by Hans Fallada
“They certainly do that,” sighed Pagel. “Every day I see the holes and have to have them filled up. I am always intending to go out at night and see if I can catch one, Kowalewski, but I always fall asleep over supper.”
“It’s too much, what the young gentleman has to do. All the estate and the whole forest and all the pen-pushing—no one’s done all that. You need help.”
“Oh, nobody knows what will happen here.”
Both were silent a moment. “But those miserable potato thieves—that’s a matter for the police,” said Kowalewski. “The young gentleman ought to apply to them.”
“The police! Oh, no. We’re not in favor with them anymore, Kowalewski. We’ve made too much work for them in the last six months.” Both were silent. Each new load of potatoes seemed to emerge like a yellowish brown blessing from the darkness into the dawn. Now Pagel could leave again, having established how far the work had proceeded. He had something else to say, and he was no longer too weak to say something which might be unpleasant. It had to be said, and he would say it. “By the way, I saw your Sophie this morning in the village. So she’s still at home?”
The old man grew very embarrassed. “She has to look after her mother—my wife is ill,” he stuttered.
“You told me last time she was taking up a situation on the first of October. Now you say she has to look after her mother. You’re not telling me the truth, Kowalewski. That won’t do. If you occupy one of our cottages, she’s got to work.”
Kowalewski looked very pale. “I have no authority over the lass, young gentleman,” he said in excuse. “She takes no notice of what I say.”
“Kowalewski, old fellow, don’t be so flabby! You know yourself how much we need every hand, and you know too that if the overseer’s daughter is lazy, then those of the laborers will certainly be.”
“I’ll tell her what you say, young gentleman,” said Kowalewski, distressed.
“Yes, do, and tell her that otherwise I’ll put another family into your house as well. Then you’ll only have a parlor, bedroom and kitchen. Good day, Kowalewski, I’m damned hungry.”
Young Pagel got on his bicycle. He was satisfied that he’d finally brought the business with Sophie in order—one way or another. He’d rather let her get away with things lately, he had had so much to do. But whenever he saw the girl in the village it had occurred to him that such an example of laziness was intolerable. It was difficult enough to retain one’s workers at that time—they never considered they were paid enough. However, they didn’t only get their wretched money, they got extras, too. Nobody in the village lived the life of the lilies in the field—the good Lord fed them! On the contrary, my good Sophie, on the contrary, these were not the times to rely on God in heaven. These were times to work yourself until you drop.
He could not deny that he was extremely angry with Sophie. He had liked her in the beginning. He dimly recalled a certain scene at the crab pool. She boldly defended the men’s clothes against the war, like Kniebusch. But either he had been mistaken in his liking or the girl had changed. She had such a confounded slovenly way of lounging about the village. Yes, she had once had the cheek to call after him as he sped by on his bicycle: “Always busy, Herr Pagel?”
When a thing was overdone it was time to stop it. If she wasn’t digging potatoes tomorrow, he would put Black Minna with all her screaming, quarrelsome retinue in Kowalewski’s attic.
He came into the farmyard. In the sheds the head carter spoke to him. It was too wet, he declared, to drill rye—the drills would foul. For Pagel, who understood nothing of farming and stock-raising, and yet had to supervise and decide, this sort of thing was difficult. In general the older people gladly helped him; had he passed himself off as experienced, then they would have taken pleasure in playing him trick after trick. But because he never behaved as though he knew something when he did not, they were helpful. The experience and perceptions of these old people was hardly appreciated. But Pagel liked to listen to them—he always just fell asleep over his thick textbooks.
“What shall we do then?” he asked, and the man suggested that plowing was possible on the lighter outfields. “Good,” said Pagel. “We’ll plow then.”
And went to his lunch.
Lunch he always took in the office, which was his living room, work room, smoke room and study. Although Studmann was no longer in Neulohe, his meals were not solitary. He had a companion, Amanda Backs. “Thank God,” she said, “that you’re punctual for once, Herr Pagel. Put on some dry clothes quickly. I’ll bring in the food at once.”
“Fine.” He went into his bedroom.
