by Hans Fallada
The roads from Neulohe to Ostade were bad, softened by rain and cut up by the potato carts, so that the powerful car could not show its speed; at barely twenty miles an hour Finger drove her cautiously over the potholes and through the puddles. Despite this low speed, however, the deep note of the engine, the car’s elastic springing, its effortless gliding, produced in Violet a feeling of peaceful strength. The engine seemed to transfer a portion of its unused forces to her, and this sensation was heightened by the alcohol circulating through her tranquil body. First a warmth, then in the form of many different images which faintly and fleetingly arose in her, but nevertheless left her with a feeling of something like happiness. Her young body had greedily drunk down the poison. Her tastebuds had risen up against the alcohol, and her body had shaken as she quickly drank it down. But the more her tongue rejected it, the more another instinct in her had welcomed it, whether it was her brain or an even more mysterious center of the body, which often contradicts our sense of what we should hate or what we should love. To drive like this was complete happiness, and peace.
But it had to come. In the moment when she was thinking most pleasantly of the reunion with her Lieutenant, the Rittmeister asked rather abruptly: “How did you come to know this Lieutenant?”
“But, Papa, everyone knows him!”
“Everyone? I don’t know him!” contradicted the Rittmeister, annoyed.
“Papa, you were praising him to me only yesterday.”
“Maybe.” The Rittmeister was to some extent hit. “But I don’t know him—what we mean by knowing. We haven’t even been introduced. I don’t know his name, either.”
“Nor do I, Papa.”
“What? Nonsense. Don’t lie, Violet.”
“But it’s true, Papa. On my honor. The whole village calls him only Lieutenant Fritz, Papa. The forester told you that, too.”
“You never told me. You don’t trust me, Violet.”
“Of course I do, Papa. I tell you everything.”
“Not this about the Putsch and the Lieutenant.”
“But you were away, Papa.”
“Wasn’t he here before that?”
“No, Papa. Only the last few weeks.”
“Then he was not the same man who went with you and Hubert at night across the yard?”
“That was the forester Kniebusch, Papa! I’ve told you that a hundred times.”
“So your mother acted wrongly?”
“Of course, Papa.”
“I always told her so.”
The Rittmeister fell silent again. But this silence was no longer as somber as before. He felt that he had cleared up the matter in a very satisfying way; and what particularly pleased him was that once again he had proved his wife in the wrong. Because he felt inferior to her, especially now, he repeatedly had to prove that he was her superior. The only thought disturbing to this satisfaction was that Violet had wanted, behind his back, to send the letter of warning to the Lieutenant. That showed she had either no trust in him or that she was indeed secretly associated with the man.
Suddenly he turned hot at the thought that she was in any case lying to him. When she had met the Lieutenant near the arms dump, both had pretended not to know each other. Yes, the Lieutenant had been openly rude to her. Yet even so Vi had written him a letter! They had wanted to deceive him, therefore. Or the pair had actually only become acquainted later. In that case, why had she not given her warning about the forester verbally?
It was an extremely difficult case, a maddening and complicated affair. He would have to consider very deeply and be very cunning to get at the truth.
“Vi?” he said, frowning.
“Yes, Papa?” She was readiness itself.
“When we met the Lieutenant in the wood, did you know him then?”
“Of course not, Papa; otherwise he wouldn’t have been like that.” Violet felt her danger. Not desiring her father to follow up that line of thought too far, she decided on a counter-attack. “Papa,” she said energetically, “it seems to me you think with Mamma that I’m having affairs with men.”
“Not at all!” replied the Rittmeister hastily. The magic words “like Mamma” had broken down his defense at once. But he reflected a while before asking suspiciously: “What do you know about affairs with men, Violet?”
“Well, cuddling and so on, Papa,” said Violet with that girlish defiance which seemed to her suitable.
“Cuddling is a nasty word,” said the indignant Rittmeister. “Where do you hear that sort of thing?”
“From the maids, Papa. They all say that.”
