by Hans Fallada
‘Twenty-seven minutes late—Pinneberg.’ The porter didn’t react as he noted it down. There were always some late-comers. Some overwhelmed him with pleas. This one was merely pale.
Pinneberg compared the time on his watch: ‘I make it only twenty-four.’
‘Twenty-seven,’ said the porter decisively. ‘It makes no odds anyway: twenty-seven or twenty-four.’
He was right there.
Jänecke wasn’t in the department. That was one mercy at least. The trouble wasn’t going to start up at once.
But it did. Up came Mr Kessler, Pinneberg’s colleague and Mandel’s most devoted employee, and said: ‘You’re to go to Mr Lehmann in the Personnel Office straight away.’
‘Yes,’ said Pinneberg. ‘All right.’ He felt the need to say something that would show Kessler that he wasn’t frightened (though he was), so he said: ‘There’ll be another stink. I was a bit late in.’
Kessler looked at Pinneberg and smirked, not openly, but his eyes said it all. He said not a word but just looked at him. Then he turned on his heel and marched off.
He went down to the ground floor, and crossed the courtyard. Miss Semmler, sallow and not-so-young, was there as always. She was standing at the half-open door of Mr Lehmann’s room. It was obvious what she was doing. She took one step towards Pinneberg and said: ‘Wait, Mr Pinneberg.’
And then she took a file, opened it, and took a step back to the door, reading the file of course.
Voices sounded from Mr Lehmann’s room. Pinneberg recognized the sharp, precise one: that was Mr Spannfuss. So it wasn’t just Mr Lehmann, there was Mr Spannfuss as well, and now another: Mr Jänecke’s ringing tones. There was a moment’s silence, then a young girl said something in a low voice. She seemed to be crying.
Pinneberg cast an angry look at the door and the Semmler woman, he cleared his throat and made a sign to her to shut the door. But she said ‘Shhh!’ quite shamelessly. It had brought colour to her cheeks; she had a little red flush, did Miss Semmler.
Mr Jänecke’s voice could be heard saying ‘So you admit, Miss Fischer, that you are having an affair with Mr Matzdorf?’
Sobs.
‘You must answer us,’ said Mr Jänecke, in a gently warning tone. ‘How can Mr Spannfuss form an opinion when you’re so obstinate and won’t confess to the truth?’ A pause. Then: ‘And Mr Lehmann doesn’t like it either.’
Miss Fischer sobbed.
‘So it’s true, isn’t it, Miss Fischer,’ Mr Jänecke asked patiently once again, ‘that you are having an affair with Mr Matzdorf?’
Sobs. Silence.
‘Oh come on! Come on!’ Mr Jänecke shouted suddenly. ‘Is this a sensible way to behave? We know everything, and it would be greatly to your advantage if you simply confessed to your misdeeds.’ A short pause, and then Mr Jänecke began again. ‘So tell us, what on earth d’you think you were doing?’
Miss Fischer sobbed.
‘You must have thought something. As I understand it you were taken on here to sell stockings. Did you think you were hired to have affairs with the other employees?’
No reply.
‘And the consequences?’ piped up Mr Lehmann suddenly. ‘Didn’t you think of the consequences? You’re only just seventeen, Miss Fischer?’ Silence. Silence. Pinneberg took a step towards the door, Miss Semmler looked at him, cross, sallow, but triumphant.
‘The door!’ said Pinneberg furiously.
A female voice burst out from within, half sobbing, half screaming. ‘But it’s not an affair! I’m friendly with him, that’s all …’ the words petered out in crying.
‘You’re lying,’ Pinneberg heard Mr Spannfuss say. ‘You’re lying, Miss Fischer. It says in the letter that you were coming out of a hotel. Shall we inquire at the hotel?’
‘Mr Matzdorf has admitted everything!’ exclaimed Mr Lehmann.
‘Shut the door!’ Pinneberg repeated.
‘You don’t give the orders round here,’ responded Miss Semmler crossly.
The girl in the room cried out: ‘I have never met him at work.’
‘Oh come, come!’ said Spannfuss.
‘Certainly I haven’t! Mr Matzdorf works on the fourth floor and I work on the ground floor. We can’t meet.’