It was very likely, indeed it was almost certain, that the village scandalmongers, bearing in mind what was known of the girl’s earlier life, misrepresented this table fellowship of Pagel and Backs as a bed fellowship. Actually it had all come about quite naturally after the arrest of the convicts. The girls at the Manor had, without notice, wage or reference, fled in fear of prosecution for abetting escaped prisoners, not to mention the dreaded mockery of the villagers—leaving behind the single irreproachable—that Amanda Backs once publicly reproached at evening prayers. And old Elias also, of course. He, however, left next day to report no doubt to his employers, for he had no rent to take them. And did not return.
Pagel, those first days in October, had his mind too much occupied with a multitude of affairs to worry overmuch about the Manor. One day, however, he ran into Amanda Backs, and she inquired very forcibly what he was really thinking about, what did he imagine? Even if she didn’t actually shudder at being the sole occupant of that enormous old dungeon, all the same it wasn’t pleasant. And something would have to be done upstairs before the old people came back; the convicts’ party had left everything in a terrible mess, and two windows had been broken in the drawing room. Now the rain came in, and there had been puddles on the floor for a week.
Pagel, tired out and a little disheartened, not having had ten hours’ sleep in three days, looked at the rosy-cheeked Amanda, rubbed his exceedingly unshaven chin, and asked: “Yes, don’t you want to clear out as well, Amanda?”
“And who’ll look after my poultry?” she indignantly demanded. “Especially now, with winter coming, when the ducks and geese ought to be fattened and one can’t feed them enough! I clear out! Not on your life.”
“In the Villa they’re wringing their hands for a sensible housemaid,” he said. “You’ve no doubt heard that Lotte has also gone off. Wouldn’t you like to go there?”
“No.” Amanda Backs was clear on that point. “I’m used to the stupidity of my poultry, but I’ll never get used to that of my fellow-beings. They always make me boil with rage and then I’m not fit for anything.”
“All right,” Pagel had said hurriedly. “I’ll let you know this evening.”
He had intended to discuss this matter with Frau von Prackwitz; but she was out again in the car, and it was uncertain when she would return. The Rittmeister was withdrawn from all inquiries; he lay in bed, watched over by an attendant. There was no one in all populous Neulohe whom he could ask for advice.
And so, after some reflection, he rang up the Hotel Kaiserhof and asked to speak with Geheimrat von Teschow-Neulohe.
“We are very sorry. They have left.”
“Left?” It was something of a blow. “When, please?”
“On the third of October.” Immediately after the arrival of old Elias, that is!
“Will you give me his address, please?”
“We are very sorry, we were strictly forbidden to do so.”
“This is the Management of Neulohe Estate speaking—the Management of the Geheimrat himself,” said Pagel with all his self-control. “His address is indispensable for a very important decision. I must make you responsible for all damages arising out of your refusal.”
“A moment, please. I’ll inquire. Please hold on.”
And after some hesitation the clerk gave him the address. He was interested to know where these p
eople had gone to, when their daughter was in despair and their grandchild lost. The address was Hotel Imperial, Côte d’Azure, Nice, France.
He sat quietly for a while, his face alert. His eyes saw nothing on the desk. But he saw something else. He saw the little dried-up woman with her sharp bird’s face and swift eyes; she drove the servants from one task to another; she was empty but she could make up for this with the life of others, any life, it didn’t matter which. She used her religion to worm herself into people. She was like a maggot, living on the decomposed offal of other existences.
He saw the fierce Geheimrat with his false heartiness, sweating enormously, dressed in worsted. And though he wouldn’t be wearing worsted down there on the Côte d’Azure, nothing would be changed by that. He would still sit and calculate, drawing up crafty agreements and writing business letters with catches in them. Everything he looked at was transformed into profit. Certainly people said that he loved his woods, and he did—but in his own fashion. He loved with his sense of gain, he loved so-and-so many cubic feet of timber. A thicket of young pines was not a green and golden mystery, but meant that at the thinning out, so-and-so many bean poles could be cut.
