by Hans Fallada
She stood on the chair, and pulled on the handle of the first case, but the cornice of the wardrobe was in the way.
‘He left the cases behind!’ cried Lammchen.
She didn’t hear. She pulled. The cornice broke off and the case came down. She could not support its weight and it fell, crashing against the cot. The Shrimp began to scream.
‘Leave that alone at once!’ shouted Lammchen, with blazing eyes, rushing to her child. ‘I’ll throw you out.’
‘They’re my cases!’ cried her mother-in-law, pulling at the second one. Lammchen held the crying child in her arms, and forced herself to calm down. He was due for his next feed in half an hour, and she must not get agitated.
‘Leave the cases, Mama!’ she said. ‘They don’t belong to you. They have to stay here.’
And to the little boy she hummed:
‘Lullaby, sleep in Mummy’s bed,
Or will you sleep in Dad’s instead? Lullaby,
baby, sleep.’
‘Leave the cases alone, Mama,’ she repeated loudly.
‘He’ll be pleased when he gets back to you tonight.’
The second case fell.
‘Ah, there he is now!’
She turned around to face the door as it opened.
However, it was not Jachmann but Pinneberg whom she saw.
‘What’s going on here?’ he asked quietly.
‘Mama wants to take Mr Jachmann’s cases. She says they belong to her. Mr Jachmann owes her money.’
‘Mama can work that out with Jachmann himself, the cases stay here,’ said Pinneberg, with a self-control that filled Lammchen with unwonted admiration.
‘I knew it,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘You’d stand up for your wife whatever! You Pinnebergs have always been like that: ninnies. Aren’t you ashamed to be such a weakling?’
‘Sonny, my love,’ implored Lammchen.
But it wasn’t necessary. ‘It’s time for you to go, Mama,’ said Pinneberg. ‘No, just leave the cases where they are. D’you seriously believe you’ll get them down the ladder without me? Now, get moving. D’you want to say goodbye to my wife? You don’t have to.’
‘I’ll set the police on you.’
‘Be careful, Mama, mind the doorstep.’
The door banged shut, Lammchen listened to the receding noise, sang ‘Lullaby’. ‘I hope it hasn’t spoiled my milk.’
She bared her breast, the Shrimp smiled and pursed his lips.
He was already feeding when Sonny came back. ‘There, she’s gone. I wonder if she will send the police? Tell me what happened.’
‘You were splendid, Sonny my love,’ said Lammchen. ‘I’d never have thought it of you. Such self-control!’
Now he was being praised for a real achievement, he was embarrassed. ‘Oh no. Go on, tell me what happened.’
And she told him.
‘It is possible the police are after Jachmann. I think that bit’s true. But if so, Mama will be in it as well. So she’s not going to send the police. They would have been here by now anyway.’
The Pinnebergs sat and waited. The baby had his feed, was laid in his cot and went to sleep.
Pinneberg put the suitcases back on top of the wardrobe, got some wood-glue from the master carpenter, and stuck the cornice back on. Lammchen made the evening meal.
And no police came.
SCHLÜTER THE ACTOR, AND THE YOUNG MAN FROM ACKERSTRASSE. IT’S ALL OVER
On the twenty-ninth of September Pinneberg was standing behind his counter in Mandels’ Department Store. Today was the twenty-ninth of September and tomorrow was the thirtieth, and there was no thirty-first. Pinneberg was doing some calculations, with a grey and gloomy face. From time to time he took from his pocket a slip of paper on which he had written down his daily takings, looked at it and did some adding-up. There wasn’t much to add up. The total remained immutably the same: by the end of tomorrow he would have to have sold five hundred and twenty three and a half marks’ worth in order to fulfil his quota.
It was impossible, but of course he had to fulfil it, or what was to become of Lammchen and the child? It was impossible, but when facts are immutable, one hopes for miracles. It was just like in the dim distant past when nasty old Heinemann was giving back their French homework, and Johannes Pinneberg the schoolboy prayed under his desk: ‘Oh God, make me only have three mistakes!’ (And he knew of seven for certain.)
The salesman Johannes Pinneberg prayed: ‘Oh God, make someone come in who wants a set of tails. And an evening coat. And … and …’
Colleague Kessler sidled up: ‘Now then Pinneberg, how are your accounts?’
