by Hans Fallada
Not well? Oh! Certainly, he would do that, and see about the heating for the bath also, of course. He wouldn’t forget. No, there would be no trouble about girls for once. The women had all come back soaked from the potato lifting; it was raining very heavily now. He would pick out three or four of the most suitable and see that the Villa was cleaned in person.
An excellent young fellow. Almost smiling, Frau von Prackwitz left the telephone. Before she went up, she ordered another coffee. Yes, please, in her room. And now back to it. But, just as last time, she was overcome with a feeling of anxiety on the stairs. Her heart beat faster. What had happened to Vi? She ran in such a way that she could feel her skirts on her knees.
But then back in her room, unchanged, Vi was in a deep sleep.
The anxiety declined and was replaced by dark desperation, and she thought suddenly: it’s like coming back to a dead person. And again she began the agonized wait.
Eva didn’t yet know how good it can be to come back to a dead person.
VIII
“What does this mean?” shouted the indignant Lieutenant. “You’ve been following me, I suppose? You want to arrest me?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, man,” said the other calmly. “How can I arrest you? We’re illegal.”
“Am I only a man now, not an officer anymore?” asked the Lieutenant sarcastically. “Well, what do you want with me?”
“Like to know, for example, how you have succeeded here.”
“I shall report on that to Herr Richter. As ordered.”
“I merely thought you might possibly forget it. That’s why I came to meet you.”
“Why should I forget? In my duty I have never forgotten anything.”
“I merely thought so,” said the fat man in apology, “because we have now been informed which arms dump has been discovered.” He stood still—but only because the Lieutenant had come to a stop—and directed his cold ruthless glance at him, saying very softly: “Yes, you know about it, my friend. You knew about it in there with Herr Richter. It’s yours.”
“I didn’t know.” The Lieutenant nearly shouted.
“Quietly, quietly, my friend,” said the fat man, laying his hand on the other’s shoulder, in such a way that the Lieutenant noticed he was as strong as an ox. “The question now is whether you will tell me who’s blabbed. Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. Either you know him or you know her, and we’d very much like to know, too. For the future, you understand?”
“I know nothing about it,” said the Lieutenant obstinately.
“Rubbish. The former bailiff, Meier from Neulohe, was sitting in the Entente Commission’s car, and he showed them the dump—we know that now, too. Don’t make so much fuss, man. You’re not telling me for my own profit but for your former comrades, so that they shan’t get caught out again.”
The Lieutenant shivered to hear the other speaking of his “former comrades,” but he took the bull by the horns and declared defiantly: “I have said that I am answerable for the dump with my life. If it’s really done for, I shall do what I said.”
“My dear chap,” smiled the fat man, laying his hand once again on the shoulder—gently, yet the Lieutenant trembled—“my dear chap, don’t flatter yourself. You are finished, one way or the other. You’ve made a mess of things, you’ve lied. No, my friend, you’re done for.” His frozen glance rested on the Lieutenant, from whose thin white lips no word came forth.
“No,” went on the fat man, drawing away his hand. “It’s not a question of you anymore; it’s a question of the others. They’re the ones we want to know about.”
“You know already,” said the Lieutenant heavily. “You say little Meier was in the car—then you know the traitor.”
“We’ve got to find out who was the link between you and the traitor.”
“I’m no traitor!” shouted the Lieutenant.
“Did I say so?” The fat man spoke imperturbably. “Do you think I should have let you leave Richter’s room if you were a traitor? Do you think I’d be here with you now if you were a traitor? No, you’re only a windbag, and some sort of honor’s still in you. Although it must be a peculiar sort of honor. Because you swore on it that the dump was safe, and knew all the time it was found out.”
“I didn’t know,” cried the Lieutenant in despair.
“You’re cowardly and stupid; you shouldn’t think so much about yourself, Herr. It’s not at all important if you live. Now show some guts and tell me everything you know.”