But one would have thought that at least they loved their daughter, their grandchild. One now saw what this love was worth. Fearing to be dragged into a disgraceful business, they fled, offering no help, showing neither kindliness nor charity—fled into the other corner of Europe, into that France which, still occupying the Ruhr, continued to refuse negotiations with a German Government.
So that’s what they were like, the old people, or as they say, the retired people. But the woman never found a home for her shallowness, or the man for his money, which he didn’t know how to use.…
Young Pagel, after he had thought enough, while still sitting by the telephone, did something remarkable: He took a mark note out of his pocket, lit a match, and burned it. Such was the action of the young Pagel, the very young Pagel. It was symbolic, as if to say: Oh Lord, let me never be so in love with money that I can’t part with it.
Besides, in doing this, he was depriving himself of something. It was Saturday evening. Paying the wages had completely emptied the estate coffers. That had been his last note, with which he wanted to get some cigarettes. Now he couldn’t smoke until Monday. Yes, despite all his recent experiences, he was still juvenile! But then again, didn’t it show how strong he was, too! He just whistled nonchalantly when he considered that he only had three or four cigarettes left.
And still whistling, he drummed up a crowd of women and fetched the maintenance man.
That same evening he had what was essential done in the Manor, the broken panes replaced, the doors locked. “Now we’ve finished with the Teschows! And you, Amanda, move over with your things into Herr von Studmann’s room. That is, if you’ve no misgivings.”
“Because of gossip, Herr Pagel? A fat lot I care! Talk and let talk, I say.”
“That’s right. And if at the same time you’d take pity on my food and laundry! They’ve looked somewhat woeful of late.”
“Black Minna …”
“Black Minna has to help in the kitchen at the Villa, besides which she’s the only one of the women who’s not afraid of the Rittmeister. The attendant has to take the air sometimes, and she takes his place.”
“As it should be!” said Amanda, deeply satisfied. “That’s what suits her. She afraid of men! She’s never been afraid enough of men, and you can hear any day you pass the almshouse, Herr Pagel, the squealing that comes from too little fear.”
“You’ve a scandalous gift of gab, Amanda,” Pagel said, half laughing. “The dangerously ill Rittmeister and Black Minna! No, I really don’t know if the two of us will get on well for long.”
“I’ll let you talk and you let me talk,” Amanda had replied, very contented. “That’s simple enough. Why shouldn’t we get on well, Herr Pagel?”
II
The bloated woman, who had no other job in life but to eat, was ladling soup from a tureen when Kowalewski came home tired and wet through. He looked into the tureen, knitted his brows, but restrained himself. Spreading lard on a crust of bread, he began to eat.
The woman, chewing, gave him a malicious look from her small eyes. In her case it was gluttony which kept her from talking. So the two old people sat silent, both eating; he the bread, she the chicken soup.
Only when her hunger was stilled did she open her mouth. “A fine fool you are!” she scolded. “The good chicken soup! It won’t make it any different you not touching a morsel.” She dipped the ladle in the soup and found a leg, at which she almost forgot to be angry. “What a fat hen it was, this! Yes, the Haases feed them well. It weighed over five pounds; and the beautiful pure yellow fat, that makes a rich soup!” She smacked her lips.
“Is our Sophie upstairs?” asked the dejected old man.
“Where should she be? They’re still sleeping.” Satiated, she was already luxuriating in the prospect of further meals. “Tonight we’re going to have a joint of venison. I’m fond of venison when it’s well done. And he’s also going to bring us a fat pig.”
“I don’t need a pig, I won’t have it!” cried old Kowalewski in despair. “We’ve always been honest. But now! Thieves and associates of thieves! We can’t look people in the face anymore.”
“Don’t excite yourself,” said his wife indifferently. “You know that he won’t put up with anything from you. Thieves! It’s only theft if one’s caught; he’s too clever for that. He’s ten times cleverer than you. A hundred times!”
“I don’t want him here anymore,” he mumbled.
“Yes, that’s like you!” shouted the glutton. “Someone at last who provides for us—and you want him to leave! But I tell you, if you start a row with him, I—” She waved the ladle, not knowing with what she should threaten him, while her little eyes, drowned in fat, searched the room. “I’ll eat up everything, and you can starve!” This was the worst threat she could contrive.
