Tales from the Underworld

by Hans Fallada

  Once the first bar was gone the others were a doddle. In five minutes I had the window clear, and I was half-hanging outside. The wind howled, and it was dark and perishing. I was just on my way back inside when I could feel the train starting to slow down, in the distance I could see the lights of the next station.

  We could hardly pull into the station with the window bars smashed to buggery and the glass gone, so my mind was made up for me. I swung back inside the apartment, called out: ‘Station ahead, I’m off!’ and went out the window again, feet first this time. For a moment I hung by my left hand, the wind bit my face like crazy, the lights were zooming up frighteningly fast, and I threw myself to the right as hard as I could, so as not to land under the wheels.

  The train screeched past me with rattle and spatter of gravel and there I was, lying on the sharp ballast on the adjacent track. When I got up my bones were all right, but my trousers were hanging off me in shreds, blood was running down my legs, and in some places there was no skin left.

  Up ahead I could hear shouting, the train stopped, shadowy figures were running here and there. I made haste to get off the rails. I tripped over a signal wire, rolled down an embankment and wound up in a ditch with ice and water. It burned like fury, it took my breath away.

  Before I was even up, I saw them running up above, the cops. There were even two of them along the rim of the ditch, so I kept quiet, even though the ice mush was warping me so that I thought I’d never get up again.

  Once they were passed, I got to my feet. I was as bent as a pistol, and the first hundred paces took me about an hour. Shirt and trousers were turned to ice, and were scraping off what skin I had left. After a while though I couldn’t feel anything, and ran along as in a dream.

  I had promised myself not to touch anything in the first village by way of clothes or food. There were people everywhere, and lights on in the windows, so I went cross-country until I hit a road, which I turned down.

  It was maybe nine o’clock when I saw the next village under a hangnail of moon. But the houses were all tight, and the lousy farmers weren’t asleep yet, so I slunk around for a while without finding anything I could use. In the end, I just went on.

  I was tired, and starting to feel cold again. I felt as though my feet, which had lost the last shred of sock long ago, were swelling up by the minute. I didn’t want to know.

  Finally I came to a nice, remote farmhouse, just right for someone in my pickle. The dwelling had a light on. There weren’t no curtains, so I could see the farmer and his wife sitting there, him smoking, her sewing. I didn’t want to do anything chancy, so I thought I’d wait for them to hit the sack. I stood at the window for ever, every fifteen minutes or so she would say something, and he wouldn’t even reply. Farmers, I ask you!

  I was trying to keep my hands a bit warm. My fingers were warped like pincers, I tried straightening them out by force, shoved them in my mouth, nothing doing. I was as stiff as a board. That’s why everything went wrong. When I pushed in the window frame it fell into the room, there was noise, dogs barking, a light went on in another window – I had to move off.

  I was furious, I can tell you, I ran off, God knows how long for. Ideally, I would have fallen down and died, but I didn’t want to do the filth the favour of handing myself in like that.

  At about midnight I came to another hamlet, and this time it was do or die, that was clear. In the first farm I came to the coach house was open, I crept inside, but couldn’t find a thing. For a while I lay in the coach under the apron, and dozed off. But the cold had me awake again in no time.

  Behind a wall, I could hear the sound of cows chained up. There was a padlock, but I only had to tap it twice with a stone and it opened. I hung it on the lock as if someone had left it there, and pulled the door to quietly after me.

  Stepping into dark, warm air felt like a lit-up Christmas tree with presents to a small boy. I took just a couple of steps, and then I dropped blindly into the straw between two cows. They didn’t mind me, and as I burrowed myself further in, I felt like crying from sheer happiness.

  I lay there for five minutes, gradually absorbing the warmth into my body, then the pain started. I pressed my fist and straw in my mouth so as not to cry out loud. My hands and feet were being sliced with knives, my peeled thighs burned like fury. I rubbed cowshit on them. That helped for a while, but then the pain started again.

  Somehow, I got through the night. As it got light, I crept up the ladder into the hayloft. At least there was no wind there, and it felt a little bit warm. Then the women came along to milk. Their voices and the plashing of the milk got me excited after the long stretch in prison. But finally I used them to get to sleep to. By afternoon, I crept down and was able to have a meal of milk, beets and bran, which did me good.

  From the pattern of activity and snatches of overheard conversation, I had learned that the stables and the stable lads’ room were directly adjacent to the cowshed. Now it all depended on whether they all went over to supper in the main house at the same time, or if one stayed behind to watch the horses. When the doors slammed, I was already halfway down the ladder. There was no one in the cowshed or stables. There was even a light left in the lads’ room, an ordinary candle, and lots of stuff hanging from hooks on the wall.

  I thought I heard someone crossing the farmyard, I was much more agitated than I ever got outside for a big heist. I put both arms round a big bundle of stuff, and tore it off the hook with a jerk. The tabs burst, and I’m pretty sure I took a few hooks as well. I shot out into the dark farmyard, ran behind the barn, dropped the lot on a potato pit and listened out. Nothing.

  I had a vague idea of what I had grabbed, and I got togged up. Two shirts, two pairs of underpants, a thick knitted jerkin, a woollen waistcoat, a jacket and a pair of corduroys. I doubled in bulk, and I left a lot more stuff lying there. Only no cap, no socks and no shoes. I wondered if I shouldn’t go back inside, but I didn’t have the balls, I preferred to leave it till the next village.

