by Hans Fallada
Räder went to a cupboard in the corner. In his hand he carried a glass containing a tooth-brush. He unlocked the cupboard and placed the glass inside it.… That is how men are! After experiencing that evening a sensation which was perhaps unusual, something that might perhaps be termed the rehearsal of a murder, Hubert Räder put on a nightshirt and brushed his teeth as he did every other evening.… He was not always a murderer; normally he was a very ordinary citizen; and it was this which made him so dangerous. One recognizes a tiger by its stripes, but a murderer brushes his teeth like everyone else; he is unrecognizable.
And now Violet was to see something stranger still.…
But at the moment she was not thinking of Räder. I listened at the door for five minutes at the most, she calculated. Then I came out and stood say, for three minutes, wondering whether to chance it. Hubert still had to clear the table—he did that while I was saying good night—then put away the plates and things. But he couldn’t possibly have left the house! Undress, wash, brush his teeth! And my letter?
“My letter!” she wanted to scream out; she wanted to bang on the window and ask for it back. What restrained her was not the fear of arousing the house, nor the dislike of a silly dispute with the crazy lying fellow. Oh, hang the letter! she thought suddenly, very calm. I don’t need it, I’ll find Fritz without it.… He’s probably kept it, not in order to take it to my parents, but to demand a reward again! And she felt his hand on her heart, his cold, inhuman hand. If I tell Fritz, he’ll kill him; Fritz wanted to kill little Meier for much less.… But she felt that she would not tell Fritz. This must always be kept a secret from him, whatever happened. Actually she should be horrified at having a secret in common with Räder, but she was not. There was a dismal seduction about this evil servant’s hand. She did not understand it, but she felt it.…
While all this was going through her head—and such thoughts and fears don’t take a second—Hubert Räder had knelt down at the foot of his bed. There he crouched in his long nightshirt, with clasped hands, saying his prayers like a child. But there was nothing childish about that evil head. When she saw him, scarcely three yards away, kneel down on the little stage visible only to herself, and pray, he who just before had put his hand round her throat—when she reflected that perhaps he was thanking God for being allowed to do that to her—then Violet could contain herself no longer but jumped up and ran into the night, not giving a thought to the people who ought not to see her, nor to Fritz, whom she had to see.…
She ran through the garden, on and on, and up a grass ridge between the fields. Her breast heaved. She felt as if she must run away from it all, from herself and everybody, and she threw herself down and gazed at the sky, whose impalpably deep background made the stars twinkle all the more brightly. At last she dozed off.…
But she could only have slept a very short time, the stars hadn’t shifted. It was as if she had dreamed of something very light and happy, but knew nothing more about it. A feeling of approaching danger had awakened her. Yet around her was nothing but silence and rural night. The village, too, had gone to bed, there was not a sound.…
“No, there is no danger,” she said, calming her throbbing heart. But suddenly she realized that she was alone in the fields and too far away for a cry to awake anyone in the village.… And she, who had been out in the fields and forest hundreds of times at night without even a thought of fear, was seized with a cowardly trembling that he might come in his white shirt, along the ridge, and want to lay his hand on her heart again. I would not be able to resist, she thought.
And she started to run again. Away from the Villa, whence he might follow her, she ran toward the dark mass of trees in the park. She clambered over the fence, her dress tearing on a nail, and tumbled into the grass on the other side, but jumped to her feet immediately and ran towards the swans’ pond, to the hollow tree.… She thrust her hand into the hollow, but there was no letter there; so he had already taken it and was on his way to her.…
Then she started running again, but already while she ran she realized that he’d never received the letter, that it was still with Räder, and she was gripped by a furious anger against that crook.… But the anger passed and, while she ran, she began to wonder why she was still running. There was surely no point anymore. Of course he’s no longer in the village. After such a burying of weapons you’re more likely to go home and report back than look for romantic adventures in the surrounding villages. However, although she knew she no longer needed to run, she continued to do so, as if something were chasing her, and she only stopped in her tracks when she saw a bright yellow rectangle shining through the trees. She changed her step to a cautious creeping and approached the lighted window as quietly as a cat. It stood wide open, but the curtains were drawn. She crossed the path, stepped onto the narrow grass border under the window and pushed the curtains apart. She’d been so confused that night that she didn’t for a moment think she was doing anything improper, just unusual. After casting an initial look into the room, she pushed her whole head through the curtains, and remained looking, standing, her body outside in the night, but her head in the brightly lit room.
