by Hans Fallada
“Just how I feel,” said Vi. “Everything bores me, too.”
“The same disease, my lady!” cried Pagel. “I’ll give you the symptoms exactly. No more enthusiasm, no more fun, and you don’t feel so fit, either.”
“I’ll tell you something,” said Violet importantly. “I read it. You’ve simply got abstinence-phenomena—especially after having lived with her.”
“Well, I’m blessed!” cried Wolfgang Pagel. “That’s pretty good for your age, Fräulein!” He began to feel misgivings. Was it right for him to tell such a young girl, precisely this young girl, of his discovery? But if she were really what her remark led him to believe, she would not have said it! Really depraved persons try to conceal their depravity. “No,” he said. “There are enough girls in the village, but I have discovered that there is not another girl at every corner. Or rather, it is another. But one is always looking for the same one; only she can make you happy. And you, too, are looking for the same one.”
She thought for a while. “I don’t know. I don’t understand it. I’m so restless, it keeps urging me on. And just now when I looked in at your window I felt as if it didn’t matter who it was, anyone could give me peace.”
“I,” said Pagel, “I have only just managed to understand it. If I see a girl, no matter how much she appeals to me, I have to compare her at once with Peter, and then I know she means nothing.”
“Do you understand it?” asked Vi, scarcely paying any attention to him. “I can’t ask anybody about such a thing. Not my parents, no one. I think of it all day, and at night I dream about it. Sometimes I think it will drive me mad. When my parents are out I creep into Papa’s room and look in the encyclopedia. From that, and from reading Räder’s book, it sounds as if it were all only the body. And often I feel it must be right, and I become sad. And at other times I say to myself: It can’t be true.”
“Of course it isn’t only the body. That’s just a silly idea people have got into their heads. If it was only the body, then everyone would suit everybody else, and yet you’ve only to look at other people to know that it can’t be so.”
“You are right,” she said. “But—perhaps several people suit several other people? Perhaps a lot? Just not all. Of course not all.”
“I now think, only one! I’m frightfully glad I’ve discovered that.”
“Herr Pagel,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“I would very much have liked—before—to have gone into your room.”
He said nothing.
“I know it sounds horribly bad of me to say so, but it’s true,” she said defiantly. “I have to lie to everybody, even to Fritz, so to you I want to be able to tell the truth for once.”
“You’d have probably had a terrible recovery,” he said cautiously. “And me too.”
“Tell me,” she began again. “Before, at your window—were you like that because I was only fifteen, and because a man would be a scoundrel to meddle with me?”
“No!” he said astounded. “I didn’t think of that at all.”
“You see! Then my Lieutenant isn’t necessarily a scoundrel either.”
She had stopped. They often stopped on this path through the village. It was after eleven o’clock, and everyone was asleep at this hour during harvest time. She’d let go of his hand and he knew she wanted to say something.
“Well?” he asked.
“I would ever so much like to go back with you again,” she said haltingly, and yet with a desperate, imploring obstinacy.
“No, no.” His voice was quiet.
She threw her arms round his neck, she pressed him to her, she laughed and wept in one breath, she smothered him with her kisses, she wanted to seduce him … But everything went cold within him. He didn’t push her away, but held her loosely in his arms so that she didn’t fall over. He no longer forgot that she was still half a child. His mouth remained cold, and his blood, too. There was no flame anymore. But out of the darkness emerged the picture of the other girl, the unprotected one, no favored daughter, no heiress. Not at all! There’s something else, he thought suddenly, shattered and more shattered, upset now and gripped, it’s possible to have been through dirt and to have experienced bad things without becoming either dirty or bad. She … she had loved me, and was pure—but I didn’t know it! And everything she’d told him about illness and being on the game seemed not to matter. It wasn’t true! While all this was passing fleetingly through his head, her kisses and caresses pressed ever more upon him.
