by Hans Fallada
“Well, Herr von Studmann?” said the old man with satisfaction. “Farming is different from the hotel business, eh? Why do you want to worry yourself here? My son-in-law certainly gives you no thanks for it. Send the men away and, if you’re sensible, go away yourself. This place is a burst balloon; even you won’t put any air into it.”
Studmann stood at the office window. “A moment,” he said, looking over at the barracks. Out of the door came Pagel; one, two, three convicts, then a warder. They went off, disappearing down the drive, probably to the toolshed.… All that could be seen from the Manor. There was no way out. Of course, he thought, it’s me he really wants out of the way. He’d make easy work of Prackwitz. Prackwitz would just throw the whole thing up and give him the harvest.… No, no.
A thought came to him which he immediately rejected. He looked more sharply at the barracks. Its pointed red gable faced the staff-house and the Manor. In the gable was a door and a fanlight; the two long sides were hidden by lilac and guelder-rose bushes. No, the idea was not bad; it was the idea.
He turned round abruptly. “The lessor raises four objections,” he said. “First, Amanda.”
“Right,” assented the Geheimrat, looking pleased.
“Amanda will be released. Suit you?”
“Right.” The old man grinned.
“The use of the washhouse will be given up.”
“Good!” laughed the old man.
“There’ll be no more singing.”
“Fine, fine. But with all your cunning you won’t fill the fourth hollow tooth, Studmann, my lad.”
“I am not a dentist. Fourth objection: The men can be seen from the Manor.”
“Right,” grinned Herr von Teschow.
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else!” laughed the old man.
“It shall bother you no longer.” Herr von Studmann was unable to prevent a note of triumph creeping into his voice.
“How do you mean?” The old man was taken aback. “Are you going to …”
“Going to what?”
The old man mused to himself. “Transfer the barracks? Can’t be done. Quarter the men elsewhere? Can’t be done, either, since their quarters must be secure. What else?”
“You will excuse me, Herr Geheimrat,” said Studmann, with all that pleasant graciousness of which only a victor is capable. “I must at once give all the necessary instructions, so that the objection will be removed by evening at latest.”
“But I should like to know …” said the old man, letting Studmann hustle him out of the office without a protest. “You’d better see that everything is arranged by the evening, though!” he cried, relapsing into his threatening mood of before.
“Everything will be arranged by evening,” declared the cheerful Studmann, ostentatiously pocketing the office key instead of placing it as usual in the tin letter box. “Please give my kindest regards to Frau von Teschow.” And he strode toward the farm like a conqueror, the Geheimrat gazing after him open-mouthed.
VII
While Herr von Studmann was negotiating, discussing, disputing with the Geheimrat; while he was dashing over to the farmyard and rounding up men to whom he gave instructions; while in the barracks he was informing young Pagel of the turn of events, not omitting to warn him against any more familiarity with jovial old gentlemen; while he spoke with the prison warders, entreating them not to feel offended—that is to say, during the whole afternoon in which he was talking, flattering, scolding, exhorting, sweating and smiling, in order to save his friend Prackwitz from his father-in-law’s persecution—all that time Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz lay in a temper on his couch, sulking over his friend Studmann. He was furious with Studmann the guardian; cursed Studmann the nursery-governess; laughed contemptuously at Studmann the know-all; smiled scornfully at Studmann the prophet of evil!
As for old Geheimrat von Teschow, he merely cast one glance through the curtain at the beginnings of Studmann’s labors, and immediately nodded his head. “The fellow’s got brains all right,” he said. “I should have had a man like that for my son-in-law, not a long-shanked blunderbuss.”
The Rittmeister realized that he had been made to look completely ridiculous. Wife and friend had entered into a competition to see who could shame him the more. While his wife had ridiculed him before his friend by accusing him of exaggerating a little domestic intermezzo, in which, after all, he had been perfectly justified, his friend had represented him to his wife as an absolute nincompoop in business matters. He had cunningly deprived him of the whole management, and had even made him promise not to tell his father-in-law what he thought! This talk about the pitfalls in the lease was utter nonsense. By carefully avoiding details, the Rittmeister came to the conclusion that he had always done quite well in Neulohe, had always made a living—he hadn’t brought conceited fellows from Berlin to prove to him that he wasn’t.