‘What about lunch-hour?’ squawked Mr Lehmann. ‘Lunchtime in the canteen?’
‘Not then either,’ said Miss Fischer hastily. ‘Certainly not. Mr Matzdorf’s lunch-hour is at a quite different time from mine.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Jänecke. ‘Well, you certainly seem to know all about that. And no doubt you wished things had been more conveniently arranged.’
‘What I do outside work is my own business!’ exclaimed the girl. She seemed to have stopped crying.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Mr Spannfuss earnestly. ‘Seriously wrong. Mandels feeds you and clothes you, Mandels provides the wherewithal of your very existence. It’s not unreasonable to expect that you should think of Mandels first in everything you do and don’t do.’
A long pause. ‘You meet in a hotel. You could be seen there by a customer. It would be embarrassing for the customer and for you, and injurious for the firm. You could—I have the right to be frank with you—you could get pregnant. According to the present laws we are obliged to carry on employing you. Very injurious to the firm. The salesman is saddled with maintenance, his salary won’t cover it, he’s worried so he doesn’t sell well. Again the firm suffers.’ His tone grew more emphatic: ‘What you have been doing is so against the interest of the firm of Mandels that we …’
Another long pause. Not a word from Miss Fischer. Then Mr Lehmann said quickly: ‘Because you have offended against the interest of the firm, we are entitled, under paragraph seven of the contract of employment, to dismiss you without notice. We are making use of this right. You are herewith summarily dismissed, Miss Fischer.’
Silence. Not a sound.
‘Go into the Personnel Office next door and you’ll get your papers and the rest of your salary.’
‘One moment!’ called Mr Jänecke, and added hurriedly: ‘In case you think we’re being unfair to you, Mr Matzdorf is of course being summarily dismissed as well.’
Miss Semmler was at her desk as a young girl came out of Mr Lehmann’s room, red-eyed, white-faced. She walked past Pinneberg. ‘I have to get my papers here,’ she said to Miss Semmler.
‘Go in,’ said Miss Semmler to Pinneberg.
And Pinneberg went in, with hammering heart. ‘Now it’s my turn!’ he thought.
But it wasn’t quite his turn yet. The gentlemen round the desk were acting as if he wasn’t there.
‘Does that position have to be filled again?’ asked Mr Lehmann.
‘We can only economize there up to a point,’ said Mr Spannfuss. ‘The others can cover now while business is slack. But if it livens up, we’ll put in a temporary. There are enough hanging about.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Lehmann.
The three looked up, and looked at Pinneberg. He took two steps forward.
‘Now listen to me, Pinneberg,’ said Spannfuss, in a quite different tone. Gone was the serious fatherly concern; he was merely brutal. ‘Today you came in half an hour late again. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking of. I can only suppose you don’t care a damn about Mandels and you don’t mind if we know it. Well, young man, if that’s how you feel about us …!’ he made a sweeping gesture towards the door.
Pinneberg’s assumption had been that they would throw him out no matter what. But suddenly here was hope, and he said in a very low and dejected voice: ‘Please excuse me, Mr Spannfuss, my child was ill last night, and I went out to fetch a nurse …’
He looked helplessly at the three.
‘Your child,’ said Mr Spannfuss. ‘So this time your child was ill. Four weeks ago, or was it ten?, you were constantly taking time off because of your wife. I expect in two weeks your grandmother will die, and in a month your aunt will break a leg.’ He paused, then began again with renewe
d vigour: ‘You overestimate the interest that the firm takes in your private life. Mandels isn’t concerned with your private life at all. Please arrange to deal with your little problems outside business hours.’
Another pause, then: ‘The firm makes your private life possible, sir! The firm comes first, second and third. After that you do what you like. We take on the burden of providing you with your daily bread. You’ve got to understand that. You live off us. You’re punctual enough collecting your pay at the end of the month.’
He smiled a little, and the other gentlemen smiled. Pinneberg knew it would be a good thing if he smiled too, but with the best will in the world, he couldn’t.
Mr Spannfuss wound up with the words: ‘Now, take careful note: the next time you’re late you’ll be thrown out on the street without warning. Then you’ll learn what it’s like on the dole. Along with all the others. We understand each other, don’t we, Mr Pinneberg?’
