by Hans Fallada
“They don’t want to know anything different,” said Amanda triumphantly. “If you’re doing just what madam told you to, then that’s merely a matter of course and boring. But if in broad daylight you’re making away with half the estate, then that’s something grand—something to talk about.”
“Amanda!” said Pagel prophetically, “I’ve a damned rotten feeling. If the old Geheimrat comes and sees what I’ve been doing, and his wife hears what the women are saying, I don’t know whether the scrawl in my pocket will be very effective. I’m afraid I shall leave Neulohe amid thunder and lightning.”
“Just let things take their course, Herr Pagel. Up till now it’s always been you who had the most trouble—and why should it be any different toward the end?”
“You’re right. She rang up twice today from Berlin to ask where the money was—she says she needs a lot more. I think she wants to buy a business, although I find it hard to imagine the business in which Frau von Prackwitz stands behind the counter. I’m very much afraid I shall have to make up my mind to dispose of the threshing machine. And what the old gentleman will say then …”
But someone else said something first. Next day the local gendarme came stumbling into the threshing-machine negotiations. He was so awkwardly polite and so falsely amiable that it was not hard for Pagel to be aware that something was up. And when at last the gendarme came out with it, saying he would be glad to have the address of the owners, Pagel flatly refused it. “Herr and Frau von Prackwitz do not wish to be disturbed. I am their representative; anything you have to tell them you can please tell me.”
Which was what the gendarme did not wish to do. Very annoyed, he retired, and Pagel went back to his negotiations. The dealer from the local town would not offer the tenth part of the threshing machine’s real value, first because money was unbelievably scarce these days, and secondly because word was going round that a crazy rascal was selling Neulohe, lock, stock and barrel, for a song.
“A moment, you!” said a very indignant voice. “You want to sell the threshing mill?”
“Do you want to buy it?” Pagel looked with interest at the newcomer, a gentleman in reed linen and leggings. He could more or less guess who it was. In the distance stood a racing car which had once been much discussed.
“Allow me,” cried the gentleman. “I am the son of Geheimrat von Teschow!”
“Then you must be the brother of Frau von Prackwitz.” Pagel turned again to the dealer. “Well, say a reasonable word, Herr Bertram, or the mill stays here.”
“Indeed it will stay here,” cried the heir angrily.
“If you say a word, Herr Bertram, I’ll never do any more business with you.”
Intimidated, the dealer looked from one to the other. Pagel smiled. And so the confused Herr Bertram murmured the illuminating sentence: “Oh, if it’s like that,” and disappeared.
“Eight hundred Rentenmarks chucked away!” said Pagel regretfully. “I would have got him up to eight hundred. Your sister will regret that very much.”
“Like hell she will!” shouted the other. “Eight hundred Rentenmarks for an almost new Schütte-Lanz, which, as it stands here, is worth its six thousand? Why, you’re …”
“I hope it’s not me you’re shouting at, Herr von Teschow,” said Pagel amiably. “Otherwise I shan’t give you those explanations for which you have undoubtedly come, but will have to turn you off the farm.”
“Turn me off my father’s farm?” There was something in Pagel’s eye which made the other lower his voice, however. “Well then, where can we speak about the mill? But I’m not to be made a fool of by words, Herr …”
Pagel led the way to the office.
“Well, if it’s like that!” said young Herr von Teschow, and examined once more the two documents, authorization and declaration. “Then you are fully covered, and I beg your pardon. But my sister and my brother-in-law must be mad. My father will never forgive them the damage they have done here. Why does she need so much money? A few hundred marks would be enough for the first weeks, and by then she’ll be reconciled to my father somehow or other. It’s not as if he would leave her without a penny.”
“If I understood your sister rightly on the telephone yesterday,” said Pagel cautiously, “she seems to have the intention of purchasing a business.”
“A business! Why, does Eva want to be a shopgirl?”