He had wanted a friend, a companion to talk to, not a guardian. He wouldn’t put up with it, he shouted in his head. The fact that it was inaudible made it no less intense. The worthy Studmann had been afraid that he would be in an ungovernable rage with his father-in-law. What his father-in-law did, that ridiculous old man of seventy in breeches, didn’t mean a thing to him—he was furious with his friend, the friend who had mortally offended him.
In the harvesters’ barracks everything appeared to be in order. Studmann ran sweating to the Manor washhouse. Three village women, who had been hastily rounded up, followed him with flying apron strings, clucking like hens, full of noisy expectation as to what could be happening again. Having arranged the transfer of the cooking utensils to the fodder-kitchen in the cattle-shed, having ordered an almost religious purification of the Teschow copper, desecrated by the convicts’ food, Studmann ran at full speed to the village, to the house of Overseer Kowalewski, to discover from Sophie what had been the matter. He wanted to put things right with the girl, and perhaps at the same time find out what form the Geheimrat’s kind exhortation had taken. But Sophie, he was told, had gone to a friend at the other end of the village. Herr von Studmann had sweated a lot already; a little more sweat would not matter. Herr von Studmann ran to the other end of the village.
From the park the old Geheimrat saw how he ran. “You can run!” he said cheerfully to himself. “But even if you took along all my Belinde’s archangels and heavenly hosts, you wouldn’t save my son-in-law!” Saying which, the Geheimrat went deeper into the park, to a spot he knew well. He who digs a ditch twice gets what he wants.
“Madam says, would you please come to coffee, sir.”
“Thanks, Hubert. Ask her to leave me alone. Don’t want any coffee, I’m ill.”
“Are you ill, Achim?”
“Leave me alone!”
“Hubert says you are ill.”
“I know what I said! I’m not ill! I don’t want to be eternally treated like a child.”
“I’m sorry, Achim—you are right, you are really ill!”
“Heavens, woman, leave me alone, can’t you? I’m not ill! I just want to be left in peace.”
He was left in peace. He heard his wife talking quietly to Vi in the next room, at coffee. They ought to talk loudly; otherwise he would only think they were talking about him. Of course they were talking about him! They ought not to whisper like that! He was not ill! He had told her he wasn’t, hadn’t he? God in heaven, they were forcing him, although he needed peace and quiet, to get up and sit at the table—just to have their own way! Well, he wasn’t going to. But they shouldn’t whisper like that, otherwise he would have to.
“Talk louder, can’t you!” roared the Rittmeister furiously through the closed door. “That whispering gets on my nerves! How can a man rest when all that rustling’s going on!”
“What are the men doing, I wonder?” said Frau von Teschow to Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “I think they’re building something.”
The two women were sitting in their window seats, gazing at the most interesting spot on
Neulohe today, the harvesters’ barracks. (They usually slept at this time.)
“Everything comes to him who waits,” replied Jutta von Kuckhoff. But even she found waiting difficult. “You’re right, Belinde, they look as if they’re building something.”
“But what can they be building?” The old lady was excited. “The barracks has been like that ever since Horst-Heinz built it in ‘ninety-seven. I’ve got used to it. And now suddenly alterations without any warning! Please, Jutta, ring for Elias.”
Jutta rang.
“That young man, that so-called Herr Pagel, is directing the gang. I never trusted his face, Jutta. Why does he always run about in a field gray tunic, when they say he’s got two trunks full of suits? Elias, hasn’t that young man got some other suits?”
“Yes, madam, in a traveling wardrobe and in a large suitcase. Minna says he also has silk shirts which button all the way down like the Rittmeister’s. Silk, not linen. But he doesn’t wear them.”