At the table sat young Wolfgang Pagel, writing a letter. It had been a rather sad and gloomy day for him—in the morning the row with the Rittmeister, who’d thrown him out. Then the chaos with the prisoners, and the bricked-up door with the white cross, which had to be painted over. Then there was the crazy farm servant Räder with his cartload of dead geese, and Studmann with his mysterious consultations in the manor—it was all frantic and confused, as little like rural life as could be. As he eventually, angrily, swallowed down his lonely evening meal—the servant Elias had replaced Studmann—he confronted the evening, unable to sleep, unwilling to do any further work. He had thought of going to the inn or of wandering into the village and keeping an eye open for Sophie Kowalewski. All things considered, she was quite a nice girl and probably, since she had experience of Berlin, without too many airs and graces. Violet von Prackwitz, with her morning kisses, would have been more dangerous. But then he remembered that he couldn’t leave the house. He had accepted a commission, he was expecting a visitor whom he had to thrash: the stupid servant with the fishlike head, Hubert Räder. For some time, Wolfgang Pagel paced up and down his two rooms in the dusk—now in his office, now in his living room. And a bad mood certainly doesn’t improve when one paces up and down for a quarter of an hour, thinking how one is to threaten, intimidate and thrash a scoundrel. That sort of thing is best done off-hand, without any undue deliberation.
It was rather strange: whenever he occupied himself with any girl, be her name Violet, Amanda or Sophie, his thoughts always drifted in the end to Peter. Well, Peter was finally gone and forgotten, peace on her ashes; a good, pleasant girl but, as already said, peace on her ashes! Well, he could at least write to his mother, tell her something of his new life and announce for her greater comfort the liquidation of the affair with Petra Ledig. That would be much better, anyway, than merely waiting idly for a wretched fellow. Now determined, Pagel switched on the light in his living room, drew the curtains, and took his writing things from his office. He only had to remove his jacket and he was sitting comfortably and airily in casual shirt and trousers, beginning to write.
He wrote of his life in Neulohe, a little insolently, a little coarsely, as one writes when one is twenty-three years old and will not admit that anything amuses him. In five sentences he drew a picture of his employer, then of the old father-in-law who oozed craft and cunning from every buttonhole. Of past things he wrote nothing. Nothing of the picture he had taken, nothing of the disappearance of a considerable sum of money, nothing of a marriage that had vanished into air. Neither shame nor reticence prevented him from writing of these unpleasant things. But, so long as a man is young, he still believes that the past is really past, is completely finished with. He believes he can begin a new life every day and assumes fellow human beings think the same, including his mot
her. He does not yet know of that chain which he drags behind him his whole life long; every day, every experience, adding its new link. He doesn’t yet hear its clanking; he has not yet understood the hopeless significance of the precept: because you do this thing, you must be that.
No, at twenty-three years what is done is done, what is past is past—Wolfgang’s pen flew over the paper. Now it was busy on a picture of Studmann, the nursemaid and mentor par excellence. His mood became stimulated, his father’s spirit entered into him. He caricatured Studmann in the margin, he drew him as a rabbit gloomily sitting outside its burrow. The rabbit looked at the world wisely, and at the same time foolishly. But above all, gloomily.
Pagel, whistling with satisfaction, raised his glance and encountered the eye of young Violet von Prackwitz. “Hallo!” he said without any undue surprise. “Isn’t young Räder coming?”