“I don’t know. But at all events she seems to want to have a small capital to begin with. Of course, it’s clear to me that what I am doing now for Frau von Prackwitz is legally not permissible, but it’s her firm determination not to return to Neulohe. She’s, so to speak, foregoing her share of the inheritance, and for that reason I thought one could answer for this irregularity.”
“You mean,” burst out the younger Herr von Teschow, “she will renounce Neulohe?”
“I think so. After her recent experiences …”
“I understand. Very sad indeed. Any news of my niece Violet?”
“No.”
“Yes, yes,” said the other lost in thought. “Yes, yes.” He stood up. “Well, once again I beg your pardon. A false alarm—someone whispered something in my ear. Between us, I think as you do; see if you can’t still squeeze out a tidy sum of money for my sister. It won’t make any difference now; my father’ll be in a rage in any case, whether the threshing machine’s there or not. Eight hundred Rentenmarks. I could take it for that,” he added thoughtfully. “But no, I can’t, unfortunately. You’ll understand, of course, Herr Pagel, that I can’t take my sister’s part in front of my father—her behavior is, in any case, incorrect.”
With almost unconcealed disgust Pagel looked into the other’s eyes. He thought he had never heard anything so hateful as the question: “Any news of my niece Violet?”—young Herr von Tesechow having understood how much there might be to inherit now. But this disgust was unnoticed. The younger von Teschow was much too busy to worry about Pagel. “So see then that you squeeze something more out,” he said absently. “I think my father won’t come for three or four days.”
“Good.”
“Well, I don’t know whether it will be exactly good for you. But, anyway, you are covered against the worst. You don’t know my father when he’s really upset.”
“Well, I shall get to know him then,” said Pagel, smiling. “I will await him in calm.”
But he was wrong there. He had already gone when the Geheimrat came.
“Hopped it, the cunning rogue!” laughed the people.
VI
It began with the telephone ringing in the office.
At that moment Wolfgang Pagel was filling out a telegraphic money order to Frau Eva, and upstairs Amanda Backs was wrapping herself up to cycle through winter winds and autumn rains to the local town. For the money order had to be given in at the post office there, and the pair knew no one else to whom they cared to entrust a good two thousand Rentenmarks.…
The telephone rings variously, sometimes loud, sometimes low, now indifferent, then peremptory.… And accordingly we have our presentiments what kind of conversation will follow.
That’s something, thought Pagel, lifting the receiver.
A rather rough voice demanded to speak to Frau von Prackwitz.
“That is not possible. Frau von Prackwitz is away.”
“Oh.” The rough voice seemed somewhat disappointed. “She would be away now, of course! When is she coming back?”
“I couldn’t say. Not this week. Can I deliver a message for her? This is the bailiff at Neulohe speaking.”
“So you’re still there?”
“I don’t know what you want,” cried Pagel a little annoyed. “Who are you?”
“Then stay on there!” said the rough voice.
“Wait!” yelled Pagel. “I want to know who you are.”
But the other had rung off.
“Listen, Amanda.” And Pagel related what had just happened.
“That’s someone who may have wanted to play a jo
ke on you.”
“No, no,” he said in an absent-minded way. “I think …”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think it might be in connection with Fräulein Violet.”
“But how? Why should anyone behave so stupidly on the telephone about her? Well, give me the two thousand marks; you’ve finished the money order, I suppose? I must be off. I don’t want to have to pedal back in complete darkness in this weather.”
“I’ll be finished in a moment.”
The telephone rang. It rang loud and long, monotonously.
“A dealer,” said Pagel.
But it was from Berlin …
“Frau Eva,” he whispered to Amanda.
It was a dealer, however, a great businessman. “Are you there, young man?” asked the familiar screech.
“Oh yes, Herr Geheimrat,” said Pagel, grinning and throwing Amanda an amused glance. “My name’s Pagel, by the way.”
“Oh, that’s all right then.… You see, I’ve quite forgotten it again. Impolite, but what can we do? Now give me your full attention, young man.…”
“Pagel’s my name.”
