by Hans Fallada
“Oh, I have a flashlight,” replied the servant patiently. He waited a moment, but the Lieutenant said nothing. “Are you going now, sir?” he asked at last.
“Yes, now,” said the Lieutenant mechanically. “Give me the thing.”
“Here is the torch, Herr Lieutenant, and here—you must excuse me, sir, I could only get a revolver. But it’s quite new.”
“Hand it over. I shall manage with it.” Without examination he pushed the revolver into a pocket. “Well, I’ll go now.”
“Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”
But he did not go.
“Listen,” he ordered, suddenly vehement. “You’re to drive back on the spot. I don’t want you here, you understand? You’re a swine. What you’ve told me is nothing but lies. But—it’s all the same to me. You think you’re very clever, don’t you? But that’s all the same, too. Clever or stupid, swine or decent—we’ve all got to die.”
“If I might make an observation, Herr Lieutenant …”
“What else? You go away.”
“It is always possible that there’s somebody there. It’s not nine yet. And people are inquisitive. I should go as quietly as possibly, Herr Lieutenant.”
“Yes, yes.” The Lieutenant suddenly laughed. “I’ll be delighted to go as quietly as you wish, my clever Herr Räder. But you will allow me a little noise, surely, just once, just for once, eh?” He stared at the other with hatred. “Clear off, you. I can’t bear the sight of your mug any longer. If you don’t, I swear to God I’ll fire on you first.”
But when the pair were in the car, he made a sign to wait. He had forgotten something, something enormously important, something without which a man could on no account die; and he looked for it in the car, on the back seat, under the rug that had slipped down. Then he slammed the door. “Off with you! To hell, for all I care.”
The car moved away, the noise of its engine loud among the trees. In his damp and imperfectly cleaned trench jacket the Lieutenant stood at the roadside, the bottle of cognac in his hand. The last two people he would see in this life had gone. Very well, what of that? The cognac had remained with him—faithful unto death!
He listened intently. He was trying to persuade himself that the sounds he heard came from a motor car, and that he was not altogether alone. But it was so still, so still! And what he heard, that was his own heart beating in his breast—in fear! In cowardice!
He shrugged his shoulders; he was not responsible for his heartbeats. He pushed out his lips as if he were going to whistle, but there was no sound. They trembled.… My lips are trembling, my mouth is parched.
He looked up but could not see the sky. Dark, an uncomforting starless dark. There was indeed nothing more for him but to go down into the Black Dale. There was no discoverable pretext why he should postpone this any longer.…
In the beam of his torch the Lieutenant made out the car tracks. He followed them stealthily and slowly. They were not the tracks of one car only. No, two had been there. And after a little consideration he nodded his head, satisfied. It was all in order, exactly as it ought to be—the car of the Control Commission, and the lorry which had taken away the weapons. That is, it had not been a proper lorry, as one could see by the tire tracks. It was more a large delivery van. Again he nodded his head with satisfaction. Yes, his brain was working magnificently. He was not going into the grave as a withered gaffer, in the full vigor of his years—or whatever it said in the death notices. There would be no death notice for him, however.
Ah-ha! This was where the car had stopped, not being able to go any lower into the Dale. A pedestrian, though, didn’t need to hesitate over that; the path for pedestrians was trodden out clearly enough. The Lieutenant went to and fro, examining everything with his torch. Yes, all in the best of order once more. The visitors, after they had stopped here, had driven on in the direction of Neulohe. All had been carried out according to orders, “comprehensibly,” as that swine Räder would have said. Oh, that swine, that dog!—thank Heaven he had cleared off. In the woods there was not the slightest smell of women, and thus a man could settle his affairs with himself at last, alone. No need to pull a handsome mug, strike a fine pose. If you itched, you scratched yourself. If you wanted a nip from the bottle you took it, and afterwards belched. Quite free and easy. Oh, yes. A baby, hardly entering on life, behaved itself somewhat shamefully; and it was the same before death. Coming out of nothingness, going into nothingness, one conducted oneself pretty coarsely. It was all comprehensible. Said the scoundrelly Räder.
