by Hans Fallada
“Well, come along, Violet,” urged the Rittmeister, starting from his stupefaction and taking his daughter’s arm. “Why, child, you’re looking quite pale, and just before you were as red as fire. You must have had a terrible fright.”
“He was a bit rude, wasn’t he, Papa?”
“He’s an officer on duty, Vi! How would they get on if they had to give information to everyone? I’m convinced he will report to his superiors. They will make inquiries about me, and one of the gentlemen will then pay me a visit.… That’s how it is in the Army, everything has to go according to regulation.”
“But he was really nasty to you!”
“Well, a young lieutenant! Probably gets a bit too big for his boots sometimes. He’s only rude because he still feels uncertain.”
“Was he really a lieutenant? He looked—so shabby.”
“The sentry addressed him as that. They’re not regular troops.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Yes, Vi, I can understand you, you’re angry with him because he was a little rude, not courteous to a lady. But as a matter of fact, I thought he made quite a smart impression. Probably a capable young officer.”
“Really, Papa? Did you also see what beautiful well-kept hands he had?”
“No, Vi, I really didn’t notice them. But I wouldn’t have let him run around so unshaven; as I said, they’re not regular troops.”
“But, Papa …” Vi would have liked to go on playing this tender game of hide-and-seek with her father, so soothing to her heavy heart. Forester Kniebusch intervened, however. He stepped out from between two junipers and greeted them.
“Kniebusch!” cried the Rittmeister. “What are you doing here? I thought you never came to this part of the forest.”
“One has to look at every place sometimes, Herr Rittmeister,” said the forester significantly. “One thinks nothing is happening, but something always is.”
“Why, were you also back there?”
“In the Black Dale? Yes, Herr Rittmeister,” announced the forester, who was burning to reveal what he knew.
“Oh,” said the Rittmeister indifferently. “See anything special?”
“Yes.” The forester knew that a piece of news imparted at once is worth nothing. “I saw you, sir, and your daughter.”
“In the Black Dale?”
“You didn’t get as far as that, sir.”
“Oh,” said Herr von Prackwitz, displeased that another should have witnessed that annoying scene, “I suppose you saw how we were stopped?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister, I did.”
“Did you also hear what we said?”
“No, Herr Rittmeister, I was too far away.” There was a short anxious pause. “I was between the sentry and the other men.”
“So there were others there?” asked the Rittmeister with as much indifference as possible. “How many?”
“Thirty, Herr Rittmeister.”
“Is that so? I thought there were more. Perhaps you didn’t see them all.”
“But I was there from the beginning; I heard the car. I have to know what is going on in my forest, Herr Rittmeister. I hid myself from the beginning. Thirty men, including Lieutenant Fritz.”
“The lieutenant’s name is Fritz?” cried the Rittmeister in surprise.
“Yes,” said the forester, turning scarlet at the young Fräulein’s glance. “At least, that’s what the men call him,” he stammered in confusion. “That’s what I heard.”
“His men called him Fritz, Kniebusch?” asked the Rittmeister incredulously.
“No, no,” the forester hastened to say. “The men said Herr Lieutenant, but there was another one there—perhaps he was a lieutenant, too—who said Fritz.”
“I see,” said the Rittmeister, satisfied. “It would have been preposterous if the men had called their officer Fritz. That sort of thing doesn’t exist even among irregular troops.”
“No.” The forester corrected himself. “It was probably the other lieutenant, a very fat man.”
“They had a car, too?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.” The forester was glad to get away from the dangerous topic—even at the cost of his secret. “A truck, loaded right up.”
“Did you see it? What was it carrying?”
The forester looked around; but when he saw only high and scattered trees, where no eavesdropper could be hiding, he said very quietly: “Weapons, Herr Rittmeister! Guns, ammunition boxes, hand grenades. Two light machine guns, three heavy ones.… They’re burying it all.”
The Rittmeister knew everything he wanted to know. He drew himself up more stiffly. “Listen, forester,” he said solemnly. “I hope you are aware that it will cost you your life if you talk about what you know. It is to the interest of the State that complete silence should be preserved as to what is happening here. If the Entente Commission hears of it, you will be better off if you have seen nothing! You are much too inquisitive, Kniebusch. As soon as you saw they were soldiers, you should have known the thing was in order—you shouldn’t have hidden in the bushes. Understand?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister,” said the forester plaintively.
“You had better forget everything, Kniebusch. If you ever think of it, you must say to yourself: ‘It was just a dream—it’s not true.’ Understand?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“And one more thing, Kniebusch. One doesn’t discuss such affairs of State before women—even if it is your own daughter! Remember that in future!”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
Herr von Prackwitz had avenged himself. In accordance with an old precept he had passed on the kick received, and could now walk on contentedly at his daughter’s side.
“How is your prisoner Bäumer getting on?” he asked affably.