“Of course, I know that by now!” The Geheimrat was a little irritated. “There’s no need for me to learn it by heart on the telephone! Don’t forget that this talk’s costing one mark twenty. And my money, unfortunately. So give me your full attention.…”
“I’m giving it, Herr Geheimrat.”
“I shall come by the ten o’clock train this evening. Send Hartig to the station with the two old bays.…”
Pagel wanted to say: “But they’re sold.”
Better not; he would soon find that out for himself.
“And send covers along, horse-covers—so that they are properly covered at the station. Hartig’s only a fool—he’s doubtless divided up all his brains among the numerous children.” Pagel burst into a laugh. “There, you see, now you’re laughing,” said the Geheimrat, pleased. “Let’s hope you’ll laugh tomorrow, too, when I’m there. I’m bringing an auditor along. It’s not a vote of censure on you, but since my good son-in-law’s cleared off on the quiet, we’ve got to make some kind of stock-taking and transfer of funds and books. You understand that, don’t you, young man?”
“I understand completely, Herr Geheimrat. My name is Pagel.”
“Is everything in order, man?” asked the Geheimrat, suddenly anxious.
“Everything in order,” said Pagel, grinning. “You will see for yourself, Herr Geheimrat.”
“There you are! Yes, miss, I’ve had good news, I’ll go on another three minutes. Well, and now look sharp, young man. Have two rooms heated, my bedroom and the little guest room. My wife will be staying here for the moment. She wants to know first whether the coast is clear again with you people in Neulohe.” His voice was anxious again: “There’s nothing more happened to you?”
“Oh, yes, all sorts of things, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Well, don’t tell me about them on the telephone, man; I shall hear soon enough tomorrow. Amanda, the fat girl with the rosy cheeks, y’know.… She can turn into a general servant for once. Yes, and let her heat my study. But not the dining room. We’ve got to economize; there’s less and less money. Tell me, Herr Pagel, have you a little money or so in the cashbox?”
“Very little, Herr Geheimrat. To speak more exactly—nothing!”
“But what are you all thinking of, then? I suppose you’ve raked together a little rent? You can’t just simply … Oh, well, we’ll talk that over seriously tomorrow. Hey, and something else, Herr Pagel! The forester, old Kniebusch, is he still shamming sick in bed?”
“No, Herr Geheimrat. I thought that your daughter had written to you about that. The forester is dead, the forester is—”
“Stop!” shouted the furious Geheimrat. “Stop! I wish I hadn’t had the other three minutes now. Nothing but bad news … Well, then, at ten—ten o’clock at the station. Good-by.”
“And not an inquiry after his granddaughter!” said Pagel, hanging up the receiver. “Like son, like father—both wretches.”
“Ah, well,” said Amanda, “what do you expect? All he thinks about is getting his farm back again. But how am I to go to the post office now and get the rooms ready in the Manor?”
“Give me back the money,” said Pagel, putting it in his pocketbook. “I have a kind of feeling that I shall be turned out tomorrow, and in that case I can, after all, hand it over to madam personally. Let us save the postage.”
“Good,” said Amanda. “I will get hold of a few women in the village. There will have to be something to eat there as well.”
“Go to it then! I’ll sit down for a little while with my books; it won’t help, of course, I’ll never get them in order, but I can try anyway to arrive at something like a balance in hand.” Pagel’s good temper had evaporated. When he remembered how the old Geheimrat became red with fury and gave no quarter, and how he shouted down every contradiction, and how he spluttered in one’s face when in a rage … Curse it all, tomorrow wasn’t going to be much of a day, with himself as the scapegoat. What was worse, he wasn’t altogether sure of his nerves any longer; and he hated to lose self-control.
But to back out because of that?
Never!
