by Hans Fallada
Well, he had been dismissed, probably because of some enormous crime such as an egg too hard or a teaspoon not picked up when dropped. In his present humor Achim would find cause for an outburst of fury in anything. But it all happened so quickly, without warning; nothing new came into her life, only the old went away, constantly went away. It was like sitting on an ice floe from which piece after piece splits off until there is nothing left. Once you had parents with whom you got on not well but bearably—and now no longer. You had a husband and a daughter—and now no longer. You had a business in the country—when were you last there? You had a comfortable home. And now, here you are sitting alone at the breakfast table, your servant dismissed, and the doors between the individual bedrooms carefully locked during the night.
A feeling of despair, an impotent grief, rose in her. Had there ever been a time when life was so little worth living? It made you itch to do something. Something just had to be done to get out of this morass. But somehow everything one did mysteriously only sucked you deeper in. Any action turned against itself.
Armgard stood in the door—half embarrassed, half defiant. “Hubert says he is no longer in service here. He says it’s not necessary for him to come.”
“We’ll see about that!” cried Frau Eva passionately, reaching the hall in five steps.
“Madam! Please, madam!” implored the maid.
“What is it then?” she asked crossly. “No more tittle-tattle, Armgard!”
“But madam ought to know,” said the girl coming close in order to speak softly. “Hubert did threaten the Rittmeister so! About an arms dump. Rittmeister was quite pale.”
“And you saw that from the kitchen in the basement?” asked Frau Eva sarcastically.
“But the dining-room door was open, madam!” Armgard was deeply insulted. “I was just going up to fetch a collared ham and the door happened to be open. I’m not inquisitive, madam. I only wanted to help.”
“All right, Armgard,” said Frau Eva, about to go.
“But, madam, you don’t know! Hubert was talking about a letter. A letter from the Fräulein. It was something to do with an arms dump.”
“Rubbish,” said Frau Eva unceremoniously, and went down into the basement. All rubbish and keyhole eavesdropping. Hubert had obviously listened behind the door yesterday, when she was talking with her husband about the car and the Putsch, and he now wanted to be revenged for his dismissal. She would soon put Hubert in his place. But to say that Vi of all people had been writing letters about an arms dump! That was the sort of absolute nonsense which might be expected from keyholes.
The dismissed servant was bending over a suitcase on his bed, packing with laborious exactness a pair of carefully folded trousers; he was allowing, so to speak, for every millimeter. The bed on which his suitcase lay had already been stripped. Folded in their creases the sheets hung over a chair; nevertheless a large piece of paper was spread out under his suitcase to protect the bed. Minute preciseness to the end—Hubert Räder all over!
At this sight, and still more at seeing his fishlike, impassive face, she lost all desire to attack him. “So you want to leave us, Master Hubert?” she said, with a touch of humor.
Hubert was holding up a waistcoat, examining it against the light, before proceeding to fold it, as was proper, with the lining outside. But he made no attempt to answer, which was not at all proper.
“Well, Hubert?” Frau Eva smiled. “No reply? Are you angry with me, too?”
Hubert laid the waistcoat in the case and took up the jacket. A jacket is a difficult thing to fold. He bent low over it and said nothing.
“Hubert!” She spoke sharply. “Don’t be stupid. Even if you’re angry with the Rittmeister, that’s no reason why you should be rude to me.”
“Madam,” began Hubert solemnly, raising his dejected gray eyes, “the Rittmeister treated me like a slave.…”
“Well, I don’t suppose you said very friendly things to him, either. I’ve been told that you even threatened him.”
“Yes, madam. That is so. Armgard was listening—but it’s true. I am sorry for it. Perhaps madam will be good enough, when the Rittmeister returns, to say that I regret it. I spoke in passion.” He looked as passionate as a lump of wood.
“All right, Hubert. I’ll do that. Now tell me what happened.”
“And the Fräulein’s letter will not be made use of,” went on Hubert unswervingly. “That I promise. Although I shan’t burn it. Not yet.”
