by Hans Fallada
And yet there was something wrong. There was no life in him; he was never enthusiastic, never angry. The fellow was twenty-three years old—he couldn’t go on running around with that half-hidden smile forever, regarding himself and everything as unimportant, as if the whole world were a swindle and he the one who had discovered it! He was, when you came to think of it, like a man seen through a veil, hazy, vague—as if he were just vegetating, as if his emotions were paralyzed.
Herr von Studmann had at first thought that this lack of vivacity was a temporary phase. Pagel was a convalescent. He had had a love affair from which he still suffered. Perhaps it had been wrong to forbid any mention of it, but Studmann was of the opinion that wounds should be left to heal.
And now came this news that Pagel was in love again, that he spoke to others about it, that he thought of a girl with anxiety. In that case everything was quite different; in that case something was rotten in the State of Denmark; in that case he was no convalescent, but merely a lazy-bones, an indolent fellow who must be urged into activity. Studmann decided to observe Pagel much more closely and to handle him in a more comradely way. There was still an invisible wall between them. A twenty-three-year-old lad with no close contact to any other person in the world, and didn’t even want any contact—that was nothing but weird. Twenty-three is surely no age to be a hermit! As far as Studmann knew, Pagel had not even written to his mother yet—that was not right; he would start on that first. All his nursemaid’s instincts were suddenly awakened. Herr von Studmann felt he had a task, and he would ponder over it and perform it.
Had Studmann ever thought about himself, he would have realized that he was eagerly rushing into this new task because he had failed with the old. After the morning’s discussion he had, without knowing it, given the Rittmeister up. The Rittmeister could not be saved, he was an incorrigible hothead—rescued from one rashness, he plunged into the next. He was a child that would never learn its lesson and the teacher was obliged to give up his job. When the lieutenant thinks about the Rittmeister, he no longer thinks, another step forward, but, now what’s he going to get up to? He did not want to forsake the Rittmeister (there was a wife and a daughter, both desirable problems), but a riddle that one wanted to solve, and which turns out to be no riddle at all, but a mass of contradictions, has no more attraction.
Thoughtfully Herr von Studmann let a friendly glance rest alternately on Amanda Backs and Sophie Kowalewski. Amanda, sturdy as a strong-boned Belgian horse, seemed to him out of the question, although one could never judge another’s tastes. Sophie, however, was quite pretty, though on closer inspection he found that her girlish features now and then acquired something sharp and evil, when her eyes became like pin-points, her voice almost hoarse. As when she now said to Principal Warder Marofke: “Is that supposed to mean we’re not trusted?”
Herr Marofke might perhaps be a queer stick, one that might break easily, but he was also an experienced prison official. One could have fared worse. He had made the four food carriers and his colleague Siemens wait outside the wash-house; he had made the girls give him a spoonful to taste; he had even praised them. “This is good stuff! This’ll please my lads.” Then he had told them to withdraw to the cellar passage before the men came in. At which Fräulein Sophie had asked very angrily: “Is that supposed to mean we’re not trusted?”
“Of course not,” said little Marofke very pleasantly. “That applies to all women—not just such pretty little ones!”
Sophie Kowalewski threw her head back angrily. “We wouldn’t get mixed up with convicts like that! You needn’t think that about us!”
“But my boys would be very glad to get mixed up with you, Fräulein,” explained the principal warder.
“Come on, Sophie!” urged Amanda. “I’m not so keen on seeing the fellows.”
Sophie was strangely obstinate—she had lost her head. Merely in order to discover at once whether he had come, she risked everything. Why had she asked for the job in this ugly old kitchen, disfigured her well-kept hands with potato peeling and splashing in cold water, given up her leisure—if she wasn’t to meet him here? She had come off worse than all the others now: if she had stood outside the harvesters’ barracks or in the village street, then at least she would have seen him marching by!
She risked everything, she even rashly tried to take advantage of her good relations with Herr von Studmann. “The warder can’t send me out of my own kitchen, can he, Herr von Studmann?”
Studmann could not find the key to this riddle! “Be sensible, Fräulein Sophie,” he said pleasantly, “don’t make the officer’s duty more difficult than it is.”
