by Hans Fallada
“They behaved shamefully toward you!”
“They behaved according to their natures, the shameful shamefully, the decent decently.… So, Mamma, it is not essential, but if you can and wish to …”
“Can and wish, Wolfi,” she growled. “You’re a donkey and will be one all your life. When you have a right to something then you are modest. And when you haven’t, then you stick to it obstinately. I’m convinced that if you ought to ask your patient for fifty marks, you’ll settle for five after long consideration.”
“Peter is there now for the mathematics,” he had cried. “I have had enough of reckoning up for a time.”
“Oh, Peter!” growls the old lady. “She’s a still greater donkey than you. She’ll do whatever you want.”
III
Frau Pagel has always disapproved of young Petra Ledig. Nor does she disapprove any the less, now she is called Frau Pagel the younger. She declared that the girl who transformed her own sinful past into a famous one, and who passively lets her mother-in-law slap her about, would herself cease clipping her husband round the ear. In the end it has got to the point where Frau Pagel senior visits the younger woman’s household not more than week-days only. Sundays it isn’t necessary; Sundays the young people take their meal with her.
She has a perfectly shameless manner of sitting stiff as a poker at the table, of drumming her fingers on it and of following every movement of Petra’s with her glowing black eyes—all of which would throw any other young woman into a frenzy.
“I wouldn’t put up with that from her,” says the old servant Minna indignantly. “And I’m only the house-servant; you, however, the daughter-in-law.”
“Nice weather today.” That was the most conversation that the old woman would have with Wolfgang’s wife. “There’s fresh flounder in the market. Do you know what flounders are? You’ve got to cut their heads off. Yes, yes.” And she’d rub her nose energetically with her finger.
She made Minna and Wolfgang completely crazy and desperate, but Petra just laughed.
“A very ordinary child,” declares the mother-in-law whenever she sees the baby. “Nothing of the Pagels. Sold by the dozen.”
Poor Petra—for Wolfgang is mostly in the University when his mother comes, and the old woman takes care that Minna should not often be present—Petra has to bear all this patiently. When she puts the child to her breast the old woman has a way of staring and of asking in the most impertinent tone in the world: “Well, Fräulein, is he getting on?”
The milk in any other woman would turn to bile. “Thanks, he is getting on, madam,” smiles Petra.
“He has lost weight,” declares the old lady, drumming on the table.
“Oh, no, he’s put on ten ounces; the scale …”
“I don’t go by baby scales, they’re never right. I go by my own eyes. He has lost weight, Fräulein!”
“Yes, he has lost weight,” replies Petra.
Frau Pagel the elder obstinately adheres to the viewpoint that Petra, in spite of the registry office, is a single girl.
“Yes, and didn’t you already wait around a year ago, also to no effect. All just smoke and mirrors.”
“But, mother, I really wish! …”
“Wishes are for Christmas, kid!’
“That you can all be so deceived,” said Petra laughing. “Mother enjoys it most. Sometimes, when she thinks I don’t see, she really shakes with laughter.”
“Yes, she laughs at you because you let her get away with everything!” cried Minna shocked. “A sheep like you is just what she lacked for bullying!”
“Really, Petra,” said Wolfgang, “you really shouldn’t let Mama get away with it! She always takes more!”
“Oh, Wolfi!” said Petra amused. “Didn’t I also let you get away with it, and snapped you up all the same?”
And when one considers that Frau Pagel senior lives in Tannenstrasse near Nollendorfplatz, and that the young people live right outside in Kreuznacherstrasse near Breitenbachplatz, one can only marvel at the perseverance with which the old lady daily makes the long journey to such an unpleasant young woman. The house is new, a product of the inflation, and already in decay.
“There, look,” she says this morning. “I’ve hurt myself in your disgusting hole.” And she shows Petra her hand, the palm of which is pierced by a large splinter. “The banisters! Respectable people don’t live in such a hole. It’s dangerous! Splinters can lead to blood poisoning.”
“Wait, I’ll get it out. I do that sort of thing very well.”