“Hubert! Be a good fellow and remember that I am not only an employer against whom you must naturally have some complaints, but also a mother who is often very worried. What is this letter of Violet’s in your possession? Do tell me the truth about it. Stop playing the fool for once, Hubert.”
“Excuse me, madam, I am not playing the fool,” explained Hubert unmoved. “I am like that.”
“All right, then. Tell me in your own way. I shall understand. Please tell me what you know, Hubert.”
He looked at her with his cold dead eyes. Perhaps the grisly fellow was a little happy to have a woman pleading with him; it was not observable, however. After a long silent inspection he shook his head. “No.” And returned to his jacket.
“Hubert, why not, then? You are leaving us, and it can’t do you any harm to tell me now. It would be so helpful perhaps.”
But Hubert Räder was busy with his jacket; he behaved as if he hadn’t heard a thing. After a long pause, however, he said “No” again.
“But why not?” she whispered. “I don’t understand you. What is the matter? Hubert, be amiable. I will give you a splendid recommendation, I’ll ask my relatives about another place for you.…”
“I’m not going into service again,” he explained.
“Well then, Hubert, you’ve said that you don’t want to burn the letter yet; that is, you intend perhaps to use it, perhaps to get money for it. Vi, I suppose, has done something silly. All right, Hubert, I will buy the letter from you, I’ll pay you what you wish … a hundred gold marks … five hundred … a thousand gold marks for a silly letter from a young girl!” Her speech and the suspense in which she watched him were feverish. She hardly thought about what she said. She couldn’t make a judgment any longer about what sort of a letter it might actually be. A mysterious anxiety had seized her, alone with this horrible fellow. How had she been able to put up with him so long? Evil! Evil!
Hubert Räder uncovered his teeth in what no doubt was meant for a smile. At his threatening glance, and the triumph in it, her agitation turned to a dull despair. Slowly he shook his head and for the third time said “No.” Then he looked at the jacket near him on the bed, as if he did not quite understand what it was doing there.
“All right, Hubert,” she said in sudden anger, “the letter isn’t yours. At the moment there are gendarmes here in Neulohe. I will send for one and have your things searched.”
It was the same now as at the beginning, though; the fellow appeared not to hear anything and was occupied only with his packing. Pleas, threats, money—all had been in vain. What else was there? To flatter him, she thought; the fellow must be morbidly conceited. That went against the grain, however; the very thought of humbling herself before him was repulsive.… But she remembered her daughter, the mysterious letter, and that this man perhaps had her in his power.…
“You ought not to lower yourself to this sort of thing, Hubert,” she ventured. (She had wanted to say “Herr Räder,” but it would not come out.) “Someone like you who sets a proper value on himself.…” Hopefully she watched him. His glance turned from the jacket to her; once more there was that lifting of the lips. He had seen through her, and she felt humiliated.
“Excuse me, madam, I don’t think I set much value on myself any longer, which is why I have no more use for money either.” He was apparently satisfied with the effect of his incomprehensible words, for, after a moment’s brooding, he said: “I will send madam the letter on October the second, by post. Madam doesn’t need
to pay for it.”
“The day after tomorrow?” She knew that he had not promised her anything good. There was an obscure threat behind his words, something she could not ward off. But when she made to speak, there was a gesture from him, and she was silent at once, because he, the servant, wished it.
“Madam must not question me. I say only what I want to. The Fräulein treated me very badly. I never betrayed her, yet she incited her father to throw me out.… You said I shouldn’t lower myself. I know you only said so to get me to say something. If Fräulein Violet is not out of your sight till early the day after tomorrow, then nothing will happen.”
“She’s gone out.…” she whispered.
After the daughter, the mother. Somehow both came under the man’s spell. What was he? A stupid and a not exceedingly capable servant—the mother had hitherto supported him only with ridicule—but now she wasn’t thinking of making fun of him, she took him only too seriously. Fads and whims? Stupidities? No. Danger, threat, and something somber that only he could know.…
“She’s gone out,” she had whispered.