“Our maids, too? Armgard? Lotte?”
“Of course, Papa. They all say that. But I can’t swear that I exactly heard it from Armgard or Lotte.”
“I’ll throw them out,” murmured the Rittmeister to himself. That was his particular way of annihilating the unpleasant things in life.
Violet had not heard him. She was very well satisfied with the path this examination was taking. She laughed. “A little while ago, Papa, I heard one of the girls in the village say to another: ‘Have you come to the pub to dance or to cuddle?’—I had to laugh so, Papa!”
“There’s nothing funny in that, Violet!” cried the Rittmeister indignantly. “That sort of thing is simply disgusting. I don’t want to hear anything more like that, and neither do I wish you to listen to such things again. Cuddling is an absolutely low word.”
“Isn’t it the same then as kissing, Papa?” she asked very surprised.
“Violet!” almost roared the Rittmeister.
The angry cry must have reached the chauffeur through the glass, for he turned round with a questioning face. By furious gestures Herr von Prackwitz showed him that he was to drive on and that it was nothing to do with him. But the chauffeur did not understand, put on his brakes, stopped, opened the window and said: “Excuse me, I haven’t quite understood, Herr Rittmeister.”
“You’re to drive on, man!” roared the Rittmeister. “Go on driving.”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister,” replied the chauffeur politely. “We shall be in Ostade in twenty minutes.”
“Then get on.”
The window was closed and the car went on.
“Blockhead!” swore the Rittmeister at the window. Then to his daughter in a milder tone: “There is a respectable and a not-respectable term for many things. You don’t say, ‘What will you booze?’ but ‘What will you drink?’ So for kissing; a respectable person doesn’t use that other not-respectable word.”
Violet considered a moment. Then she said, smiling brightly at her father: “I understand, Papa. It’s like this. When you’re in good humor you say make water, and when you’re in a temper you say the other word which I mustn’t ever use, isn’t that it, Papa?”
The Rittmeister said nothing more all the way to Ostade. Violet, not honored with any further harangue, was very satisfied.
Now they were driving along the Oder. Somewhat revived, the Rittmeister instructed his chauffeur to stop in the Old Market at The Golden Hat, which the officers frequented to read the newspapers and drink sherry or port before lunch. The country gentlemen, of course, also frequented the inn.
The Rittmeister took care that his car was not driven into the yard but left in front. “We shall be going on immediately,” he told his chauffeur. That was not at all his intention, however. He wanted the splendor of his new car to be noticed.
In the dining room there was no one, at least no one who counted for the Rittmeister. Only a few civilians. Among whom he, although not in uniform, did not include himself. It was a little after eleven; the officers usually came about this time or perhaps not till half-past.
The Rittmeister collected all the illustrated, all the humorous, periodicals. Conversation with his daughter was out of the question; she had offended him too much. Ordering a glass of port for himself and a beef tea for her, he gave himself up to his reading.
It was absolutely disgusting that this girl had again spoilt this day. I
t was simply impossible to enjoy life in Neulohe. For three minutes the Rittmeister seriously considered giving up Neulohe and rejoining the army. He need only wait for the Putsch and everything would be possible! Glad that he only had to make the decision the day after tomorrow, he sank deeper into reading about the latest attacks on the government in Kladderadatsch.
Violet sat so that she could see the market place; it appeared surprisingly peaceful for a town which had to expect on the morrow a big Putsch which would completely change the constitution and government of sixty million people. In a row stood farmers’ carts with potatoes or cabbages; women went to and fro with their market bags—but there was nothing out of the way, nothing different, and above all no uniforms.
“Papa! I don’t see any uniforms at all.”
“They have something else to do today than stroll about,” replied the Rittmeister sharply. “Anyway, I’m reading.”
But a little later he lowered his newspaper and himself looked out of the window. Glancing at the clock, he called to the waiter: “Where are the officers?”
“They ought to be here by now,” said the waiter, also regarding the clock.