“If you hurt me, though!” threatens the old lady, her grim eyes watching Petra fetch a needle and tweezers. Like many who endure great sorrows heroically, old Frau Pagel in respect of the little tribulations of life is squeamish, almost cowardly.… “I won’t be ill-treated by you,” she cries.
“If you will only keep your hand still, then it will hardly hurt.”
“But it mustn’t hurt at all! The beastly splinter is bad enough without your bungling!”
“You must hold the hand still! Better look away.”
“I …” says Frau Pagel feebly and winces again. “I won’t have it.… Leave the splinter in.… Perhaps it will come out alone.” She tries to draw away her hand.
“Keep still!” Petra is vexed. “Behaving like this. Don’t be so stupid.”
“Petra!” says the old lady stiffly. “Petra! The idea!”
“There!” Petra triumphantly lifts the splinter in her tweezers. “You see how easy it is when you keep still.”
“She says I’m not to act stupidly. Petra, aren’t you afraid of me at all?”
“Not a bit,” laughs Petra.
“Silly wench,” says the old lady, irritated. “I won’t have you laughing at me. You’re to stop it. Petra, there’ll be a box on the ears. Petra! Oh, how you treat an old woman like me! Is that right? Once they knelt down and implored the old mother’s blessing—at least I’ve read such nonsense—and you laugh at me instead. Petra! Oh, you miserable siren, you! Have you got round me, too? Poor Wolfgang!”
IV
We’ve come a long way. We must go further. We’re in a hurry! If one goes down Kurfürstendamm from the Gedächtniskirche toward Halensee, there is, on the left, a little street, Meinekestrasse—we must go down that; we shall meet acquaintances. Almost on the corner of Kurfürstendamm, only a house or two along Meinekestrasse, is a small shop whose sign bears the name: Eva von Prackwitz.
It is a little millinery business where a lady can buy a Viennese knitted dress or have a silk blouse made up; and for gentlemen there are wonderful gloves or a pair of elegant cuff links or a shirt of pure silk, made to measure, forty or fifty marks. Here no importance is attached to cheapness, and no one can count on getting any particular object: one can’t go in and ask for collars, size forty; the young ladies with the nicely varnished nails would only make an amused face at such a customer. Here there are only knick-knacks to intrigue a mood, a sudden whim—a moment ago that lady hadn’t known that she needed a woolen jumper—now she knows that the rest of her life will be empty and wearisome without it.
In this shop Frau von Prackwitz rules. Over the door is the name Prackwitz, but it would be more correct were it Teschow, for the one in power here is the authentic daughter of old Teschow. She keeps her amiability, her smiles, for the customers; her staff tremble before her. She has a cold, sharp tone, she is niggardly, she sweats overtime, she has an eye that sees all. And she has fallen out with her father—it has been agreed that she will not receive more than her strict inheritance—nevertheless she is a Teschow. She can be miserly when she has a purpose.
She has a purpose. She must earn money, a lot of money; she has to support two who are minors. Should she die there must be enough for them. She hates youth and health now; it makes her ill to see her young saleswomen exchange glances with gentlemen. She thinks only of husband and daughter now. All three of them have been betrayed by life, so she grudges others everything. All that remains is to snat
ch, and she snatches.
Frequently, in the evening, a slender, white-haired gentleman stands in the shop; he has dark eyes—he looks distinguished. He seldom says anything, but he has a gracious, somewhat shadowy smile—the customers like him very much. A gentleman of the old school—a grand seigneur—one sees what blue blood is.
The old gentleman chuckles. He accompanies a shopper almost to the door of the shop, and confirms that it is really warm out. Then he makes a little bow, watches the woman open the shop door, turns back in, and returns to his wife. His brain is asleep; an ice-age has set in. Once he was the Rittmeister and gentleman farmer, Joachim von Prackwitz—now he is only a very, very old man. He no longer marches, either on his own or in formation. He is declining. But some little remnant of former times remains—he does not open the shop door for ladies nor shut it behind them. If he were at home in his flat in Bleibtreustrasse, he would be helpful, be the host, the gentleman, the cavalier. But he is not and will not be a businessman “serving” customers. He won’t have that. This little remnant of self-will has remained. It is not much, but it is something.