And Violet—I wish she’d leave off! he thought in disgust. But her own caresses seemed to make her more and more foolish, more and more mad. She moaned softly, she seized his hand and pressed it to her breast again.… I hope I won’t have to get rough with her, he thought.
Then steps sounded, very near.… At once she let go of him, and glided to the nearest fence, where she stopped with her face turned away from the village street.… Pagel, too, half turned away.
And Herr von Studmann, the eternal nursemaid—this time without knowing it—walked past. He seemed to peer at them through the darkness; yes, he even raised his hat. “Good evening!”
Pagel mumbled something, and from the fence came a sound. Was it laughing? Was it weeping? The steps died away.
“That was Herr von Studmann, Fräulein Violet.”
“Yes, I must go home quickly, my parents will be going to bed now. God, if Mamma looks into my room!” She ran along by his side. “And all for nothing! Everything goes wrong!” she burst out angrily.
“Didn’t you visit your grandparents?” asked Pagel teasingly.
“Oh rubbish!” she exclaimed angrily. “All the worse for you if you haven’t yet understood what I was looking for!”
Pagel didn’t answer, and she also remained silent.
They reached the Villa. “Thank heavens! They’re still downstairs!” But as she spoke, the Rittmeister’s light went out. The gay little windows of the staircase, ascending obliquely, lit up. “Quick, up the trellis! Perhaps I can still do it,” she cried.
They ran round the house.
“Bend down, I’ll climb on your back,” she said with a laugh. “That’s the only thing you’re good for!”
“Always glad to be of service,” declared Pagel politely. Now she was standing on him, fumbling for a hold in the lattice work. You’re no feather, he thought, noticing how cheerfully she made him feel her full weight. Then she clambered higher. He stepped into a bush, the wisteria rustled, and the bright shadow disappeared into the dark room. Pagel saw four more windows light up, and heard the Rittmeister complaining, cursing and moaning through the open window.
“Sounds pretty drunk,” he said to himself, surprised.
He started for home. “I’ve still got to write to Mama about Petra,” he thought. “She needs to make inquiries about what’s happened to her. And if I have no news in a week, I’ll go to Berlin. I’ll find her all right … Vi is difficult.… Let’s leave it.…”
The summer slowly turned to autumn, the yellow cornfields became empty, the plow made the light stubble brown. The country people said: “Yes, we’ve done it again!” spat on their hands and turned to the aftermath. Some had already started with their potatoes.
Yes, something had been achieved. A certain amount of work had been done. But when they opened the newspapers—seldom on work nights, more likely on Sundays—they read that the Cuno Government had been overthrown. The Stresemann Government was said to be more kindly disposed to the French—but the French became no friendlier. They read that there was now a strike in the Government printing department. For a while there would be no money, not even trash. They read that a war was brewing, at first only a paper war, between the Defense Minister and the President of Saxony. And they read about a battle between the Bavarian government and the central government. They read that England had given up her resistance to the occupation of the Ruhr; they read of separatist demonstrations in Aachen, Cologne, Wiesbaden, Trier; they read th
at the Reich had expended 3,500 billion marks in one week in subsidies for the Rhine and the Ruhr. Then they read that passive resistance there, the struggle against the unjust French occupation, had been given up at last. They read that exports had ceased, that the German economic system was destroyed; they also read of fights between separatists and police—the police, however, were bundled into prisons by the French.
At this time, during these few weeks of the harvest, the dollar had risen from 4,000,000 to 160,000,000 marks!
“What are we working for?” the people asked. “What are we living for? The world is coming to an end, everything is falling to pieces. Let us be gay and forget our shame, before we depart this world.”
Thus they thought, spoke, and behaved.
“You’re not to go, Hubert. I shall go myself. Please come with me, Herr von Studmann.… There will be a terrible quarrel, but we’ll save what we can.”
“Of course, Frau von Prackwitz,” said Studmann.
“What about me?” cried the Rittmeister. “What about me? I suppose I’m not needed any more? I’m completely superfluous, eh? Hubert, you are to go at once with the geese or you are dismissed.”
