the fourth man was young, with an unpleasantly smooth handsome face, shifty eyes and a too strong chin.
“I don’t want Liebschner!” shouted Herr Marofke. “When I say elderly men it doesn’t mean Liebschner. He’s wormed his way in—you don’t belong to my gang at all; you should be in your cell making mats! Brandt’s got boils on his feet and can’t get the food. I’ve got a boil too—in my stomach—but I can get it.” Applause and roars of laughter. “If I catch you fetching food again, Liebschner, you’ll march straight back to solitary! Understand? Hey, you there, Wendt, grab hold of the food-bin! March!”
Herr Studmann listened attentively. But he completely misheard it. It went in one ear and out the other. Studmann was thinking about Pagel. Young Pagel interested him. Studmann was one of those men who have to think and brood over something, but never over themselves. He did everything that had to be done, quite naturally, and was a completely uninteresting man. Pagel, however, was very interesting. Studmann had observed him carefully; the youngster did his work well, was always good-tempered, and adapted himself surprisingly to the unaccustomed farm life. Pulled his weight. He had been a gambler, but nothing indicated that he was longing to gamble again. He had no weakness for alcohol. He smoked too much, but that was a modern disease from which even Studmann was not free. Continually lighting up, puffing away. Yes, there was nothing wrong with young Pagel. He did his job!