The Lieutenant appeared to reflect. All he said, however, was: “Wait a minute. I’ll just go in here.” And he entered the small public-house before which they happened to be standing. But the fat man did not wait behind; he followed, to listen. “Landlord,” said the Lieutenant, “here is your trench jacket again. I shan’t need it anymore. Give me back my rags.”
“But there was no hurry, Herr Lieutenant. Herr Lieutenant can’t wear the dirty jacket. Wait at least till my wife has brushed it a bit.”
“Give me back the old rag,” persisted the Lieutenant. And while he was changing, he whispered: “No, I wouldn’t let my boy put it on tomorrow.”
The landlord’s eyes looked stupid in their astonishment.
“Good-by and thank you, landlord,” said the Lieutenant, leaving the public-house.
“Acting as usual,” criticized the fat man. “The jacket wouldn’t have been so important, anyway. In your lifetime you’ll have spoiled more than a jacket. But to be noble in his own eyes, yes, everyone likes that. I never met a murderer who said he had murdered for money. They all had some noble excuse.…”
“Listen, you!” shouted the Lieutenant. “If you’re going to follow me, shut your jaw. Or—”
“Or what?” The other gripped the Lieutenant’s arm. And the pressure, seeming to crush the muscles, increased till the veins were almost bursting, and the Lieutenant had to grind his teeth together so as not to scream. “I know you’ve got a pistol in your trouser pocket. Well, try and get it out, now.”
No, the Lieutenant would not even try. That terrible grip crushed even the instinct of combat which had always been his.
The fat man released his arm. “Besides, I’m not following you, but taking you,” he said imperturbably.
“And where are you taking me?”
“To The Golden Hat. I accept your proposal. We’ll ask Herr von Prackwitz and his daughter about the dump. Especially his daughter.”
“No.” The Lieutenant stopped.
“Why not? You yourself proposed it, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not going to stand like a prisoner—and before those people.”
“Whom you know only by sight.” The fat man laughed. “Are you excited, young man, at the prospect of going with me to Fräulein von Prackwitz?”
“Fräulein von Prackwitz can—” shouted the Lieutenant.
“Correct. Exactly what I thought, Lieutenant. You have a little private animosity toward the Fräulein. I wonder why?”
“The Fräulein means nothing to me.”
“Why, even now when you are being careful you can’t speak of her without your face twitching. Well, Lieutenant, what is it to be? Golden Hat or private confession?”
“Golden Hat,” replied the Lieutenant firmly. The Prackwitzes must have been gone a long time by now; how could they still be sitting there, two or three hours after that scene! No, she would have fled; she had her reputation to consider. And even if they hadn’t fled, he wouldn’t let himself be conducted into their presence by this fat detective. He’d find some opportunity to escape, he’d not let himself be deprived of all that remained to him—his deliberate revenge on her. Execution should not be done on him, but by him on her.
Human beings, before they depart this earth, want to know that they have not been wiped from the great slate of life without leaving some trace. The Lieutenant had no children, he had nothing to bequeath, no farewell letter to write. He would be as extinguished as if he had never walked the earth. Honor an
d ambition, self-respect and manliness, had fallen away from him while still among the living. But … Oh, stay a while, you are so lovely! Still so lovely! There was that white suggestive face, which you were never able to love. Now you can hate it. Behind the forehead is a brain in which you will be registered for as long as it thinks. In that bosom beats a heart which will become fearful at the thought of you, thirty years from now, when nothing more remains of you on this planet. A small eternity for the dead man in one who still wanders in the light; traces of the past in the surviving.
The two of them walked silently side by side, the Lieutenant with his hands in his pockets, with an ugly smile on his face. The detective, lively, with the cold-blooded look of a dog picking up a scent.
For the first time, however, the fat man was unlucky. The waiter, throwing a suspicious glance at the Lieutenant, stated that Herr von Prackwitz had gone out and the young lady was ill. No, no—impossible to see her. The doctor was there, the young lady was unconscious. Without even asking the wishes of these guests he turned away. It was obvious that he laid no value on their presence; he went back to his work.