And he was surprised at the angry look Sophie gave the principal warder, a look full of hatred. Why in all the world should Sophie hate this little potbellied fellow? But now, since everything had been in vain, Sophie put as good a face on it as she could.
“Of course I don’t mind leaving my kitchen if I’m told,” she said, withdrawing. “Only Amanda and I can’t be responsible for anything—madam has checked up everything with us, cloths and pots.” With that the two girls were gone.
The principal warder called in his men, who carefully transferred into their bin the food that was laid out. “I thought at first the slim one was Herr Pagel’s girl,” Herr Marofke whispered. “But it must be the other. The pretty one’s keen on my boys, keen as poison. I’ll keep an eye on her, she wants to get off.”
“No, no,” protested Herr von Studmann, not quite convinced. “I know Fräulein Sophie, she’s a very decent girl.” But was that true? In the train she had made an extremely bad impression on him.
“You’ve no idea,” said the principal warder as they walked back to the barracks behind the food carriers, “how queer women are. Some of them go crazy for our lads … just because they’re convicts! Previously in winter we swept the snow from the streets in Meienburg. You can’t imagine the tricks some women got up to then, so as to smuggle in letters. Take it from me, Herr von Studmann, women are a perfect puzzle, and the pretty slim one …”
“Quite so,” said Herr von Studmann from time to time. He also found it puzzling. But he would soon find the solution. For a while he stood in the common-room to see how the men liked their food. Yes, they liked it. While they were gobbling up one helping they were squinting at the bin, wondering whether there was a second and possibly a third helping in it. The climax, the tit-bit, however, was the salt potatoes. Potatoes not boiled in the soup, where they only got hard, but boiled separately in a huge pot. The lads hadn’t had that since they had been “inside.” Some rolled the hot potatoes from one hand to another, and ate them like that, without soup, as soon as they had cooled a little.
“Fine, governor!” they called out to Studmann. “Couldn’t you get them to make us potatoes in their jackets, and herring?”
“You shall have it,” promised Studmann.
“I like my herrings with cream,” one voice cried.
“All nice on ice, eh, governor?”
“I must have a woman with my potatoes,” called a third, “to peel the skins. Could you do that, governor?”
A burst of laughter.
That was how they were, no worse and no better. Familiar and impudent, easily contented and greedy. They’re very like children, thought Herr von Studmann, but without their innocence. Now they clamoured around him. Their hunger satisfied, they begged for tobacco. Tobacco, the best thing in the world so long as one is deprived of it; a matter of course when one has it. They knew they had no claim on Studmann until they had worked a week: each man was due to have two packets of tobacco next Sunday. But in that they were like children; a joy which will only come tomorrow, which will only come on Sunday, is no joy—they must have it at once!
And Studmann let himself be persuaded, he promised to send over young Pagel with fifty packets of tobacco, and went off to the staff-house. The prisoners thought him a fine fellow. “We’ll milk him properly,” they said. “He’s the sort you’ve
got to treat nice.” They gabbled away, making a terrific din, till the warders interfered. Discipline mustn’t be relaxed. “You’re not here on holiday, you’ve got to work!”
When Herr von Studmann entered the office, he saw Herr von Teschow and young Pagel in close conversation. The two men, the oldest and youngest farmers in Neulohe, seemed to be getting on excellently: they both had very pleased faces.
“I was just telling your friend,” boomed out Herr von Teschow, “what I used to get to eat when I was a young rip like him. Pork cutlets with spinach on a blasted week-day? Heavens, no! Warmed up dumplings three times a week! In the end we threw them at the ceiling where they stuck, they were that pasty. When I left the farm they were still sticking there.”
“And what did you actually eat?” asked Studmann politely, all the more so since he was extremely angry. For every possible document relating to that morning’s discussion with the Rittmeister lay open on the desk. There was nothing suspicious, but the old man was cunning; he could guess a whole plan of campaign from a hint.
“We stole like ravens!” said Herr von Teschow. “Larder, smoke house, apple bin—we had pass-keys to every nook and cranny!”