A ghostly pleasure penetrated the Lieutenant. His last draught of cognac had been a powerful one, and he fell rather than walked down the little footpath. But at the bottom his cheerfulness vanished, and his spinning inebriation turned into a viscous mush.…
His face became grave. What a havoc the fellows had made here! They had certainly not put themselves out, those people. Great holes in the ground, mounds of earth, the lids of cases—why, here in the light of the torch lay a spade. I hid everything so neatly, he thought. And these swine have turned it all upside down. You couldn’t notice a thing when I’d finished, and look at it now!
Very depressed he sat down on a mound of earth, dangling his legs in a pit. One about to die could not really sit in a more suitable fashion—but he was not thinking about that now. He put the bottle beside him in the soft earth, dived into his trouser pocket and brought out the revolver. With one hand he shone the torch on it, with the other held it in the light and fingered it. Yes, he had thought as much—a bit of rubbish, factory trash, mass production—a popgun, good to scare away dogs or for youngsters who had stolen the petty cash to commit suicide with—but not for him, a man who understood weapons. Oh, his fine accurately finished pistol, a thing as precise as an airplane engine! The detective had hit him in the belly and stolen the magnificent thing.
Wretchedly the Lieutenant stared in front—and then discovered that there were only the six cartridges in the drum—that villain Räder hadn’t given him any ammunition, although he had specially requested some.
“But I have to try the revolver, it’s quite new, it’s never been shot yet,” he whispered. “I wanted to try it out first; otherwise I won’t know whether it shoots too high or too low.”
A voice sought to persuade him that it was quite indifferent, with a revolver placed against the temple, whether it shot too high or no, but he would not give way. “I was looking forward to trying it. A man ought to be allowed a little pleasure.”
Grief overwhelmed him; he could have wept. It is possible to miss six times, he thought; it has happened before now. And what would I do then?
He sat there pale, with hanging underlip, his eyes wandering all round him. His face was distorted, not so much from the blows as from an expression of desperate fear; he knew that he was acting, that he was only seeking to postpone the end. But he would not acknowledge it. He was not thinking any longer about this end: oh, no, there was still so much to prepare, to consider. He remembered that he had not thought about Violet for a long time. Hate and loathing for the girl had possessed him. He would like to experience those emotions once more.
But there seemed to be room in his breast only for this wretched uneasiness, this damnable flabby feeling, this weakness! I’m no abomination of a Black Meier. No, I swear it, I do not want to be better, I do not want to change myself. I was all right as I was, with teeth to bite, a wolf among wolves.
He took a long pull at his bottle. It gurgled as he drank, it gurgled as he put it down—but, curse it, that wasn’t the only noise he had heard! Up he jumped, revolver in one hand, torch in the other. “Who is there?” he screamed wildly into the wood. “Stand, or I’ll shoot.”
He listened. Nothing! But someone was prowling about. Where? Over there? In the bushes? “Stand or I’ll shoot.” Oh, I heard it all right, the noise of the engine suddenly ceasing in the forest; that swine, that Räder, must have stopped. He’s dodged after me, he wants to see if I shoot myself, get his mon
ey’s worth. There! There! I heard something then. “Stand.” Bang!
See, this little pistol doesn’t shoot so badly. It pops. Are you afraid? Did it tickle you? Ah, you’re running. Wait. I’ll run after you. “Stop!” Bang, smash! What’s that? Someone running behind. Is someone coming there? “Who are you then?” Doesn’t show himself, he’s a coward too. Bang! Bumm …
It’s the fat man, of course. The worthy comrades want to know if I am executing their unspoken sentence. Here’s good health; I’m executing a fat fellow first. Bang! That cracked too much, the bullet’s flattened itself against a tree.
Gentlemen, here I stand, have a look. Is the lady Violet also there? Have a look, my girl. Here’s a drink to a long life for you! May you remember me very often and very long.
Away with the bottle! Smash—and bust! Pity, it was a good cognac in it.