She shook her head. At the same time she slid a shoulder between the curtains, and her breast laid itself gently on the window sill. This attitude opened wide the neck of her dress and gave a glimpse of her tender skin, so seductively milk-white against her throat’s dark brown.
“No,” she said, after a moment of hesitation, as if speaking reluctantly or in her sleep. “Räder still has something to do for Papa. I couldn’t send him.”
“And you, my girl?” asked Pagel with forced easiness. “Still about at this hour? Not confined to your room anymore?”
Again she delayed her answer. “I was over at my grandparents’,” she explained at last. “I wanted to let you know.”
“Thanks!” said Pagel, a little too late.
It is so quiet, warm and quiet. Her breast on the windowsill. Her mouth breathing, breathing secrets, promising fulfillment. It’s been so long.…
All is growing, ripening, thriving.… “Stay awhile—!”
“Yes.…” said Pagel, after a while, lost and dreaming.
Then all was quiet again—a quiet, still darkness. Complicit night.
“Come over here,” she whispered suddenly.
Though she whispered so softly, he started, like one who receives a blow. “Yes?” he asked, already getting up from his chair.
“Please, yes,” she whispered again, and he slowly approached. Without his knowing it, his face had taken on a bitterly determined expression, as if he tasted fruit which could not be sweet. Her face, however, bore the same expression as when she had watched the servant at his prayers; she seemed to feel horror and despair, pleasure and desire.
“Closer!” she whispered, when he stopped a pace or two in front of her. “Still closer!”
It was the seduction of the hour, and it was the seduction of hungry flesh, and it was also the seduction of her desire, which was like a net, imperceptibly closing in on him.
“Well?” he asked softly, and his face was right next to hers.
“Wouldn’t you …” she said haltingly, “wouldn’t you like to kiss me again?” And she raised her head; with a resolute and yet childish movement she offered him her lips. Suddenly tears stood in her eyes.… It was not only depravity which made her seek the pleasure of another’s embrace—it was also the fear of him who had placed his hand on her heart, and taken possession of her.…
“There!” she said faintly, and their lips met. Thus they remained for an interminable time. Her breast lay on his hand, which rested on the window sill; through her dress he felt its heaviness and ripeness, more beautiful than any fruit.… Were they crickets, chirping outside in the park?—a thin sweet melody, it might be in his blood, ever continuing without pause, as if the earth herself sang, this kind fertile mother earth which loves lovers.… His mouth remained endlessly on her lips.
Then he felt her growing uneasy. She wanted to say something. But he did not want to free her lips, did not want to interrupt the spell.… With a nimble movement she slipped her left shoulder out of her dress and with her right hand—her left was round his neck—freed her breast.
“There!” she said plaintively. “Put your hand on it—it is so cold.” And before he knew what he was doing, his hand had closed round her breast.
“Oh!” she sighed and pressed her lips more firmly against his.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking of anything at all? A flame of desire rose and rose. He thought he saw images, flying images, of a ghostly play about old times, in the theater of his imagination. The room with Madame Po, when he woke up and met Peter’s eyes.… The flame of desire continued to rise. Can’t I come with you?—That’s what she asked, or something like it, and she did go with him. And when they introduced themselves to each other in the splendour of a Berlin marble stairwell: Petra Ledig—unforgettable moments.
The crickets were still chirping away. Crickets? Crickets did not live in a park, but in houses—they were grasshoppers, locusts, that were singing outside, green, rather grotesque-looking creatures.…
There is the breast in your hand; it is only the seduction of the flesh, not love. Carefully, gently; loosen your mouth, we must not frighten the little girl—she is just depraved. But she has obtained nothing in exchange for her depravity, not even knowledge. She knows nothing of herself. She is like a sleep-walker: one must not wake her suddenly. Peter was different—oh, Peter was quite different. She knew everything—but she was as innocent as a child. What they told me at the police station can’t possibly be true. Peter was not depraved. She knew, but she was always innocent.…
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Vi, puzzled. “What are you thinking of?”
“Oh—” he said absently. “I just remembered something.”