Pinneberg stared dumbly at him.
Mr Spannfuss smiled. ‘Your face may speak volumes, Mr Pinneberg, but I’d still like to hear the confirmation from your own lips: we do understand each other?’
‘Yes,’ said Pinneberg quietly.
‘Good, then you can go.’
Pinneberg went.
MRS MIA PINNEBERG AGAIN. THOSE ARE MY CASES! ARE THE POLICE COMING?
Lammchen was sitting in her little castle darning socks. The Shrimp was lying in his bed, asleep. She was feeling miserable. Sonny had been in such a bad way lately: confused, oppressed, flaring up at one moment, dumbly downcast the next. She’d wanted to give him a treat recently by serving him an egg with his fried potatoes, but when she brought it to the table he flew into a passion and asked if she took them for millionaires, and if it meant nothing to her that he was worrying himself to death.
Afterwards he had moped for days, and spoken so gently to her, his whole being begged for forgiveness. He didn’t need to beg for forgiveness, they were one, nothing could come between them, a hasty word might cause unhappiness, but never endanger their marriage.
In the early days things had been very different. They were young, they were in love, there was a ray of light through everything, a gleaming vein of silver in the darkest mineshaft. Now everything was destroyed: mountains of grey rubble with here and there a gleam of light. Then more rubble. Then another gleam. They were still young, they still loved each other, more perhaps, now they were accustomed to each other. But there was a dark shadow over everything; had people like them any right to laugh? How could one really laugh in a world where captains of industry are allowed to line their own pockets and make hundreds of mistakes, whereas the little people who had always done their best were humiliated and squashed?
‘A bit more justice would do no harm at all,’ thought Lammchen.
This thought was interrupted by sounds of shouting outside. It was Puttbreese, arguing with a woman. Lammchen felt she knew the sharp, piercing tone of that voice, she listened; oh no, she didn’t, they were probably just haggling over a cupboard down there.
But then Puttbreese called her. ‘Young lady!’ he shouted. ‘Mrs Pinneberg!’ he bellowed.
Lammchen stood up. She went across the boards to the ladder and looked down. Yes, it was that voice. Down below stood Mr Puttbreese with her mother-in-law, Mrs Pinneberg senior, and they didn’t seem to be on friendly terms.
‘This old girl wants to see you,’ said the master-carpenter, pointing with his huge thumb, as he beat a hasty retreat. So hasty in fact, that he slammed the outer door, leaving the two of them in semi-darkness. As her eyes adjusted to it, Lammchen found she was looking down on a familiar brown suit and smart little hat, and a chalk-white fat face.
‘Hello, Mama, have you come to call? Sonny’s not here.’
‘D’you mean to talk to me from up there? Or will you tell me how to come up to you?’
‘The ladder, Mama. Right in front of you.’
‘Is that the only way?’
‘It’s the only way, Mama.’
‘Very well. Why you wanted to move out of my house I can’t imagine. Well, we’ll talk about that.’
The ladder was negotiated without difficulty. Mrs Pinneberg wasn’t one to be put off by a thing like that. She stood on the roof of the cinema, looking up into the dark and dusty beams. ‘Do you live here?’
‘No, Mama. Through the door there. May I show you?’ She opened the door and Mrs Pinneberg went in and looked around. ‘Well, there you are, everyone knows best where they belong. I prefer Spenerstrasse.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ said Lammchen. Provided Sonny wasn’t doing overtime, he could be here in a quarter of an hour. She needed him badly. ‘Won’t you take your things off, Mama?’
‘No, thank you. I’m only stopping two minutes. I don’t see there’s much call for socializing, the way you treated me.’
‘We were really sorry about that …’ began Lammchen hesitantly.
‘I wasn’t,’ declared Mrs Pinneberg. ‘I’m not saying a word about it. But it was very thoughtless of you to leave me in the lurch suddenly like that, without any help in the house. And you’ve acquired a baby?’
‘Yes, we’ve had our little boy for six months now. He’s called Horst.’
‘Horst! I suppose it never occurred to you to be careful.’
Lammchen looked her mother-in-law straight in the eye. She was about to tell a lie, but this time her look stayed firm. ‘We could have been careful. We didn’t want to.’