His daughter through weeks and months has grown accustomed to people again; now she can, without tears, listen to a kind word. She sits the whole day in the room behind the shop with the girls who carry out the hurried alterations. The machines hum, the girls whisper to one another, “Madam” is in the shop in front.
Violet von Prackwitz looks out of the window or at the flowers which stand before her in a little vase. She smiles, sometimes she cries a little, but she never speaks. A curse was laid upon her once; all her life she is to have a picture before her—she saw a dead man, and then came a period of which nothing is known.
Does she herself know anything about it? Does she remember anything about the man or his curse? The doctor says no; but why does she weep then? She weeps quietly, so that the girls at first often do not notice. But then one of them calls out: “Our Fräulein is crying.” And all stop speaking and look. They have tried everything already. Given her flowers and chocolate, cracked jokes—one cackled like a hen, the other danced about her paper doll—but nothing worked.
Madam has been called; she has left her best customer in the shop. She takes her child in her arms and covers her eyes. “Don’t cry, Violet. You must be merry.” And gradually the sick girl is soothed; she smiles, she watches the girls again. Frau von Prackwitz returns to the shop.…
The girls in the cutting room in the front of the shop are Berliners. They have the gift of gab, and speak often and harshly about the harsh woman who tortures them.… But there is always one who says, “But, oh, God—what that woman has to put up with! That husband and the daughter. We would certainly be no different.…”
“No, we wouldn’t be. Violet is now sixteen and has a long life before her.…”
“Yes,” say the doctors, “who can tell? Wait and hope—it is not impossible, madam.”
She waits and she hopes. She looks ahead, she economizes. All the gentleness and goodness she may have is devoted to the daughter. Her husband is barely noticed. Does she sometimes think of a certain Herr von Studmann? How far away—how foolish!
Sometimes she happens to meet a Herr Pagel in the street. She looks him coldly in the eye, she looks through him. She is sufficiently the daughter of her father to be able at last to see through that young fellow. He fraudulently obtained power of attorney from her, he misused this power; large sums of money found their way into his pockets. There are accounts made out by her father concerning the value of the things which that young man sold; there are statements of the amounts which he forwarded to her—enormous discrepancies! And these are charged to her inheritance! She also remembers that this Pagel has in his possession an IOU of hers for 2,000 marks. Let him keep it, she will never redeem it—a little punishment for all the mischief he has caused her.
He seemed so young, so amiable, so decent—one must beware of all youth, all amiability, all decency. This evening she must once more check the cash—Fräulein Degelow always wears new silk stockings now. She may have a friend, but she may also be delving into the till—be careful!
V
“Come in, young man. Step in the parlor. Of course she’s there. Why shouldn’t she be?” cries Frau Krupass in a loud, cheerful voice. But in a whisper: “Be a little nice to her today: she heard this morning that her old flame is dead.”
“At last?” asks the young man joyfully. “Well, thank God.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t be so heartless, Herr Schulze! Even if he was a swine, she’s upset just the same.”
“Hello, Amanda,” says Herr Schulze, truck driver at the paper factory, Korte & Körtig, into the kitchen where Amanda Backs is still washing up. “What have you been eating? Kippers? Shouldn’t eat them in hot weather; fish always stinks at once.”
“Eh, no! Not if it’s smoked!” objects Krupass.
“Don’t pretend, Schulzing, that you don’t know. I heard her whispering secretly with you at the door. Yes, he’s dead, my Hans—and if he was a rascal, all the same he loved me in his way just as I was, without anything.”
“If you think, Amanda, it’s because of that I …”
“Who says so? Who’s talking of you then?” Amanda throws the dish cloth in the dish water, with a splash. “You men always think people are talking about you. No, I was speaking about my Meier and that I can’t get over his dying a rascal. They killed him at Pirmasens; he was a Separatist—always with the French and against the Germans, just as in Neulohe, where I already gave him what-for for the same reason.”