“Oh, Herr Rittmeister, the scoundrel!” A deep sigh rent the forester’s breast. Apparently Bäumer had at last recovered consciousness, and they were treating him like a prince. They had taken him to the clinic in Frankfurt, and in a few days the forester was to confront him at his bedside.…” And I know what will happen then, Herr Rittmeister. I shan’t be allowed to speak about all the crimes he’s committed, but he’ll lie that I half killed him, although I can point out the stone in the forest on which he fell. But they won’t listen to me. The gendarme officer says they are getting out a summons against me for bodily assault or abuse of official powers. And in the end I’ll go to prison, although I’m seventy, and the poacher Bäumer—”
“Yes, yes, Kniebusch,” said the Rittmeister, very pleased that others also had their troubles, “that is just how the world is today, but you don’t understand it. We were victorious throughout the whole war and now we are the defeated. And you have been honest your whole life and are now going to prison. It’s all quite normal—take me, for instance. My father-in-law …” And for the remainder of the journey, the Rittmeister spoke consoling words to the old forester.
X
It was dark when Herr von Prackwitz arrived home with his daughter, but in spite of that his wife had not yet returned from the Manor. Vi went up to her room, while the Rittmeister paced angrily up and down. He had returned from the forest in the best of moods. He had caught a glimpse of secret military operations which pointed to the coming overthrow of the present hated Government, and even if he was going to exercise discretion in all circumstances, he could still give Eva an inkling of his new knowledge, by delicate hints.
But no Eva was there. Instead, the gun he had fired stood in his study by the window, reminding him of the silly, irritating incident. His wife had been in the Manor for five or six hours on account of an affair in which he had been clearly in the right, and his efficient friend Studmann was bound to be with her, too. It was ridiculous, it was childish, it was intolerable. The Rittmeister rang for his manservant and inquired whether his wife had left any instructions regarding supper. In a reproachful, annoyed tone he said he was hungry. Madam had left no instructions, reported Rä
der. Should he lay supper for the Rittmeister and the young Fräulein?
The Rittmeister decided to become a martyr and said no, he would wait. But, as the servant was going out of the door, he blurted out the question he had wanted to suppress—had the geese been delivered at the Manor?
“No, Herr Studmann would not allow me to.” The servant went.
Herr von Prackwitz found his life gray. He had been in the forest, seen interesting things, become cheerful. But hardly had he returned home when a gray pall fell over everything again. There was no escape. It was like a powerful, merciless bog which sucked him down deeper every day. He rested his head in his hands. He longed for another world in which not everything, even wife and friend, made difficulties for him. He would gladly have left Neulohe. Like all weak people, he accused an imaginary Fate: Why must all this happen to me? I don’t hurt anyone. I’m a little quick-tempered, but I don’t mean it badly, I always recover at once. I don’t make any really great demands of life; I am quite modest. Others have big cars, go to Berlin every week, have affairs with women! I live decently and am always in difficulties.…
He groaned. He was very sorry for himself. He was also very hungry. But no one bothered. No one cared what happened to him. He might be dying; no one would pay any attention, not even his wife. Supposing, in his utter desperation, he put a bullet through his head—a weaker man than he would be quite capable of doing so in this situation. Then she would come home and find him lying there. She would pull a pretty face; then, when it was too late, she would be sorry. She would realize too late what he meant to her.
The picture of his lonely death, the thought of his despairing widow, affected the Rittmeister so much that he got up, put on the light and poured himself out a vodka. Then he lit a cigarette and extinguished the light again. Huddled in a chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, he tried once again to imagine his death. But to his regret he had to admit that the picture did not have such a strong effect the second time.
Räder, this wily diplomat of the servants’ quarters, whose conduct was guided by no understandable motive, yet who had a very definite object which he pursued by thousands of stratagems and artifices—this man ascended quietly to the young Fräulein’s room, after firing the arrow designed for Herr von Studmann into the heart of his employer. She sat at the table, writing furiously.
“Well, what did Papa want?” she asked.
“The Rittmeister did not know what was happening about supper.”
“And what is happening?”
“The Rittmeister will wait.”
“If Mamma should still be at the Manor, I could take the letter myself,” she said hesitatingly.
“As the young Fräulein wishes,” said Räder coldly.
Vi folded the letter and surveyed him. That morning she had planned to hand him over to young Pagel for a good thrashing, but one couldn’t free oneself so easily from a fellow conspirator and confidant—she kept finding that she needed him. She was convinced that the Lieutenant would come to the village this evening, after burying the weapons. He hadn’t shown his face in the village for a fortnight. He’d never been away so long. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been wearing a steel helmet. Proof that he still intended to go somewhere. He would look into the tree for her message, but it would be still safer to hand him the letter personally. But she could not get away, Räder was the best messenger … and at present he was not at all impudent.…
Poor little misguided Vi! She had forgotten she had sworn to her Fritz never again to write a letter. She had forgotten she had sworn to Pagel that this affair was over. She had forgotten she had sworn to herself never again to get mixed up with Räder, who was becoming more and more uncanny. She had forgotten that she would endanger her father and her Fritz if she mentioned the buried weapons in a letter of this sort. Her heart made her forget everything, her heart prevailed over her common sense and understanding. All she thought was that she loved him, that she must justify herself to him, that she wanted to see him again at all costs, that he ought not to put her aside so coldly, that she could not wait any longer, that she needed him.