“Why doesn’t he wear them?”
Elias shrugged his shoulders.
“Can you understand it, Jutta? A young man having silk shirts and not wearing them?”
“Perhaps they don’t belong to him, Belinde?”
“Oh, not if he has them in his trunk! There’s something behind it—mark my words, Jutta, remember what I said. We must be watchful. The first time he puts on a silk shirt something will be happening. I’m sure of it!”
The three old people looked at each other with gleaming eyes, greedy and curious; old ravens scenting the corpse while it was still alive. They understood each other; even Elias had been their servant long enough to know how to join in the hunt. “This morning the young man was in the park with the young Fräulein,” he said.
“With my granddaughter, with Fräulein Violet? You must be mistaken, Elias. Violet is confined to her room, she isn’t even allowed to come to us.”
“I know, madam.”
“And?”
“They were in the park for at least twenty-two minutes, at the back behind the trees, not in front on the lawn.”
“Elias! My granddaughter …”
“They smoked, too. He gave her a light, not with a match but with his cigarette. I’m just saying what happened, madam. I saw it. Afterwards, I couldn’t see, because the trees hid them. So I can’t say what happened then.”
The three fell silent. They looked at each other, then they looked away again as if they had caught one another doing something. At last Frau von Teschow piped: “Where was my daughter?”
“Frau von Prackwitz was in the office—with Herr von Studmann.”
The two old women sat motionless, not looking at each other. Then, when Elias was certain that the hook held firmly he said: “The Rittmeister was also in the office.”
The two friends stirred slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. Fräulein von Kuckhoff cleared her throat loudly and gave Elias a doubting look. Frau von Teschow preferred to gaze out of the window.
“What are they doing over there, Elias?” she asked.
Elias had no need to look, he knew, and whatever he did not know he guessed. “They’re bricking-up the door, because madam is upset by the sight of the criminals.”
Frau von Teschow tried to make up her mind whether this was an insult or a kindly considerateness. The two could be so similar, it all depended how one took it. “How are the men to get out of the barracks?” she asked at last.
“They are making a door out of the second window in the large common-room,” explained Elias. “Just behind the bushes, no, on the other side, facing the farm.… Madam will not be able to see them anymore.”
“It’s very inconsiderate of my son-in-law to brick-up my view,” began Frau von Teschow bitterly.
“The Rittmeister knows nothing about it,” Elias hastened to say. “He went straight home when the—er—men came. Herr von Studmann ordered it.”
“How did Herr von Studmann manage to block up my old view of the barracks?” shouted Frau von Teschow heatedly.
“Herr von Studmann makes a very pleasant impression,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff warningly.
“The Geheimrat spent a long time talking with Herr von Studmann at midday,” reported Elias. “The Geheimrat—er—shouted very loudly.”
“It was very considerate of Horst-Heinz to think of it,” said Frau von Teschow. “I knew nothing about it—he wanted it to be a surprise.”
She gazed thoughtfully at the barracks. Two layers of bricks were already in place. The young man in field gray was talking eagerly to the farm masons; a warder stood by with an inquisitive face. Then all four burst out laughing. Laughing, they looked over at the Manor, at the windows. Frau von Teschow hastily moved her head out of the sun, although, half hidden behind the curtain, she could not be seen.
Still laughing, the two masons ran over to the farm. Young Pagel held out his cigarette case to the warder. They too were laughing.
Horst-Heinz shouldn’t have done this! thought Frau von Teschow angrily. I can’t stare at a bare wall the whole summer. I’m certain to hear stories of all these criminals, what they’ve done, why they’re in prison—and I won’t even know what they look like. She felt tempted to send over Elias to say that the alteration was not necessary, but did not dare. Her husband was good-natured only as long as no one interfered with his plans, which were usually secret. He could bellow in such a nerve-racking way! And he went purple in the face—Dr. Hotop was always saying that a stroke would be dangerous for him.
“Ask the Geheimrat to come to me, Elias,” said Frau von Teschow gently.