‘Ha. Well, you must know best whether you can afford it. I consider it a bit irresponsible to bring a baby into the world with no prospects. But it’s neither here nor there to me. Have a dozen if you want to!’
She went to the cot and looked angrily at the baby. Lammchen had been aware for some time now that her mother-in-law wasn’t in a tractable mood. In the past she had at least been more or less polite to her, but now all she wanted was a fight. Perhaps it would be as well if Sonny didn’t come too soon.
Mrs Pinneberg had finished with her inspection of the baby.
‘What is it, boy or girl?’
‘A boy,’ said Lammchen. ‘Horst.’
‘Of course!’ said Mrs Marie Pinneberg. ‘I thought so. He looks just as unintelligent as his father. Ah well, if it gives you pleasure.’
Lammchen said nothing.
‘It’s no use sulking with me, child,’ said Mrs Pinneberg, unbuttoning her jacket and sitting down. ‘I’m only speaking my mind. Ah, there’s that expensive dressing-table! It still seems to be your only bit of furniture. I sometimes think one ought to be nicer to that boy; he’s really not right in the head. A dressing-table!’ And she gave the unlucky object a look fit to crack the veneer.
Lammchen said nothing.
‘When’s Jachmann coming?’ rapped out Mrs Pinneberg so sharply that Lammchen jumped, to her great satisfaction. ‘You see, I can find out anything, I found your hidey-hole, I know it all. When’s Jachmann coming?’
‘Mr Jachmann,’ said Lammchen, ‘stayed a night or two here several weeks ago. Since then he hasn’t been back.’
‘Is that so?’ sneered Mrs Pinneberg. ‘And where is he now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lammchen.
‘Oh, you don’t?’ said Mrs Pinneberg, slowly but inexorably gathering steam. She took off her jacket. ‘How much does he pay you to keep your mouths shut?’
‘I won’t answer any such question,’ said Lammchen.
‘I’m going to send the police round here, my dear child,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘They’ll soon get it out of you. I suppose that cardsharp, that con-man, has told you that he’s on the wanted-list, or did he say he was staying here for love of you?’
Lammchen Pinneberg stood and stared out of the window. No, it would be better if Sonny did come soon. She wouldn’t be able to throw his mother out; he would.
‘You’ll soon see what kind of trouble he’s got you into. He has to deceive everybody. What he’s done to me …’
Her voice had taken on an
other tone.
‘I haven’t seen Mr Jachmann for over two months,’ said Lammchen.
‘Lammchen,’ said Mrs Pinneberg, ‘Lammchen, if you know where he is, tell me, Lammchen!’ She paused. ‘Lammchen, please tell me: where is he?’
Lammchen looked around and then at her mother-in-law. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, Mama!’
The two looked at each other.
‘Well, all right then,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘I’ll believe you. I believe you, Lammchen. Did he really only stay here two nights?’
‘I think it was only one,’ said Lammchen.
‘What did he say about me? Tell me, did he speak very badly of me?’
‘He didn’t say anything,’ said Lammchen. ‘He didn’t speak to me about you at all.’
‘Oh,’ said her mother-in-law. ‘Not a word.’ She stared into space. ‘Your son’s a pretty little boy actually. Can he talk yet?’
‘At six months, Mama?’
‘No? Don’t they talk at that age? I’ve forgotten it all. I never knew it properly. But …’ Then she paused. It was a long pause, and it grew longer and longer, weighted with something terrible: rage, fear, menace.
‘There!’ she said, pointing to the cases which were on top of the wardrobe. ‘I know those cases. They’re Jachmann’s. They’re his cases. You liar. You blond, blue-eyed liar, and I believed you! Where is he? When’s he coming? You’ve taken him for yourself, and that dish-rag of a Hans knows all about it. Liar!’
Lammchen was dumbfounded. ‘Mama!’
‘Those are my cases. He owes me hundreds, thousands, those cases belong to me. He’ll soon come if I’ve got them.’
She pulled a chair up to the wardrobe.
‘Mama,’ said Lammchen nervously, trying to stop her.
‘Will you leave me alone? Leave me alone this instant! Those are my cases!’