Pinneberg didn’t look up. ‘All right, thanks.’
‘Really?’ drawled Kessler. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Because Jänecke told me when you bungled a sale yesterday that you were very behind and he was going to get rid of you.’
Pinneberg said: ‘Thanks for nothing. I’m all right. Jänecke was probably only saying that to spur you on. How are you doing then?’
‘Oh, I’m there for this month. That’s why I asked you. I wanted to make you an offer.’
Pinneberg stood silent. He hated this man Kessler, this smarmy self-important creep. He hated him so much that even now he couldn’t say a word to him, even to ask a favour. After a long pause he said: ‘Well, you’re home and dry, then.’
‘Yes, I don’t need to bother now. I needn’t sell anything for the next two days,’ said Kessler proudly, giving Pinneberg a superior look.
And perhaps, perhaps, Pinneberg might have opened his mouth and asked for help, but at that moment a gentleman came up.
‘Could you show me a smoking-jacket, please? Something really warm and practical. It doesn’t matter too much about the price, but I don’t want a showy colour.’
The man, who was elderly, had looked at both salesman, Pinneberg thought, in fact, that he had looked more at him. So he said ‘Of course. If you would …’
But colleague Kessler pushed in between. ‘If you will come this way, sir. We’ve got some very nice smoking-jackets in thick wool with a discreet all-over pattern. Let me …’
Pinneberg watched them go, thinking to himself: ‘Kessler’s reached his quota but he still snaffles my customers. But it would have been thirty marks more for me, Kessler.’
Mr Jänecke passed by: ‘Not busy? It’s getting to be a habit with you. All the others are selling. Anyone would think you were looking forward to the dole.’
Pinneberg looked at Mr Jänecke. It should have been an angry look, but he was so helpless, so cast down, he felt the tears come into his eyes as he whispered: ‘Mr Jänecke … Oh, Mr Jänecke …’
A strange thing then happened, Mr Jänecke, spiteful, ugly Jänecke, realized how helplessly forlorn this human creature was. He said encouragingly: ‘Now then, Pinneberg, don’t throw in the towel. It will work out. We aren’t monsters, after all, you can talk to us. And anyone can have a run of bad luck.’
Then he moved swiftly aside. A gentlemen was coming towards them, looking as though he wanted to buy, a gentlemen with an expressive face, an impressive face. No, he couldn’t be a customer, that was a tailor-made suit he was wearing. He wouldn’t buy something off the peg.
But the man went straight up to Pinneberg, and Pinneberg was wondering where he had seen him before. Because he had seen him, though he had looked quite different then, and the man said to Pinneberg, touching the rim of his hat: ‘Greetings, sir! Greetings! May I ask what you have in the fantasy line?’
The man had a very impressive way of speaking, he rolled his r’s and made no attempt to lower his voice, he seemed not to mind that others could hear him.
‘Fantasy fabrics?’ queried Pinneberg uneasily. ‘That’s on the second floor.’
The man laughed: a sharply accented Ha-ha-ha. He laughed with his whole face and whole body, stopped, and went back all of a sudden to being expressive and sonorous.
‘Oh, not that,’ said the gentleman. ‘I was asking you whether you could live a fantasy
. Could you, for example, imagine yourself as a goldfinch, perched singing on top of this rail of trousers?’
‘With difficulty,’ said Pinneberg, giving a feeble smile, and thinking: where on earth do I know this nutcase from? It’s all a put-on.
‘With difficulty,’ said the gentleman. ‘That’s bad. Well, I don’t suppose you have much to do with birds in this department.’ And he laughed again, his sharp Ha-ha-ha.
And Pinneberg smiled too, although he was getting nervous. Salesmen weren’t supposed to be made fun of, he would have to find a gentle but effective way of getting rid of this drunk. Mr Jänecke was still there, behind an array of coats.
‘Can I serve you?’ asked Pinneberg.
‘Serve!’ declaimed the other contemptuously. ‘Serve! No one is anyone’s servant! Now, to another matter. Imagine that a young man comes in here, from Ackerstrasse let’s say, with a heap of cash like that, and wants to get himself fitted out from head to toe with new clothes: can you imagine what that young man would choose?’