Fully satisfied with this definite information, the Rittmeister ordered a second port. Violet asked for one too, but he frowned. “Keep to your beef tea,” he said. With a slight smile the waiter moved away.
Violet felt deeply disgraced. Never again could she enter this inn. Papa had been absolutely beastly. Tears in her eyes, she stared at the market place and the chauffeur sitting in the car.
“Where are you thinking of driving to now, Papa?” she asked.
The Rittmeister started. “I? I’m not thinking of driving anywhere. Why?”
“You told the chauffeur we were going on immediately, Papa!”
“Mind your own business!” said he, nettled. “What’s more, alcohol is not for young girls in the morning.”
For a long time they stared at the market place. In the end there was nothing for the Rittmeister to do but order a third port. Irritably he asked the waiter where on earth the officers could be.
The man regretted very much, but he couldn’t explain it himself.
Wretched and more and more out of humor, the two gazed from the window. The civilians had long ago recaptured the periodicals; only Kladderadatsch remained with the Rittmeister, and from time to time he glanced at it but found the jokes stupid. The situation was certainly not one for humor. What on earth was he to do all day in a boring town like Ostade, if the officers weren’t going to appear? There wouldn’t be any lunch at home now; besides, he had not the slightest wish to drive back yet—this evening would be soon enough to hear what his wife had to say about Hubert’s dismissal. Most of all he would have liked to drive to one or two barracks, and make some inquiries. Unfortunately he had just told Violet that he had no intention of driving on anywhere.
Her movement made him attentive. Utterly absorbed, she was gazing at the door, and the Rittmeister, forgetting his good manners, turned on his chair and stared also.
In the doorway stood a young man in gray knickerbockers and a greenish-yellow trench coat. He was looking round the dining room, then over at the buffet and the waiter. In his incongruous get-up he appeared so different that it was some time before the Rittmeister recognized him. Then he sprang up, rushed toward the young man and, in his delight at this distraction, greeted him enthusiastically. “Good morning, Lieutenant. You see, I’m already here today …”
“Twenty cigarettes, waiter,” the young man called sharply. Having looked coolly at the Rittmeister he decided to say “Good morning,” very reserved.
“Surely you remember me!” cried the Rittmeister, astonished at this reception. “Rittmeister von Prackwitz. We met yesterday in the train. Major,” he whispered the name, “Rückert. You … I …” Louder: “I’ve already bought the car, a fairly good one. A Horch. No doubt you saw it outside.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Lieutenant absent-mindedly. The waiter coming up, he took his cigarettes, gave a note, acknowledged the change and asked: “The gentlemen not here yet?”
The waiter brought out his two sentences: “They ought to have been here long before this. I don’t understand it either.”
“Hmmm!” was all the Lieutenant said, but even the Rittmeister felt that this had not been good news for the young man.
The waiter had left. The two men looked at each other in silence a moment.
The Lieutenant made up his mind. “You must excuse me, I am very busy.” He spoke mechanically and did not move, but remained looking at the Rittmeister as if he expected something.
That his announcement about the purchase of a car had made so little impression offended Herr von Prackwitz very much. Nevertheless he did not want the Lieutenant to go. At the moment he was the only person with whom he could talk or from whom he could find out anything. “Perhaps you would join me at my table for a moment, Lieutenant?” he said. “I have something to tell you.”
The Lieutenant was obviously deep in thought. He waved his hand. “I am really very busy,” he said. But when the Rittmeister made a gesture of invitation he went with him. Violet had not taken her eyes away the whole time.
“You have met my daughter, Herr …” The Rittmeister’s laugh was embarrassed. “There now, I’ve forgotten your name, Lieutenant!”
Under Violet’s glance the Lieutenant had become more alert. She looked so fervent and affectionate that a strong repulsion stirred in him at once. She hasn’t even understood yet that she’s finished for me, he thought. You’ve got to be rude first to her.
“Meier,” he introduced himself. “Meier. Meier is a very useful, a very agreeable name, don’t you think?”