“Very good, Herr Rittmeister,” said Hubert obediently, but looking at his mistress.
“Go along now, Hubert, or I’ll throw you out!” yelled the Rittmeister in a final explosion.
“Do as the Rittmeister says, Hubert. Come along, Herr von Studmann, we must try if possible to get to my parents before Elias.” She dashed away. Studmann glanced back at the two figures in the hall, shrugged his shoulders helplessly and followed.
“Papa!” said Vi, who had been waiting anxiously for her mother to forget her for the first time in two weeks, “may I go out for a bit, and bathe?”
“Well, Vi, those two are kicking up a fuss, aren’t they? Because of a few geese! I’ll tell you what’ll happen. They’ll talk all day and night, and then everything will be left where it is.”
“Yes, Papa. And may I go bathing?”
“You know you are confined to your room, Vi,” explained the consistent father. “I can’t allow you to do what your mother has forbidden. But if you like, come with me; I’m going to the forest for a little.”
“Yes, Papa.” His daughter felt annoyed beyond measure at having spoken. For her father would certainly also have forgotten her.
Chapter Twelve
The Quest Fails
I
Whenever Frau Eva came to the office in these weeks to discuss farm affairs Studmann never forgot to ask: “And your husband? What does Prackwitz write?” Usually Frau Eva merely shrugged her beautiful full shoulders which, so it seemed to Studmann, concealed themselves in ever more charming, ever flimsier blouses. Sometimes, however, she would say: “Just another post card. He’s getting on all right. He has now shot his five-hundredth rabbit.”
“That’s fine!” Studmann would answer, after which they said nothing more about the Rittmeister, but discussed the harvest and the work. They were both contented with their progress, and they were also contented with each other. Whatever measure they considered practical was decided upon without any long palaver, and also carried out. If it afterwards proved not to have been practical, they did not spend a long time regretting it but tried something else.
Naturally mistakes occurred, both large and small. It was not easy for Studmann to take over and manage such an entirely unfamiliar business at the busiest time. Often he had to make the most difficult decisions within the space of a minute. The bridge to outfield five had broken down, twenty teams of horses and eighty men stood idle. They stared at the cart sunk in the ditch and lolled in the shade, saying: “You can’t do anything about it.”
Studmann did do something about it. Within a minute men were racing to the farm; in five minutes rakes, spades and shovels were on the field; in fifteen minutes a dyke had been laid across the ditch; in twenty minutes a wagon brought logs from the wood—not half an hour and carts were again rumbling from outfield five to the farm …
“Fine fellow, that!” said the men.
“I’d almost like to have a child by him,” said Frau Hartig admiringly (although she now had to labor in the fields instead of the office).
“We’ve no doubt about that, Frieda!” laughed the others. “He’s quite a change from your little Black Meier.”
Yes, Herr von Studmann turned out well, but he also had good help. It was a miracle how the intimidated, humble overseer Kowalewski suddenly became communicative, how many an excellent piece of advice, born of experience, sprang from his lips. True, he was still a little lax and easy-going with the men, but there again it was amazing to see how young Pagel, sweating and lively, came sprinting up on his bicycle, cracked the most indecent jokes with the silliest of the women, but said firmly: “You’ve got to get as far as here by noon—and as far as there by evening.”
If they protested that it was impossible—the young gentleman ought to make it half that; they were just women and not a strong fellow like him—then he mocked them. They were always boasting they were a match for any man, he would say, and according to them the fellow wasn’t born who could make them tired. Well, let them prove it.
Amid their roars of laughter the young gentleman drove off, but by evening they had reached the point indicated. Or perhaps even a little bit farther, in which case he never neglected to acknowledge this with a word of praise or, better still, a coarse joke. He pleased them all, especially as none had cause to be jealous of another on his account. “He’s a smart young fellow,” they said. “He’ll marry a lady some day—not a scarecrow like you!”—“You’ve got nothing to write home about. I can always run rings round you!” And now that he came so often with Fräulein Violet, it seemed as if they were the owner’s son and daughter, for the women soon sensed that they were not lovers.