“And what now?” asked the Lieutenant derisively.
“You’re a bit too sarcastic,” said the other with a trace of irritation. “That betrays how pleased you are that nothing’s come of this visit. Well, we’ll just wait here for Herr von Prackwitz. Waiter, a bitter.”
The Lieutenant had prepared his plan. “Listen,” he said, “there’s still a little money in my pocket, and I want to give it to a girl. Let’s go there quickly. It won’t take half an hour.”
“The maid at the colonel’s? You could have settled that a little while ago. What did she tell you, by the way? Waiter, a bitter!”
“Nothing,” replied the Lieutenant promptly. “She was in a rage with me because I only went when I wished to hear something, she said. We were shits and our Putsch was also shit, or something like that. But I mean another girl now, in the New-town.”
“Shits and shit. Well, that’s something. She got that from someone else; that’s why she was angry with you perhaps. Women like that always get mad with their fellow if some idiot speaks badly of him.… Isn’t the waiter going to bring me any beer? Waiter, a bitter, please.”
“Leave the beer,” begged the Lieutenant. “Let me go to the girl now. It won’t take half an hour—we can always meet Herr von Prackwitz afterwards.”
The waiter set down the glass of beer. “Twenty million,” he said rudely.
“Twenty million!” The fat man was indignant. “What sort of bitter is it here, then? Everywhere else it costs thirteen million.”
“Since midday. The dollar’s now two hundred and forty-two million.”
“Oh,” growled the fat man, and paid. “If I’d known that I wouldn’t have had a beer. Two hundred and forty-two million! You see what good it’ll do giving the girl money; it won’t make her any the happier! It’s all just acting.”
“There are also letters for me there, which I’d like to fetch.”
“Letters! What letters? You only want to get away.”
“All right, we’ll sit here. I’ll have a bottle of wine for my money then. Waiter!”
“Stop,” said the fat man. “Where is it?”
“What?”
“Where the girl lives.”
“In the New-town, Festungs Promenade. Not twenty minutes away.”
“You said before it wasn’t half an hour there and back. What sort of letters are they? Love letters?”
“I’d keep my love letters at a girl’s, eh?”
“Let’s go then.” The fat man finished his drink and stood up. “But I tell you now, if you’re going to make trouble, as you did a little while ago at the barracks …”
“So you saw that as well?”
“I’ll not only smash you in the chest—I’ll go for the stomach so that you’ll never walk straight again.” Something flared in the ice-cold glance which threatened the Lieutenant. But this time it had no effect on him; he merely smiled. “I’m not making any trouble,” he said. “Anyway, as far as I can see, I haven’t got much more walking straight to do, eh? Threats haven’t really much point with someone like me, don’t you think?”
The fat man shrugged his shoulders. Through the rainy, deserted streets the two walked side by side.
The Lieutenant was trying to think how to get away from his tormentor; there were no letters and no girl in the New-town. But out there it ought to be easier to escape, to shake off this spy somehow, so as to do what had to be done without fresh humiliation or harassing surveillance. (Shall I really have courage enough—for that?) It was not going to be so easy to deceive this watchdog, however. Though the man shambled along beside him nonchalantly, the Lieutenant knew quite well what that hand always in his trouser pocket meant; he knew why the other kept so close to him that their shoulders touched at each step. Should he make the slightest unexpected movement the other’s fist would seize him in its demoralizing grip. Or there would be a report, once, twice, right here in the street, and then there would be something in the papers again about a political murder.