‘I can imagine it very well,’ said Pinneberg. ‘That sort of thing happens here sometimes.’
‘There you are,’ said the gentlemen. ‘You shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel. Fantasy is one of your lines! What sort of material would that young man from Ackerstrasse choose?’
‘As bright and showy as possible,’ declared Pinneberg with conviction. ‘Large checks. Very wide trousers. Jacket as close-fitting as possible. The best thing would be to show you …’
‘Splendid,’ said the other approvingly. ‘Splendid. And now show me. This young man from Ackerstrasse really does have a lot of money and does need a whole new outfit.’
‘With pleasure …’ said Pinneberg.
‘One moment,’ said the other, raising his hand. ‘To give you the picture. Look, this is the man who comes in …’
The gentleman changed utterly. His face became a picture of impudence and vice, but with a mixture of cowardice and fear in there too. Shoulders hunched, neck drawn in, he seemed to be expecting a policeman with a rubber truncheon round every corner.
‘Then, once he has the good suit on …’
His face changed in a flash. Yes, it was still impudent and shameless, but like a flower turning to the light, it responded to the brilliance of the rising sun. He too could be smartly dressed, he could afford it, so what the heck!
‘You are,’ cried Pinneberg breathlessly, ‘you are Mr Schlüter! I’ve seen you in a film. Fancy me not realizing at once!’
The actor was highly gratified. ‘Oh yes? Which film did you see me in?’
‘What was it called? D’you know, it’s the one where you were a bank clerk, and your wife thought you were embezzling money for her, but really it was the management trainee who was giving it to you, who was your friend …’
‘I know the plot,’ said the actor. ‘So you liked it? Which bit of mine did you like the best?’
‘Oh, there were so many … But you know I think the best bit was where you came back to the table after you’d been in the washroom …’
The actor nodded.
‘While you were away the trainee had told her you hadn’t stolen the money and they laughed in your face. And suddenly you went all small. You shrank. It was horrifying.’
‘So that was the best bit, but why?’ pursued the actor insatiably.
‘Because … please don’t laugh … I felt it was so like us. You know things aren’t going at all well for ordinary people like us, and it seems to me sometimes as though everyone and everything is making a monkey of us. Life in general, you see what I mean, and one feels so small …’
‘The voice of the people,’ declared the thespian. ‘But I’m extremely honoured, Mr … what is your name?’
‘Pinneberg.’
‘The voice of the people, Pinneberg. Well, now let’s get back to business and find that outfit. It was all rubbish at the theatrical outfitters. Now we’ll see …’
And they did see. They waded through all kinds of clothes for half an hour, an hour, until there were mountains lying about. Pinneberg had never been so happy to be a salesman.
‘Good man,’ muttered the actor from time to time. He was a patient tryer-on. He could try fifteen pairs of trousers, and still be looking forward to the sixteenth.
‘A good man this Pinneberg,’ he muttered.
They finally did finish however, having examined and tried on everything that the young man from Ackerstrasse might possibly think of wearing. Pinneberg was in seventh heaven. He had hopes that Mr Schlüter might perhaps take more than the one good suit, perhaps he might also take the red-brown coat with the mauve check. He asked breathlessly: ‘Well, what shall I put on the bill?’
The actor raised his eyebrows. ‘The bill? I was only trying the stuff on. I’m not buying it. What did you think? Don’t make such a face. I have given you a bit of work, haven’t I. I’ll send you tickets for the next première. Do you have a fiancée? I’ll send you two tickets.’
Pinneberg said hurriedly in a low voice: ‘Mr Schlüter, please do buy the things. You’ve got such a lot of money. You earn so much. Please buy them! If you go away now and haven’t bought anything, they’ll blame me and I’ll be sacked.’
‘You’re a funny one,’ said the actor. ‘Why should I buy the things? For your sake? Nobody does me any favours.’
‘Mr Schlüter!’ said Pinneberg, his voice growing louder. ‘I saw the way you acted that poor little man in the film. You know how things are for people like us. I’ve got a wife and child too, you see. The child is really small, and he’s still so happy. If I’m sacked …!’
‘Good lord, man,’ said Mr Schlüter. ‘That’s your business. I can’t buy suits I’ve no use for just to keep your child happy.’