Yes, in her loneliness Vi had become Wolfgang Pagel’s constant companion. Her mother had little time for her; she also was out in the fields a lot. Frau Eva had spent all her youth in Neulohe; in the past she had often gone about the farm with her father, the Geheimrat, had heard what the old man mumbled to himself, had seen what he regarded as important. Now she was amazed how much of it had stuck. With her husband, whatever she saw she should not have seen. He had always said: “You understand nothing about it. Please don’t interfere with the way I run things.” And had immediately become annoyed.
Studmann never became annoyed. He listened attentively to what she had to say; he even encouraged her suggestions. And though he did not always do what she suggested, he would explain his contrary opinion so fully and so well that she was forced to agree—if sometimes with a little yawn. Studmann was certainly a very reliable and efficient man, but he was a little too pedantic. No one could imagine what he would look like should he one day declare his love for her, explaining it, setting forth the motives, analyzing it, discussing his attitude to his friend, stating his precise demands for the future. It was inconceivable! With all his efficiency Studmann was the most inefficient man in the world for love-making. Yet Frau Eva had to admit that his way of letting his glance rove absent-mindedly from her toes to her mouth, in the midst of a sober calculation concerning the mixture of fodder for the cows, had its charm.
Slowly but surely, she thought. She was in no hurry; she had had enough of haste for the time being. Moreover she had probably no fixed plans or intentions; Studmann’s respectful admiration, after the storm-tide of quarreling these last few years, did her good. After the cascade of trouble, disagreement, and hurry of recent years, she was happy to be rocked and cradled by the stream of dependency and order emanating from Studmann. But it must be realized that a mother who had so many things to do hadn’t much time for her daughter. At first she had tried taking Violet with her round the farm and on her visits to the office. But this contact revealed that their relationship had suffered a serious blow. With sadness Frau Eva saw that Vi obstinately rejected everything coming from her. If she said the weather was fine,
Violet found it oppressive; if she suggested that Violet ought to go bathing again, Violet found bathing a bore. There was nothing to be done; there was in this resistance something like serious hostility.
Perhaps I really have been unjust to her, the mother reflected. Perhaps it was nothing—some harmless little affair—we have certainly heard nothing more of any stranger. And now her girl’s sense of honor is mortally offended. Well, it will be best for me not to force matters, but to give her time to get over it. One day she’ll come back to me.
Vi therefore regained her freedom; there was no more talk of her being confined to her room. But what was she to do now? How empty this life had become! She couldn’t go on waiting like this forever—and perhaps in vain. In that case … but she didn’t know what to do in that case. If only something would happen! But nothing did, absolutely nothing.
In the first days of her new freedom she ran to all the places where she had been with Fritz. For hours on end she wandered up and down in the forest at the spot where they had met. She remembered every single one of the places where they had lain.… It was as if the grass had only just straightened itself, as if the mossy bank had only just become smooth again. But he did not return. Sometimes it seemed as if he had been nothing but a dream.
She went also to the Black Dale, and after long searching found the cleverly concealed spot where the weapons were buried. There she stayed a long time; he was bound to come sooner or later to see if the secret was still kept. But he did not come.
Sometimes she met old Forester Kniebusch on her wanderings, and he poured out his heart to her. He had been brought face to face with the poacher Bäumer, but that scoundrel must have got wind of the forester’s boasts. Although he had not been conscious a moment after his fall, he had had the impudence to assert that the forester had thrown him from his bicycle and battered his head several times against the stone, hoping to beat his brains out. They had spoken to the old man very roughly, telling him that only his age protected him from immediate arrest. This is no time to talk of wild deer. The attempt on Bäumer’s life had to be settled first. And in the meantime the poacher was living in the hospital like a prince; he had excellent food, careful treatment, a private room—to be sure, with bars in the windows. Never in all his life had the scoundrel been so well off.