He nodded, curt, self-assured. “She will be back tonight. Don’t let her out of your sight then, madam, till early the day after tomorrow.” He returned to his packing, and she understood that this was final.
“The best of luck, then, Hubert,” she said. “You will fetch your papers and money from the office?”
He did not reply; he was preoccupied with scrupulously folding up his jacket. A gray and fishlike face, with no discoverable expression—that was the picture of him she was to take away, which she was to see many times in the future—her last glimpse of Hubert Räder.
She would never forget it.…
III
Leaving his room, she pushed open the door almost into Armgard’s face. The maid screamed and sought to escape, but Frau Eva was extremely indignant. Holding the girl firmly by the arm she gave her notice, abruptly.
“Get your wages and papers from the office. Pack at once. You can go with the milk cart.”
And with that she left her cook, paying no attention to her whining. The thought of having humiliated herself before Räder was bad enough; but to have had an audience, and such a one, was unbearable. Out of my sight! A fierce satisfaction filled her. He had thrown out the servant, and she the cook; everything was falling to pieces. What sort of a household would it seem in the next few days? What sort of meals would the seventeen-year-old Lotte rake together, with seven rooms to look after at the same time? Herr von Prackwitz would be astonished!
She went to the kitchen and disclosed the state of affairs to Lotte. Seven rooms, the cold fillet of beef, the beans, there was some sauce left, asparagus soup and—well, of all things, there stood the washing-up from last night! “My dear girl, don’t you wash up every evening, as I told you to? Why not, then?”
Whereupon Lotte promptly broke into tears. Sobbing, she declared she knew nothing about asparagus soup, that she would never be able to do it, that she wouldn’t let herself be shouted at, that she too would rather leave at once.…
Frau Eva wanted to think over what she had heard from Hubert Räder, what she should do with her daughter, and say to her husband. There were a thousand things to occupy and torment Frau Eva. But no, she must console Lotte and initiate her into the secret of how to make “real” asparagus soup from dried parings, with the aid of a small glass jar of asparagus tips. Finally she promised the disconsolate girl to ask her mother for a maid from the Manor as assistant.… And all the while she had the feeling that the disgusting Armgard was listening behind the kitchen door, delighted at her mistress’s embarrassment.… Seven rooms to be done were in truth a nightmare.
Frau Eva walked to the office; she had to inform young Pagel of the dismissals. But the place was closed and the customary notice dangling on the door: “Urgent inquiries at the Villa.…” But in the Villa there was only the disconsolate Lotte, and when the dismissed servants came to get their papers from the office they would see the notice inviting them back to the Villa. Confusion would be complete!
She shrugged her shoulders—things were like that—and she went on to the Manor, telling herself that there at least everything would be the same as ever. But in front stood a cart on which trunks were being loaded, and at that moment up drove the ancient landau with her father’s fat Hanover horses.
“What’s taking place here, Elias?” she asked, astonished.
“Good morning, madam. The lady and gentleman are going on a journey,” reported old Elias, taking off his little cap.
She ran into the house and up the stairs to her mother’s room. In her armchair Frau von Teschow was sitting in coat and hat; behind her was old Kuckhoff with a bundle of sticks and umbrellas under her arm. Frau von Teschow was directing the maids, who were drawing linen dustsheets over the furniture.
“So there you are, child,” said the old lady. “We shouldn’t have gone away, of course, without coming over to look in on you again.”
“But where are you going to so suddenly, Mamma? Papa never said a word about it yesterday.”
“My dear child! Last night! It was unbearable.” Holding her head, the old lady sighed dolefully. “Oh, why did your husband also have to bring these convicts to our dear Neulohe?”
“But they’ve gone away now, Mamma.”
“Run away! I never slept a wink all night. I could hear people prowling around all the time. The stairs creaked, and once I heard giggling there … Yes, exactly as you are giggling now, you stupid goose, Marta!” said Frau von Teschow, angrily rebuking a maid who turned crimson.