Ladies and gentlemen, I regretted that I only had six shots in the drum. See, I fire my fifth into the sky, a salvo for my lady, that her ears may tingle forever because of me. And the sixth shot—one’s enough for me. Like this, above the nose … like this … Should she herself really visit me, I shall be a magnificent sight for her.
Oh, my God, my God, is no one coming? Is nothing to happen? They can’t let me perish like this. Someone must come and say it was all a mistake. I’ll count up to three now, and if nothing’s happened by then, I’ll fire. One. Two. Three! Nothing? Nothing at all? The whole muck is nothing, then! It was all muck, my life, and death is also muck, cowardly vile muck, and afterwards more muck, I know that by now. I was too frightened; it’s not worth being frightened about this muck. I’m quite calm now. It would have been decent of the sentry this morning if he had fired on me. He would have really spared me something. But I can do that, too. Lived alone, died alone. Fire! And what now? Oh.…
Yes, and what now? Oh!
In the Black Dale, at the bottom of the wood, lay a torch on the ground. Its faint beam fell on a plant or two, a mossy stone, some earth.… It was quite still, quite still.… The solitary gleam in the silent night that had been so loud recently.…
And now there comes a sound out of the bushes, someone clears his throat, coughs …
Deep silence, a long silence …
Softly, cautiously, a step approaches, hesitates, stops. Another cough.
Deep silence, nothing but silence …
The step comes nearer, a foot, a foot in a black leather shoe appears in the white torchlight.
A moment later the torch is picked up. Its beam wanders, ceases. Hesitant, as if stuck to the ground, the step advances; the silent visitor looks down on that which is more silent, lying there.
No sound, no sound …
The man clears his throat. The torchlight searches once more, to the right, to the left.
Can he have fallen on it?
The revolver is found, however. He who finds it examines the drum, ejects the empty cartridge cases. The revolver is loaded afresh. Once again the light of the torch is thrown on the dead. Then it goes away quickly, up the slope, along the footpath, to Neulohe.
In the Black Dale it is utterly dark.
IX
No housewife, no help, could have got the Villa ready more painstakingly than had young Pagel. The rooms were clean and warm, the bath stove hot. In the kitchen there was supper waiting, and the young man had even managed to collect a few bunches of flowers from a garden parched by the summer heat and deluged by autumn rains. Gladioli, dahlias, asters …
Where Frau Eva had left behind a desolation stripped of all help, she found a home; and even the disconsolate Lotte, who had been firmly resolved to go away, too, was merry and carefree as never before. For young Pagel had turned the riot of scrubbing into a frolic. He had gone round with the women, taking the portable phonograph with him; and the way the beds could be made and the sweeping done when accompanied by tunes like “Darling, you’re the pupil of my eye” or “We’re boozing away our Oma’s little cottage” was unbelievable. On this one evening there was more laughter in the Villa than there had been in six months.
But laughter gave way to tears, rain drove away sunshine, and—not everyday is Sunday. As the splendid car drove up, no one could perceive from it what cargo of misfortune it held. Before young Pagel could hurry to it, however, its door was opened by a very troubled Herr Finger, and when one looked inside …
To be sure, Fräulein Violet was still asleep, and though her rigid, pale slumber had something alarming about it, that alone would not have made faces so grave and disconcerted. No, it was the Rittmeister, the unfortunate Rittmeister von Prackwitz! During the drive home he had begun to be sick and now, almost naked, groaning and befouled, he was carried from the car.
His wife must have passed through terrible hours; she looked faded and old, her expression sad and bitter. “Yes,” she said austerely, “I am bringing affliction into the house.” She glanced at the faces round her, ghostly in the meager light of the front-door lamp. Young Pagel, the chauffeur Finger, and Lotte, frightened and anxious, a few village women. No, there was no concealment possible. Affliction had taken up its quarters in the house. Frau Eva could endure that, however. Endure? No, it strengthened her. In true affliction pretense disappears.
“Herr Finger, Herr Pagel, be so kind as to carry my husband upstairs. The best thing would be to put him on the couch in the bathroom, till the bath is ready. It is? Good. You girls help me with Fräulein Violet. Don’t be afraid, Lotte; she’s not dead, only in a stupor. The doctor gave her an injection. That’s right—go on now.”