He was aware of her glance, plainly begging for pardon and mercy.
“No, I don’t believe that I know the young lady,” he said more harshly. “Or perhaps yes.”
“Yes—in Neulohe …” whispered Violet, cowering under that ruthless glance and remark.
“In Neulohe? Oh? Have we seen one another there? You must pardon me, Fräulein, but I for my part don’t remember it.” Turning to the Rittmeister, transfixed at this incomprehensible scene—for he saw that his daughter was stricken to the heart—the Lieutenant added: “No, please order nothing for me. I must go at once. You had something to say to me, Rittmeister?”
“I don’t know …” began the Rittmeister slowly.
Violet sat there with a pale and lifeless face.
The Lieutenant crossed his legs, basely making show of an expression of boredom, as of one who knew only too well what was coming. Lighting a cigarette he said superciliously: “If you don’t know, Herr—Herr—my excuses, the name escapes me” (with a vindictive look at Violet), “but if you don’t know, I should like to depart, if you don’t mind. As I told you, I am very busy.” And continued to sit there with a provocative air. A little more and it could have been said that he was openly yawning.
The Rittmeister restrained himself; outside his home he could do that. “The long and the short of it is, my daughter wrote you a letter.” He hesitated. “About the matter you know of, and which has got into the wrong hands.”
It was all as had been expected. The Lieutenant, conscious of the girl’s imploring gaze, put out his cigarette in the ash tray. Then he looked up from his dead butt, ran his eyes over the Rittmeister and said: “I am at your disposal, naturally, Rittmeister. I dispute nothing. Only,” he went on more quickly, “I should be grateful if you would wait till tomorrow’s action is over. My friends will call on you immediately afterwards.”
The Rittmeister was a very old man; hollow temples, white hair, a ravaged face. In almost an unintelligible voice he said: “Do-I-understand-you-aright?”
“Papa! Fritz!” cried Violet.
“You have completely understood,” the Lieutenant informed him in his supercilious and insolent voice.
“Oh, Fritz, Fritz! Papa …” the girl murmured, her eyes full of tears.
The Rittmeiste
r seemed paralyzed. Holding his wineglass by the stem he turned it round and round, as if examining the color of the port. On his tongue was no taste of wine; only of bitterness and ashes … the bitterness and ashes of a whole life.
“Oh, Fritz.” It was Violet’s tearful voice.
In a flash he had thrown the remainder of his port in the impudent, conceited face. With great pleasure Joachim von Prackwitz saw the young fellow turn pale and the firm chin tremble.… “Have I understood you properly now, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Violet had moaned. The Lieutenant, before wiping the wine from his face, was young enough to look anxiously round the room—the civilians were sitting behind their newspapers. But the waiter at the buffet had given a start and was now rubbing the zinc bar with embarrassed vigor.
“That was unnecessary,” whispered the Lieutenant, full of hatred, standing up. “Anyway, I have always loathed your daughter.”
The Rittmeister groaned. He attempted to rise and strike the brutal odious face, but his legs were trembling, the room turned round and round and he had to hold on to the table. In his ears the blood roared like breakers on the shore—his daughter spoke from far away. Has she no pride at all? he thought. How can she still talk to him?
“Oh, Fritz! why have you done this? Now everything is ruined. Papa knew nothing.” He was looking at her with his clear malicious eyes, full of contempt and disgust.
She advanced round the table; it did not matter to her that she was in a public place. She seized his hand, she implored him: “Fritz, be kind.… Papa will do everything I want. I will talk him round.… I can’t be without you.… Even if I see you only once a week, once a month, we could still be married.”
He was attempting to withdraw his hand.…
Her eyes were large with anxiety and tears. She was trying to collect herself. With an attempt at a smile she said: “I will convince Papa that it’s all a mistake. He didn’t know about it at all! He must ask your pardon, Fritz, about the wine.… That was very horrible of him. I swear to you he will beg your pardon.”