“At Pirmasens!” says Herr Schulze, embarrassed. “Just the same, it’s a bloody while ago.…”
“The twelfth of February, a good four months back. But because he was only called Meier and they also had to find me, it took such a long time before they could inform me officially. And there it said in his pocketbook that I was his fiancée!” Amanda curls her lip in contempt. “What’s more, I never was; I only slept with him.”
There is a rather heavy silence, and the young man fidgets on his kitchen chair. At last Frau Krupass is heard.
“It’s very nice, Amanda, that you’re such a frank person, but too much of a thing is unhealthy. You’re stepping quite needlessly on Herr Schulze’s corns, when he’s only trying to be fair to you.”
“Now, say no more, Krupass, say no more!” says the driver. “I know Amanda; she doesn’t mean that at all.”
“What do I mean then?” cries Amanda with red cheeks. “That’s exactly what I do mean, exactly as I said it. You needn’t talk about Amanda and knowing her.”
“All right. Then that’s what you did mean. We won’t quarrel about that.”
“There you have it, Krupass! And he’s supposed to be a man! No, Schulzing,” she exclaims, genuinely grieved, “you’re a good fellow, but you’re too soft for me. I admit you’re reliable and you save up and you don’t drink, and as soon as possible you’ll buy a truck and I could be the wife of a truck owner, as you told me.… But, Schulzing, the whole day I’ve been turning it over in my mind. We won’t hit it off. To be caring is fine, but only to be caring, that’s no good either. I’m only twenty-three, and I’m not in such a hurry. Perhaps someone else will come along who can make my heart throb a bit. You don’t, Schulzing.”
“Amanda, you only think that now because you got that letter. I know I’m a little slow; but in my business that’s what’s wanted. Smart driving, they can do all that; but drive carefully and turn with a truck and a trailer in a yard not much larger than your kitchen without a scratch, only I can do that.”
“There you go speaking again about your stupid truck. Go and marry one.”
“Certainly I’m speaking about my truck, but you must let me say what I have to, Amanda. I’m slow, as I said, but just as I succeed with my truck because I’m capable, so I’ll succeed in marriage. Take it from me, Amanda, it’s like this: they can all cut a great dash and drive up smartly, but you look at that sort of m
arriage months later! Driven into a smash-up. With me you’ll keep safe; nothing’ll happen to you with me—I’m as certain of that as of my driving license.”
“Yes, you’re a good fellow, Schulzing. But fire and water don’t mix. You say nothing’ll happen to me—good, but I don’t know if that’ll be all right for me. Too quiet is no good either.”
“Oh, well.” Young Schulze stands up. “I won’t try to persuade you. What isn’t, isn’t. Oh, no, I don’t take it bad of you, Amanda, not a bit. The bakers don’t all bake the same bread. You can’t help it, and I can’t help it. Good evening, Frau Krupass. Thank you, too, for letting me sit here in the evening and for all the good food.…”
“Now he’s talking of the food as well!”
“Why shouldn’t I talk about it? One ought to return thanks for everything given us in life. I haven’t been given such a lot for me to find thanks too much. Good night, Amanda, I wish you everything good also.”
“Thank you, Schulzing. You too—and most of all a nice wife.”
“Well, no doubt I shall find someone else. But I would have liked it the other way, Amanda. Good night.”
Not till they hear him say good night to the foreman outside in the square does Frau Krupass say: “Was that right, Amanda? He’s a very respectable young man, really.” Amanda Backs says nothing. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s all right as far as I’m concerned if you stay here another ten years in the yard with me. I like Petra very much, but I can’t talk to her as I do to you. And you’re better in the business.” Ma Krupass stands up yawning. “Well, I’m going to hit the hay now. We’ve got the truckload of bottles tomorrow, and we must get up by five—aren’t you going yet?”
“I’ll sit here a little while and look out of the window. And I’m not angry with you. I know very well that I alone am guilty with him.”
“Don’t get in the dumps now. Think of Petra—she was properly in the dirt, worse than you; and what is she now? A real lady.”
“Oh, lady!” says Amanda contemptuously. “I don’t give a damn for that. But he loves her, that’s it—and Schulze was thinking more of your depot here, and you saying you’d provide for me, than of love.”