Her husband looked at her gloomily. Like mother, like daughter, he thought. Selfish and greedy. Greedy!
He turned across the room to the stairs.
“Don’t you go up! Don’t start a row!” she screamed after him.
Kowalewski was already climbing the stairs. For a moment he stood breathing quickly outside his daughter’s room, and almost lost his courage. Then he knocked.
“Who’s there?” asked Sophie’s angry voice after a while.
“Me—father!” he murmured.
There was whispering inside; the door was unlocked. Sophie looked into her father’s face. “What do you want?” she complained. “You know that Hans needs his sleep. First you make such a row downstairs that one can’t get a wink of sleep, then you come up here. What’s the matter?”
“Come in, father-in-law!” shouted a falsely cordial voice. “An enormous pleasure. Sophie, shut up! Company has come. Our respected father-in-law! Sit down, please, old gentleman. Give him a chair, Sophie, so he can sit down. Do excuse us, father-in-law, that we’re still in bed. Had I guessed the honor to be done us, I would have put on my frock coat.” The speaker grinned at the intimidated old man. “That’s to say, looked at strictly, it’s not mine. But it fits me perfectly, Herr Rittmeister’s frock coat. Herr von Prackwitz was so kind as to come to my aid. My wardrobe was a little empty.”
Kowalewski had been so often and so thoroughly mocked and scolded in his life that, although it perhaps never ceased to hurt him, he never let this appear. He stood behind the chair, not looking at the bed or Hans Liebschner. “You, Sophie,” he said in low tones. “Well, what, father? Go on! More grumbling, I suppose, because something’s disappeared! Is Haase making such a row about the few hens that you can’t sleep? He can have something quite different happen!”
“Sophie, Herr Pagel again asked why you weren’t working.”
“Let him ask! Those who ask a lot, get a lot of answers. I’ll answer him all right if he comes to me.”
“But he says if you aren’t digging potatoes tomorrow, he’ll put Black Minna in the attic here.”
“The fellow can—”
“Yes, Hans. Give him one in his cheeky mug so he won’t be able to open his mouth for six weeks. What does the fool think he is?”
“Not for me, thank you, Sophie, that’s not my sort of job. That’s something for Bäumer. He’ll finish the chap with pleasure, so that he won’t even know he’s dead.”
“If anything happens to Herr Pagel, I’ll denounce you,” said the old man quietly.
“What does Pagel matter to you, father?” began Sophie. “You’re mad.”
“I’ve held my tongue because you’re my only daughter and because you’ve kept on promising to go away soon. It’s almost broken my heart, to see you here with such a—”
“Drivel on as much as you like, old gentleman!” cried the man in bed. “Don’t put yourself out among relatives. Convict, eh?”
“Yes, convict!” repeated old Kowalewski defiantly. “But it doesn’t mean I think all in prison are as low as you. And the stealing! Always stealing.… Does a man do that merely out of pleasure in doing mischief? You don’t gain anything by it. The money you get in Frankfurt and Ostade for the stolen things is worth nothing.”
“Be patient, old fellow. Times will change again. As soon as I’ve collected the fare and some working funds we’ll dash off. D’you think I’m so fond of your cottage? Or that I can’t bear to part from your whining face?”
“Yes,” cried the old man eagerly. “Go off. Go to Berlin.”
“Father-in-law, you’ve just told me that we’ve got no money. Or will you give me the dowry for your daughter in cash? What, my dear man, go to Berlin without money and be arrested at once! No, thanks. We’ve waited so long that a few days or weeks till we—”
“But what will happen if he really does put Minna in here?” said Sophie angrily. “You’ve let us in for this, father, so as to get rid of us!”
Herr Liebschner whistled and exchanged a glance with the girl, who fell silent.
Kowalewski had noticed this glance. “As true as I stand here, and hope that God will forgive me my weakness—if anything happens to Herr Pagel I’ll bring the gendarmes here myself!” There was such energy in the old man’s outburst that the other two were convinced he would do it.