She handed the letter to the servant. “See that he gets it safely, Hubert.”
Räder’s leaden eyelids, almost violet at the corners, were lowered as he observed the young girl. He took the letter. “ ‘I can’t promise that I will find the Lieutenant.”
“Oh, you will find him, Hubert!”
“I can’t run around the whole night, Fräulein. Perhaps he won’t come. When shall I put it in the tree?”
“If you haven’t found him by twelve or one o’clock.”
“But I can’t run around as long as that, Fräulein. I have to get some sleep. I shall put it in the tree at ten.”
“No, Hubert, that’s much too early. It’s nine now already and we haven’t yet had supper. You won’t get out of the house before ten.”
“The doctors say, Fräulein, that the sleep before midnight is the healthiest sleep.”
“Hubert, don’t be so silly. You just want to annoy me again.”
“I don’t want to annoy the young Fräulein.… It’s true about the sleep. And I’d like to know, anyway, what I’m to get for this. If your parents find out I shall be dismissed, and then I won’t get a testimonial or reference.”
“How should they find out, Hubert? And what can I give you? I never get any money.”
“It needn’t be money, Fräulein.”
Hubert spoke in a low voice, and involuntarily Violet did the same. Between each quiet sentence the summer evening could be heard gliding into night with a cry from the village, with the clattering of a pail, with the buzzing amorous dance of the midges over the garden bushes.
“What do you want, then, Hubert? I really don’t know …” She avoided looking into his face. She glanced round the room as if looking for something that she could give him.… He, however, watched her more and more intently. His dead eyes came to life, a red spot appeared on his cheekbones.… “Since I am risking my reputation and my job for the young Fräulein, there’s something I should like to ask of her.”
She cast a swift glance at him and instantly looked away. Something of the fear of him she had once felt again arose in her. She strove against it, she tried to laugh, she said provokingly: “I suppose it isn’t a kiss you want from me, Hubert?”
He looked at her unmoved. Her laugh had already died away, it sounded so ugly and false. I don’t feel like laughing, she thought.
“No, not a kiss,” he said almost contemptuously. “I don’t believe in cuddling.”
“What then, Hubert? Go on, tell me.” She was burning with impatience. He had achieved what he wanted: she preferred the most fantastic request to this painful uncertainty.
“It is nothing unfitting that I ask of the young Fräulein,” he said in his cold, didactic tone. “Nor is it anything indecent.… I should just like to be allowed to place my left hand for a while on the young Fräulein’s heart.”
She said nothing. She moved her lips, she wanted to say something.
He made no movement to approach closer. He stood at the door in an attitude appropriate to a servant; he was wearing a kind of livery-jacket with gray armorial buttons; on his glistening oily head every hair was in its proper place.
“Now I have told the young Fräulein,” he said in his lifeless tone, “may I say that I intend nothing unchaste? It isn’t that I want to touch her breast.…”
She was still struck dumb. They were separated almost by the width of the room.
Hubert Räder made something like a very slight bow. She hadn’t moved and was quite still. He walked slowly across the room toward her; rigid, she saw him coming closer; no differently does the horrified victim await the murderer’s death blow.
He placed the letter on the table, turned round and walked toward the door.
She waited, waited an eternity. He had already grasped the doorknob when she moved. She cleared her throat—and Hubert Räder looked roun
d at her.… She wanted to say something, but a spell lay over her. With a vague, unsteady movement she pointed at the letter—no longer thinking at all of letter or recipient.…
The man raised his hand to the switch near the door, and the room was in darkness.
It was so dark she could have screamed. She stood behind the table, she saw nothing of him; only the two windows on the left stood out grayly. She heard nothing of him, he always walked so quietly. If only he would come!
Not a sound, not a breath.
If only she could scream, but she couldn’t even breathe!
And then she felt his hand on her breast. No butterfly could have settled more gently on a blossom, yet with a shudder that passed through her whole body she shrank back.… The hand followed her shrinking body, laid itself in coolness over her breast.… She could shrink back no farther.… Coolness penetrated her thin summer dress, her skin, penetrated to her heart.…
Her fear was gone, she no longer felt the hand, only an ever more penetrating coolness.…
And the coolness was peace.
She wanted to think of something, she wanted to say to herself: It is only Hubert, a disgusting ridiculous fellow.… But nothing came of it. The pictures in the book on marriage drifted through her head; for a moment she saw its pages as if in bright lamplight.
Then she heard a melody from downstairs and knew it was her father. Bored with waiting, he had turned on the phonograph.
But the melody seemed to grow fainter and fainter, as if she were losing her strength in the ever-pervasive coolness. Her senses were becoming dulled, she only felt the hand … And now she felt the other … Its fingers fumbled lightly on her neck, they pushed her hair back.
Then the hand glided right round her throat; the thumb rested with a light pressure on her larynx, while the pressure on her heart increased …
She made a quick movement with her head, to free her neck from the hand—in vain, the thumb pressed on it more firmly …
But it was only the servant Hubert—he couldn’t want to choke her … She breathed with difficulty. The blood buzzed in her ears. Her head grew dizzy …