“So that in the end pork cutlets with spinach is still more economical for the employer,” said Studmann dryly. “Pagel, would you mind taking fifty packets of tobacco to the barracks?”
“They’re starting well!” boomed the Geheimrat. “Not a stroke of work yet, the rascals, and already fifty packets of tobacco! I’d also like to be one of your workers. Well, I won’t say anything.”
Pagel disappeared, waving his hand cheerfully to the Geheimrat. Studmann looked at Herr von Teschow challengingly, for the old man had sat himself in Studmann’s chair at the desk, immediately in front of the scattered letters. But the owner of Neulohe did not budge. Studmann picked up the letters and began putting them away.
“The rubbish wouldn’t have bothered me,” said the old man patronizingly. “No letters bother me if I don’t have to answer them. But I suppose you like writing letters, eh?”
Studmann murmured something. It might have been a reply, or it might not.
“I always say a farmer needn’t know how to write at all. Read a little, perhaps, so that he can follow the prices of corn and livestock in the papers, but write! What for? So that they can sign bad bills of exchange, eh? All education is an invention of the Reds! Tell me, what good does it do a farm hand to be able to write? It makes him dissatisfied, that’s all.”
“Was everybody satisfied before?” asked Studmann. He was now leaning against the stove, smoking. He really ought to have been out on the farm, to see how things were going, but he would wait patiently to hear what the old man wanted. If he himself did not listen to it, the Rittmeister would have to, and then the business would be certain to go wrong.
“Of course not!” said the old man. “Of course they weren’t satisfied before. Men are born to bleat, Herr Studmann! When a man’s born he bleats away like a kid, and when he dies he rattles like an old goat. And in between he just goes on bleating. No, of course we weren’t satisfied before. But there’s a difference. Before, everyone merely wanted more than he had; today everyone wants what someone else has got!”
“There’s some truth in that,” assented Studmann and horridly wondered what he would like that others now had. He even thought of something.
“Of course there’s some truth in it,” said the old man triumphantly, now very pleased. Young Pagel had done him good, and Herr von Studmann also. They were both decent chaps—not like his son-in-law.
“Listen, Herr von Studmann,” he said good-naturedly, “we’re talking of bleating. Now take my old woman, she bleats too. That’s why I’m sitting here.”
Studmann looked at him inquiringly.
“Yes, Herr von Studmann, you’re lucky, you’re a bachelor. But I’m an old man. This time it’s your Devil’s hussars!”
“Who?”
“Those convicts. That’s what they call themselves. Since they arrived she won’t let me rest! ‘Horst-Heinz, I won’t tolerate it, convicts in our dear Neulohe! Whenever I look out of the window I see them; and they are all murderers and thieves, and now they’re singing, too—murderers shouldn’t be allowed to sing.’ ”
“So far as I’ve heard, the songs they sing are quite clean.”
“That’s what I told her, Herr von Studmann! My very words! They even sing ‘Sitting at my parents’ grave,’ I told her. But no, she won’t hear of murderers singing. Murderers must repent for the rest of their lives, she thinks.”
“There aren’t any murderers among them!” Studmann spoke with a trace of irritation, for he noticed that this chatter was intended to lead up to something more serious. “They are thieves and swindlers, all with relatively short sentences and good-conduct marks.”
“My very words, Herr von Studmann, exactly what I told my wife. But you try telling a woman something when she’s got something else in her head! ‘Why are they in the penitentiary if they aren’t murderers?’ she says. ‘There are ordinary prisons for thieves.’ I can’t explain the whole penal code to the woman!”
“So what’s to be done?” asked Studmann. “What does Frau von Teschow want?”
“Then there’s the matter of our washhouse,” continued the Geheimrat. “Well, my wife placed it at your disposal for the cooking. But now she doesn’t want to. You don’t know how these things are, you bachelors. She’s moaning about her beautiful copper in which our washing’s usually boiled, not the food for your lot. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, of course they are not your lot. And she thinks it is not right for Amanda to spend only half her time on the poultry. This morning there weren’t so many eggs as yesterday.”