Not that! Not that! The Lieutenant was feverishly trying to form an idea of the geography of all the public-houses on their way and the possibility of escaping across the yard from the lavatory. But he could not concentrate on his task; his brain, despite all compulsion, refused to help him. Always the image of Violet von Prackwitz kept on coming between. The waiter had said that she was lying unconscious, and a fierce delight possessed him. Already, at my mere threats, you are unconscious. But wait and see how you will relish life when I have carried out my threat.… But I must think about escaping from some pub. Now we shall soon be passing The Fire Ball.…
Ah, the Lieutenant was obsessed with the girl. Now, death approaching, the scatterbrain had found a significance in life; this man of a hundred love affairs, who had never loved, had discovered hatred—a feeling which was worth living for! He pictured what it would be like when she saw him; it seemed to him he could hear her screams. It had to come to that; he wished it so strongly it couldn’t be otherwise. The wishes of the dying are fulfilled, he thought. And gave a start.
“What’s the matter?” The fat man was sharply on guard.
The wishes of the dying are fulfilled, thought the Lieutenant again, immensely delighted. “There you are. Herr von Prackwitz!” he said. “You wanted to speak to him. Please do.”
Their way to the New-town had brought them into the old long-demolished, long-outgrown fortifications, where the city fathers had made out of rampart and fosse a promenade for the citizens. And they were now walking in the fosse, with the ramparts rising steeply to the right and left, covered with trees and bushes. They had turned a corner and could see a strip of pathway, a lonely and remote spot.
To one side was a bench dripping with rain, and on this bench sat Rittmeister von Prackwitz, huddled, but not awake. His head was hanging over his chest; his sleep was the insensible wheezy sleep of the utterly drunken. Now and then, when his breathing became too embarrassed, his head gave a jerk, raised itself almost vertical and slowly sank, bumping at first on his shoulder, then back again onto his chest.
It was a deplorable, a shameful sight, which Herr von Prackwitz presented. For a moment the two spectators stood silent. The Rittmeister, searching for his car, had not been dumped in this solitary corner of the grounds for nothing. He had been robbed.
“They are like carrion kites!” exclaimed the fat man furiously. “The vermin smell their prey faster than we ever do.” And he threw a suspicious look up at the ramparts. But no branch crackled among the bushes, no retreating foot sent a stone rolling down the slope. The kites had long flown with their spoils. Plundered, stripped to his underclothes, a ridiculous and lamentable figure, Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz-Neulohe slept off his intoxication in the drizzle. Too feeble to resist and fight like the strong, he had collapsed and resorted to the dirty Nirvana of alcohol—to awaken, how?
> “I thought you wished to speak to the gentleman?” jeered the Lieutenant. The wishes of the dying were fulfilled. If already this could happen to the father, how would the daughter be dishonored?
“What bloody beastliness!” raged the fat man, not taking his eye off the Lieutenant. He is in exactly the same situation as the ferryman who has to ferry a wolf, a goat and a cabbage, and only has one place left in his little craft. He could keep a watch on him or he could help the Rittmeister—both together were hardly possible. “Leave Herr von Prackwitz there,” advised the Lieutenant maliciously. “No one has seen us find him. And I—well, I’ve got to hold my tongue.”
The fat man stood thoughtfully there. “Lieutenant,” he said after a while, “dig yourself in the ribs. Tell me who blabbed about the dump, and I’ll let you go.”
“It’s my business,” said the Lieutenant slowly. “I don’t want anyone else sticking their nose into it. But I give you my word of honor it was all only stupid woman’s gossip and twaddle, not meant badly.…”
The fat man brooded. “I must know the name,” he said at last. “It wasn’t only Fräulein von Prackwitz—”
“It wasn’t Fräulein von Prackwitz!” the Lieutenant cried.
With a terrible blow in the pit of the stomach, the fat man was on him like a sudden storm; he couldn’t even begin to defend himself from the hail of blows. Before he knew where he was, he had been knocked down—the other groped in his pocket, drew out the pistol. “And the safety catch not up, you bloody coward!” he cursed. “Well, my lad, do what you needs must do, without a weapon. But I’ll get you again before you know about it.”
The Lieutenant, unable even to reply, lay on the ground. His whole body was in pain, but far worse was the fury of despair. This fat man, this pitiless brutal giant—he was at the bench, he already had the Rittmeister in his arms.