“Remembered?”
“Yes. Remembered. I belong to another woman.” He saw the change in her face, the shock. “Just as you belong to another man,” he added hastily.
“Yes?” she asked submissively. She was so easy to guide—a young horse whose mouth was still tender, obeying every tug of the reins. “And the other woman—is that also over?”
“I thought so. But it occurred to me just now that perhaps it wasn’t.”
“Just now?”
She stood between the curtains, just as he had left her in the middle of the kiss, her hair disarranged, her breast still uncovered, her underlip trembling: the abode of pleasure, by pleasure forsaken.… She looked a pitiful figure.
“It isn’t really all over with you,” he comforted her. “You only need to wait a little, you know. It’s to his credit to have kept away for so long.”
“Do you think so?” she asked more brightly. “Do you think he’ll come again? Is it only my silly fifteen years?”
“Of course. Wait—I’ll quickly get ready. I’ll see you home. We can talk about it as we go along.” He went to the mirror and combed his hair. “Do you want a comb, too?” he called. “Here!”
He put his jacket on, washed his hands. “Let’s go!” he said, swinging himself through the window. “We can leave the light burning. I’ll be back soon.”
The night was mild and quiet, a perfect night for walking, and after their hands had twice brushed against each other he took hold of hers, and thus they continued their way, hand in hand, like two good friends.
“You know what, Vi?” said Pagel. “I want to tell you what I have just discovered.… As a matter of fact, it isn’t fitting to talk about such a thing to a young girl, but who else would tell you? Your parents certainly won’t.”
“Oh, them!” said Vi contemptuously. “They think I still believe in the stork!”
“There, you see! Absolute stick-in-the-muds. What can they be thinking of? A young girl can’t help getting ideas into her head with the popular songs nowadays. Well, listen—but how am I to tell you, my child? Damn difficult to speak about such things; one gets embarrassed, and angry at being embarrassed.…”
“Your discovery!” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes. Well, I’ve already told you I belong to another woman, but I assure you that a minute ago I didn’t know it.”
“Well!” cried Vi, stoppin
g. “That’s a nice thing to say to me.”
“Nonsense, Vi; there’s no need to get annoyed. It’s no insult to you. You are young and pretty—and so on. Well, it’s like this: I didn’t know I belonged to the other woman. In the past, before I knew her, I just flirted around, and I thought it was always that way and always would be: one had a row, and then got another girl. Finished with one, on with the next! Girls are no different either,” he said a little shamefacedly, to excuse his crude male standpoint. “Just remember the song: ‘If I see a new man at the next street corner.’ ”
“It’s quite true; if it isn’t the one, then it’s the other!” agreed Violet.
“There, you see! That’s precisely the catch. It isn’t true. When I started with Peter—I always called my girl-friend Peter—as a matter of fact, her name was Petra.…”
“Queer name!” said Vi disapprovingly.
“Well, Violet isn’t exactly so charming either,” said Pagel crossly, but recovered himself at once. “However, that’s a matter of taste. I like the name Peter immensely. Anyway, after I’d been living with her for a year—”
“Did you really live with her?”
“Of course! What else? No one finds anything strange in that today. Well, I thought it was the same as with the previous girls; this one was nicer and that was why it was lasting a little longer. And when it did come to an end, just before I came here, I thought: All right! No use crying over spilt milk; I’ll soon get another. You know,” said Pagel pensively, “when you really come to think of it, that’s a low-down way of looking at things.… But what is one to do? Everyone talks like that, everyone acts like that, and so you think it is true.”
“It is true!” declared Vi defiantly.
“Not at all. It’s a lot of tommy-rot! That’s my discovery! I’ve been running around here in Neulohe for weeks now, and so far I’ve found it quite pleasant, but I haven’t had a real kick out of it.… In the past, I only had to wake up to be thankful merely that I was here, completely without any particular reason. Now I think, oh another bloody day. Oh well, on with you shirt—the sooner it’s used up.…”