“The chickens certainly didn’t know this morning that the convicts were coming,” said Studmann with a smile.
“You’re right there! Ha-ha-ha!” The old man slapped his hand resoundingly on the desk. “I must tell that to my wife. That’ll put her back up! Marvelous! The chickens didn’t know! My wife has a weak spot for you, Herr von Studmann—well, this’ll cure her. Really excellent!”
Studmann was extremely annoyed at his mistake. The old man, with all his parade of honesty, was such a big scoundrel, exploiting every slip ruthlessly—well, one simply had to be more careful than ever. And never lose patience, for that was all he desired. “We don’t want our men to be a burden to your wife,” he said politely. “We’ll do what we can. We’ll give up the washhouse. We can set up a kitchen somewhere else, in the fodder room or in the Villa—I’ll see. Amanda shall be released. I’ll take Frau Hartig to help Fräulein Kowalewski.”
“Sophie?” cried the old man in astonishment. “Didn’t you know? Well, you do know a lot about your own business! Sophie was standing in the cellar passage, sobbing out that your warder had insulted her, she wasn’t going to work any more. Of course, I tried to calm her down, but you know what these girls are …”
“Thanks for trying to calm her down, Herr Geheimrat,” said Studmann a little sharply. “I’ll also find a substitute for Sophie. I shall forbid singing in the barracks. That would dispose of every objection, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s nice of you,” cried the old man, beaming. “It’s a pleasure to deal with you. If it had been my son-in-law, there would have been a fine row. But,” the Geheimrat shook his head sadly, “unfortunately that isn’t all, Herr von Studmann. When my wife sits at the window and sees these convicts’ uniforms, it upsets her. She’s an old woman; I must be considerate with her.”
“Unfortunately I am not allowed to dress the men differently,” said Studmann. “Otherwise I would have done that, too, you may be sure. But the Manor has four fronts—couldn’t your wife choose a window somewhere else?”
“My dear Herr von Studmann,” replied the Geheimrat, “my wife has sat at her window for, let’s say, roughly fifty years. You really can’t expect her to change in her old days just because you’ve imported convicts into Neulohe!”
“What do you want us to do?” asked Studmann.
“Why, Herr von Studmann,” said the old Geheimrat, beaming, “send the men back to where they belong—to the prison! Today, if possible!”
“What about the harvest?” cried Studmann, horrified.
The Geheimrat smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t ask this seriously, do you?” inquired Studmann incredulously.
“My dear sir!” said the Geheimrat rudely, “you don’t think I’d spend half an hour of my lunch time chatting with you for the fun of it, do you? The men are to leave Neulohe, and today!” He had risen from his chair and was regarding Studmann with an angry gleam. But, since a battle seemed imminent, the other was calm.
“Herr Geheimrat,” he said, “your objections come too late. You knew two weeks ago of our intention to bring a prison gang here. You raised no protest. On the contrary, you placed your washhouse and your poultry maid at our disposal. By doing so you expressed your agreement.”
“Look at him!” mocked the Geheimrat. “The little vest-pocket lawyer! But if you are clever, I can be clever, too. According to clause twenty-one of the contract of lease, the lessee has to remove at once any disturbance of the lessor’s right of residence. Your criminals are a disturbance of the right of residence. Immediately this disturbance was apparent I asked for redress. Well, let’s have your redress. Out with the men!”
“We refuse! We shall prove that a barracks occupied by Polish reapers with their wives and children is much more disturbing than convicts subject to strict discipline. We shall prove further—”
“In court, eh?” said the Geheimrat contemptuously. “Just go to court, my clever fellow! Any appeal to law dissolves the lease. Clause seventeen of the contract. Go on, appeal—I’ll be glad to take over the harvest.”
Studmann mopped his brow. Poor Prackwitz. If only he were here! But he’d no notion, and never would have. The old man wanted everything. He must have read the letters with the offers made by the corn dealers. Pagel was much too unobservant, too trusting. The old man was greedy—he not only wanted to clear out his son-in-law, he wanted the harvest as well. One must think of a way out.