In the meantime the news that the old gentleman was coming back that evening spread through the village like wildfire.… And twenty villagers, male and female, pretended to have some business, and passed by the Manor, and when they saw the old gentleman’s room lit up they nodded their heads in satisfaction, and looked forward very happily to what would take place the next morning. They had all forgotten how warmly they had once greeted the young Pagel, how much they had liked him and called him “Little Junker,” and how happy they had been to have gotten decent Pagel instead of the indecent Black Meier. They strolled by the office window also, and attempted to peep in, and the most curious thought out a request; never before had Pagel been so often and so senselessly disturbed.
And when the spies came out again, the others would ask: “Is he still there?” And on the reply: “He’s sitting and writing,” then they shook their heads and said: “Why, he is utterly shameless! Isn’t he packing at least?” “Why should he pack?” the spies in turn inquired. “You can be certain he’s got his stuff in safety, going to town as often as he’s done the last few days!”
And they could not agree on what they actually ought to wish for now, whether Pagel should remain and be sent to prison after a gigantic row, or whether he should run away and leave the old gentleman to burst with rage. Both were good!
“You watch, he won’t be here in the morning!” said some.
“Rubbish,” declared the others. “He’s so cunning, even the old gentleman won’t get the better of him. He’s the smartest one we’ve ever had on the farm.”
“Of course. And that’s why he won’t be here in the morning.”
Neither was he.
VII
At seven o’clock that evening Pagel closed his books for the last time, sighing: “It’s no good at all!” He cast a glance round the office, at the safe, the clumsy pigeonholes, the law volumes, the local newspaper files. The typewriter was covered over. He’d written many letters to his mother on it—for Petra. I’ll be fired tomorrow, he thought, downcast. Not a glorious end, actually—on the whole I liked the work. It would have been nicer to have had someone standing here tomorrow and saying: “Thank you, Herr Pagel, you did your job well.” Instead of that the Geheimrat will be screaming for the police and justice.
He turned the light out, locked up, put the key in his pocket and went through the pitch-dark night over to the Villa. It was influenza weather. The doctor had told him that people were dying like flies, young and old. Undernourished too long, first the war, then this inflation.… Poor devils. Will it really be any better with the new money?
In the Villa Amanda had food ready and a thousand bits of gossip passed on to her by the women. “Just think, Herr Pagel, what they’v
e imagined now! They say you were hand in glove with Sophie—as for the forester dying in your room, you only did that so that he shouldn’t talk.”
“Amanda,” said Pagel bored, “all that is so stupid and dirty. Can’t you think of something nice to tell me, say, from your youth?”
“Something nice? From my youth?” The amazed Amanda was on the point of setting to with a will and telling him what sort of a childhood she had had …
Then the doorbell rang—and over their supper the pair looked at one another like detected criminals.
“That can’t be the Geheimrat yet?” she whispered.
“Rot! It’s not yet half-past seven—it’ll be something in the stables. Open the door.” However, growing impatient, he followed her, and arrived just as the violently protesting Amanda was pushed aside by a man, thick-set, with a bowler hat on a head like a bull’s—his glance, icy and unforgettable, met young Pagel’s. “I have a word to say to you,” said the fat detective. “But send this girl away. Hold your tongue, you clacker!” And Amanda was silent at once.
“Wait in the hall, Amanda,” begged Pagel. “Come along, please.” And, with beating heart, he led the way into the dining room.
The man shot a glance at the table laid for two. “Is that your girl outside?” he asked.
“No. That was Bailiff Meier’s girl. But she is a decent girl.”
“Another swine I’d like to catch,” said the fat man, sitting down at the table. “Don’t waste any time laying a place for me; I’m hungry and have to go on immediately. Tell me what’s up here, why Frau Eva is away, why you are staying in the Villa—all. Clear, brief, and to the point.” He ate as was his nature—ruthlessly, greedily. And Pagel talked.
“So she let you down in the end, your employer; I might have known it. Give me a cigar now. Did you notice that it was me who rang you up this afternoon?”
“I thought so. And?”
“And you yourself are now in a tight place, eh? Show me the two statements Frau von Prackwitz scribbled for you.”
Pagel did so.