“You imagined that, Mamma. It would be the gendarme on guard in the street. Their officer said …”
“My dear child, I believe only my ears! I’m going away. Your father for once is thoughtfulness itself. We shall go first of all to Berlin. Hotel Kaiserhof, Eva, if there should be anything. We’re not going to be murdered in our beds! Oh, no!” And encumbered with her sticks and umbrellas, Aunt Jutta emphatically announced that she preferred the Kaiserhof to the churchyard.
Frau Eva saw it was useless to speak against the journey. The only puzzling thing was her father’s prompt consent, for usually no complaints whatever from his wife would drive him away from his beloved Neulohe. But there was one good thing about it: she would be able to get a maid from her mother without difficulty.
Frau von Teschow shook her head. “You are always having trouble with your servants. That comes of spoiling them. And you don’t send them to my evening prayers anymore!” In the end, however, after many a pointed remark, she declared herself willing that Marta should help. Marta, though, showed opposition. No, she wouldn’t. She had been taken on for the Manor, not the Villa. Frau von Teschow tried to talk her round, Frau von Prackwitz promised her a reward, Fräulein von Kuckhoff admonished her, but Marta remained obstinate. She would not. Very well, then Trudchen! But neither would Trudchen. Trudchen in fact had an excuse: the Villa was too gloomy for her. Too far from the village; and now, when convicts were loose.…
“I really can’t blame her, Eva,” whispered Frau von Teschow. “I don’t know how you look on your responsibility for Violet, but you should let her go with us to Berlin.”
For a moment Frau von Prackwitz thought this a good idea. But: “Violet has gone out with her father.”
“Of course. In that new car of yours. Horst-Heinz phoned to Berlin at once; a car like that costs easily twenty thousand marks. How can you afford it, when you are moaning about the rent?”
“Well, what about one of the maids, Mamma?”
“My dear child, you hear yourself. In these circumstances I really can’t compel them. If something happened to them in the Villa I should have to reproach myself forever.”
“Oh, you mustn’t do that, of course, Mamma. I’ll make shift with Minna or Hartig.”
“I do wish I could have helped you, Evchen. But you really must stand more on your authority with the servants. I hear that you often don’t go into
the kitchen for a whole week!” Little pin-pricks, protestations, farewells …
When they went down to the carriage, Geheimrat von Teschow was standing in the hall in his best suit, which clothed the hairy East Prussian even more dreadfully than his customary worsted. “A minute, Eva. Yes, get in, Belinde. I want to say something to Eva.” And taking her arm he led her a few paces away into the park. “There’s one thing I especially want to tell you, Eva. I wouldn’t do so to your husband. He listens to nothing. Perhaps this trip of ours surprises you.…”
“Mamma said it was because of the convicts’ escape.”
“Rubbish! Do you think I should go away because of a few brainless convicts? To a miserable town like Berlin? Ha, ha! That looks like Horst-Heinz von Teschow! No! But have you heard anything about a Putsch?” He looked closely at his daughter, who did not reply. “Good, you don’t need to tell me. I can recite it off pat. My son-in-law’s unexpected return, the new car.… So your husband’s joined with them? I hope that he managed at least to get the money for the car beforehand. Still, he’s not quite as stupid as all that, to get himself into debt for those gentlemen.”
Frau Eva was silent.
“So he has!” crowed Herr von Teschow, delighted. “Well, well. Everyone’s as stupid as he must be. It’s all the same to me. Only I don’t understand you. All right. Good. Let’s drop it. Well, here’s a word for you. This Putsch will end in smoke. The gentlemen can say what they like, the Reichswehr won’t join in. I’ve been out and about the last few days all the time, keeping my ears open everywhere. A still-born child! There are twenty fools from the village in it, the magistrate Haase, that ninny, right in front. And so the other ninny’s my son-in-law, then?”