“The Geheimrat has gone out. Shall I tell him when he comes back?”
“No, no, it should be now.” A door can be bricked up so quickly. “But you might go over to my daughter and tell her I would like her to send Fräulein Violet for a little while.” Elias nodded. “If my daughter should say anything about the child’s being confined to the house, just hint, Elias—but carefully, quite unnoticeably—that Fräulein Violet went for a walk in the park today.”
Elias bowed.
“You needn’t mention anything about the young man to my daughter,” said Frau von Teschow. “I’ll talk to my granddaughter about it myself.”
Elias’s face showed that he had understood everything, that everything would be carried out perfectly. He asked whether there was anything else she wanted. But there was nothing. Elias went, dignified and calm, every inch the possessor of an enormous fortune.
“If Violet doesn’t come today I’m going to the Villa!” added Frau von Teschow energetically. “Even if Horst-Heinz grumbles. I’m not going to have my granddaughter disgraced!”
“May I come with you, Belinde?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff excitedly.
“I’ll see. Anyway, we must wait until my son-in-law leaves the house. And go at once and see if you can find Minna. Perhaps she knows something.”
Young Pagel had had a brain wave. Fifty men in the harvesters’ barracks laughed, five warders laughed, the masons laughed—soon the whole village would be laughing.
At first the atmosphere had been very unpleasant. This order to brick up the door, certainly a good solution on the part of Herr von Studmann, had not been a pleasant welcome to the convicts. “If they don’t want to see us then they shouldn’t bring us here to do their work,” they growled. “If we’re not too bad to dig up the potatoes they eat, then they shouldn’t feel bad at seeing us. Who knows how he made his money? He didn’t make his little pile by saying prayers!”
And the warders, too, had shaken their heads and pursed their lips. They considered they had—with two or three exceptions—a very orderly gang. The labor detachments from Meienburg were often far different. If the men behaved decently and worked well there was no need to keep on reminding them that they were convicts. It only made them restless and the warders’ duty more difficult.
And then Pagel had had his brain wave. They had all laughed. They had all grinned. “That will remind them to pray for us e
very day,” they said. “That’s the way to treat them. Always pull the leg of a sod like that—it’s the best way.” For sheer pleasure they would have liked to burst into song again, thunder out “Arise! ye starvelings from your slumbers!” or some such thing to make the ears in the Manor tingle. But they did not want to cause the young man any trouble. With cheerful faces they sawed their planks, drove nails into the shelves for the utensils, packed and checked the washing. Today they were only to work half a day; today they first had to get everything in order, a thing the principal warder regarded as indispensable, everything in rank and file, everything shipshape and polished—just as in Meienburg prison. Numbers on every eating bowl and numbers on every wash-basin; numbers on the beds, numbers on the stools, every place at the dining table numbered. Important deliberations in a whisper among the warders; who ought to sit next to whom at the table? Which men could share a room? A faulty distribution, and the germ of an attempt to escape or a mutiny would be created.
And all the time one or other of them would slink up to the slowly diminishing doorway to have a look. And on his return the others would ask with a grin: “How far have they got? Can you recognize it yet?”
“They’re just putting in the sixth layer. They’ll only be able to recognize it properly when the crossbeam comes.”
Von Studmann did not recognize it, either. He came from the village where he had at last found Sophie; and this time she hadn’t been at all to his liking. Stubborn, close, untruthful. What could have entered into the girl? She was quite changed. Was the Geheimrat the cause? Yes, he must have stirred her up somehow. It was just like him. The whole day he had only been thinking how to make trouble. Oh, yes. The harvest. It is harvest time. Every little bit that is threshed and sold gives him pain. I must go immediately to Prackwitz and see that he doesn’t again do anything stupid. Oh, yes, and I must ask Amanda what’s behind what Kowalewski said. Today’s one of those days when, once again, no sensible work will get done. You run about the whole time chasing your own tail. I would never have believed it, but it’s almost worse than working in a hotel.