‘Mr Schlüter!’ begged Pinneberg. ‘Please do it for my sake. I’ve been with you an hour. At least buy the one suit. It’s pure Cheviot, very pleasant to wear and I’m sure you’d be satisfied with it.
‘Will you kindly stop it,’ said Mr Schlüter. ‘This pantomime is getting boring.’
‘Mr Schlüter,’ begged Pinneberg, laying his hand on the departing actor’s arm, ‘The firm gives us a quota, we have to sell a certain amount or we’re sacked. I’m five hundred marks down. Please, please, buy something. You know how we feel. You acted it!’
The actor took the salesman’s hand from his arm. He said very loudly: ‘Listen, young man, just keep your hands off me. What you’re saying has damn all to do with me.’
Suddenly Mr Jänecke appeared. Of course he would.
‘May I help you? I’m the manager of this department.’
‘I’m Franz Schlüter, the actor …’
Mr Jänecke bowed.
‘Strange salesmen you’ve got here. They manhandle you into buying. This man claims you force them to do it. That’s extortion. It deserves a letter to the newspapers.’
‘The man’s a bad salesman,’ said Mr Jänecke. ‘He’s been warned several times already. I’m very sorry that you just happened to get him. We’ll dismiss him this time. He’s useless.’
‘My dear sir, that’s quite unnecessary. I’m not suggesting that. Though he did grab my arm …’
‘He did? Mr Pinneberg, go at once to the Personnel Office and get your papers. And as for that nonsense about a quota, it’s all lies. Only two hours ago I told this man that if he didn’t manage it, well, he didn’t manage it, it wasn’t as bad as all that. He’s just incompetent. A thousand apologies, Mr Schlüter.’
Pinneberg followed the two men with his eyes.
He stood and watched them go.
It was all over, all, all over.
EPILOGUE
LIFE GOES ON
SHOULD YOU STEAL WOOD? LAMMCHEN MAKES BIG MONEY AND GIVES HER SONNY SOMETHING TO DO
It wasn’t all over: life went on. It was November, and fourteen months had gone by since Pinneberg had ceased work at Mandels. A dark, cold, wet November, which was all right if the roof was sound. The roof of th
e summer-house was sound, thanks to Pinneberg who had tarred it four weeks ago. Now he was awake, the hands of the alarm-clock showed a quarter to five. Pinneberg listened to the November rain pouring and drumming on the summer-house roof. ‘It’s water-tight,’ he thought. ‘I did a good job there. Perfectly water-tight. At least the rain can’t get at us.’
He was just about to turn over comfortably and go back to sleep when he realized he had been woken by a sound: the garden gate had squeaked. Krymna would be knocking in a moment.
Pinneberg shook Lammchen gently by the arm as she lay beside him in the narrow iron bed, trying to wake her gently. But she started: ‘What’s the matter?’
Waking up was no longer the cheerful moment that it used to be for Lammchen; if she was wakened at an unusual hour it was always bad news. Pinneberg heard her breathe quickly: ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Quiet!’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘You’ll wake the Shrimp. It’s not five yet.’
‘What is it then?’ Lammchen asked again, rather impatiently.
‘Krymna is coming,’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘Don’t you think I should go with him?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Lammchen passionately. ‘Listen. We agreed. We are not going to start stealing. I won’t have it.’
‘But …’ Pinneberg objected.
There was a knock outside. ‘Pinneberg!’ called a voice. ‘Are you coming with us, Pinneberg?’
Pinneberg jumped up, and stood for a moment hesitating.
‘Shall I?’ he asked, and listened.
But Lammchen did not reply.
‘Pinneberg! Come on, lazy bones!’ called the man outside.
Pinneberg felt his way in darkness out onto the porch, he could see the dark silhouette of the other man through the glass panes.
‘Well, at last! Are you coming or not?’
‘I …’ called Pinneberg through the door, ‘I would like …’
‘So it’s no.’
‘Please understand, Krymna, I’d like to, but my wife … You know women …’
‘So it’s no,’ bellowed Krymna outside. ‘Don’t come, then. We’ll go alone.’
Pinneberg watched him go. He could vaguely discern Krymna’s squat figure silhouetted against the sky. Then the garden gate squeaked again and Krymna was swallowed up by the night.