Did the lamps suddenly darken in the house? Had there a while before been singing and laughter here? What were flowers doing in the vases? Affliction had arrived—all went on tiptoe, whispering. Hush! What was that? Nothing, only the Rittmeister groaning. Outside the headlights of the car shone uselessly into the night.
The two men, Pagel and Finger, had undressed the Rittmeister and laid him in the bath.
“No, I have no time for him. You see to it. Violet is more important.” Was Frau Eva thinking of a certain warning? Was Violet still not safe, here in her home? Forest surrounded Neulohe; the world was distant—how could still greater evil arrive? Evil greater than a dishonored, bewildered daughter and a husband who had at last lost all foothold? A still greater evil?
“Lotte,” she said, “go downstairs at once and lock all the doors in the basement and on the ground floor. Make sure that all the windows are really shut. Don’t open the door to anyone without asking me first.” Alarmed and confused, the girl went.
Frau Eva sat by the bed. Her daughter would wake up at half-past twelve or one. Everything depended on that moment, as the doctor had told her, and she would be prepared for it. Not a step out of the room. Violet’s room. Where she had slept as child, as young girl. What she had been such a short time ago! That had to give her strength to outgrow what she had become.
Wordless, the two men were busy with the Rittmeister. Young Pagel washed him while the chauffeur held him, for the slack unconscious limbs kept on losing their support in the bath. Nevertheless, it seemed as though consciousness was returning. The eyelids trembled, the lips, too.
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister?”
“Something to drink …”
Yes, in the dazed brain was stirring the first reawakened foreboding of the evil which had befallen. And he who could not yet think was again demanding fresh insensibility, renewed flight …
Pagel looked at Herr Finger, who shook his head. “He’s bringing up bile already; his stomach won’t stand anything more.”
It was not easy to lift the slippery body from the bath. The Rittmeister resisted, muttering angrily, “Port! Waiter, another bottle.”
“What is it?” cried Frau Eva from Violet’s door.
“We’re putting the Rittmeister to bed now,” said Pagel. “He wants something to drink, madam.”
“He’ll get nothing. Not a drop. Look in my night table, Herr Pagel; there ought to be some veronal there. Give him a
tablet.”
At last the Rittmeister was in bed, exhausted, in a restless half-sleep. He had been given some veronal, and had been sick at once.
“I ought to bring my car out of the rain,” said Herr Finger hesitatingly. “It’s a brand-new car and it’s a shame.”
“Your firm will get the money all right.”
“But it’s a downright shame about the car,” replied the chauffeur angrily. “The mess it’s in! And I haven’t had anything proper to eat the whole day, out all the time in the rain and cold …”
“I’ll speak to madam,” said Pagel obligingly. “Please stay with the Rittmeister till I return.” He spoke to Frau von Prackwitz, and then let the chauffeur, the women, and Lotte, too, out of the house. All were in a hurry to get away; misfortune had descended on the Villa.
Wolfgang Pagel himself returned to watch over the Rittmeister. It was obvious that the man was very ill; but far worse than the illness of his body, poisoned by alcohol, was the illness of his soul. The man’s self-respect had been mortally wounded; he writhed under the gloomy thoughts haunting him. All his transgressions rushed into his mind, and he closed his eyes.
That did not help. He sat up in bed, staring at the young man in the armchair near by. He wanted to know if he knew, if others knew, how pitiable, how small, how empty he was, had been, would be. But everything confused him. There was a hunt … the lamps burnt so low. There were pictures, shadows of pictures.… Why was the night so still? Why did he suffer alone?
“Where is my wife? Where is Vi? Doesn’t anyone bother about me? Have I got to die utterly deserted, by myself? Oh, God.”
“It’s late in the night, Herr Rittmeister. Your wife and your daughter are asleep. Try to get a little rest yourself.”
The sick man lay back in bed. He appeared to be thinking, to be calmed by the information. Then he sat up again and asked with a sly tone in his voice: “You’re young Pagel, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”
“And you’re my employee?”