  It was bitter to have to march through snow with bare, bleeding feet, but I soon remedied the situation. I filched a pair of clogs from an outbuilding. I also got a cap when I ran into a workman on the road a little after ten at night. I played drunk, barged into him and knocked the cap off his head with my arm. Then I put my foot down on it, and pretended not to know. The fellow was unbelievably obstinate, he stood there for half an hour asking me to get off his cap, but as a drunk I wasn’t obliged to understand a word he said. Finally he pushed off, chuntering to himself. I was keen on his socks and shoes too, but that would have had the police on my tracks in no time; this was just a drunk from the next village playing up.

  I walked all night and the better part of the next day, with a lot of hunger in my belly. In all my pockets there wasn’t a coin, or crumb of tobacco. That told me a lot about country living.

  Finally I got to Kassel. First hanging round the waiting rooms, but there was the sour smell of cops, so I got out and walked the streets. I didn’t know a sod in Kassel or of any sort of opening, but I needed to do a job, and right away, that was clear. I walked through a snowy park with no one out and about, then some streets of villas, then a working-class quarter.

  I found myself behind a cart; it would stop every now and again and boxes were unloaded from it. If they were too big the coachman would help the delivery boy, and they would carry the boxes into the houses together.

  I picked out an item, not too big, something that looked like it might be valuable, just to get the ball rolling. I walked up and lifted it while the two guys were in the nearest house, and I took it up an entrance. There was a flight of steps to the basement; I went down and parked myself outside the door.

  Now it was a question of whether the fellows would realize right away there was something missing or not. Half an hour passed, and nothing stirred. So I set off with my package. I walked through the working-class district, then the streets with the villas. As I went, I speculated what might be in
the box. It was a lot lighter than I thought, at the most fifty or sixty pounds. So long as it’s not booze, I thought. Because then I would get drunk on my empty stomach, and they would nab me, that was for sure.

  In the park it was quiet and dark, it was snowing, and no sign of anyone. I dropped the box off in a bush. It was fastened with a metal band, and bloody hard to open. I needed to use one of my clogs as hammer and chisel, and of course I wrecked the sole.

  I was pretty tense when I finally reached under the lid, but it was all right: bottles. I pocketed a couple and went over to the next lamp post. Dralle’s birch hair-restorer! I’d known worse, but there wasn’t going to be much money in this for me. As I was filling my pockets, I noticed that there was some other stuff in the box as well, cartons of soap and scent, little gift packages for Christmas. I took a few samples of those, slipped into my ruined clog and set off again.

  I found a working-class barber. The shop was already shut, but I rang the upstairs bell and asked the woman if I could speak to the gaffer. I wanted a shave. She let me in, I guess I really did look like I wanted a shave.

  I saw right away that I’d come to the right guy, a little yellow-looking fellow who wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I didn’t say anything about wanting a shave any more, I just pulled my samples out of my pockets and asked him if he could use any of my stuff. The woman stood by, just looking at me: she’d seen right away that one of my clogs was busted.

  First he was cagey enough, and said a few odds and ends of things didn’t interest him. I said I might know where to get some more. He gave me five marks, and said he’d stay open till I got back, and he lent me a rucksack so I didn’t have to haul that chest through the streets at night.

  Everything passed off smoothly, I got another sixty marks and a shave. The woman gave me dinner and, without my saying a word, a pair of her old man’s shoes.

  Then I found a bar where there was music and girls and a few of the right sort. I managed to stay off the booze. I shacked up with a little blonde, who gave me a shirt and collar and tie from her pimp.

  But in the night, the pain in my feet got going again. I stuck it out for two days, but then I went to a doctor. He said he’d never seen anything like it. He cut off four of my toes, but then it didn’t hurt any more, and I had plenty of dough, and a good set of prostheses.

  I asked Sänftlein how long he had lasted.

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘Three weeks and they arrested me again. It was grim.’

  What had happened?

  ‘It’s public education! There’s too many things they don’t tell you!’ he yelled in a fury. ‘I mean, did you know that smoked salmon doesn’t do well at sub-zero temperatures?’

  Not as such. But then it didn’t come as a total shock to me either.

  ‘All that thinking … thinking … In the end it’s the stupid ones who are smart. Anyway, it’s on account of my ignorance that they picked me up.’

  ‘Go on, Sänftlein, do tell,’ I said.

  And he did.

  In the long run, Kassel was too small a town for my line of work, I didn’t really fancy trying to mount a big job there. So I just turned one or two little things, until I had enough cash in hand, and I went back to Hamburg, where I was familiar with the market.

  Remember, I had been in the pen for three years. It was all change. My old pals were gone, and the youngsters looked like bleeding amateurs to me. They liked having money, but they weren’t prepared to do anything to get it. Finally, I’d got together three who looked dependable to me.

  It was a hard winter. I wasn’t able to scope things out myself, the police in Hamburg knew me, because I’d once had a pop at one of them; so I had to send my lads out instead. All the schemes they came up with were rubbish, either far too difficult for beginners like them, or else no hope of decent reward.

  Finally they came across a big salmon-smoking operation, very light security. They made a song and dance about the price of salmon, and I couldn’t keep saying no, so we went ahead with it. It was a lousy night, I had a bad feeling right away, the lads were bickering, they hadn’t even lined up anyone to fence the stuff. By and by I was in a towering rage.

  We got into the yard where the smoke shop was; one man kept watch outside.

  Then we’re standing in front of the door, and what do you know, my master criminals have left the jemmies at home. We’re standing there like a clueless bunch of idiots, a simple lock and no jemmy! My gang are at each other’s throats again, about who’s to blame; I bawl them out, I give them a proper carpeting, I didn’t care if anyone heard. Then I say: ‘Give up? Forget it!’ and I take a crowbar and proceed to smash in the door panels. That was loud, the sound echoed all over the yard, sometimes I stopped and thought, this isn’t going to end well. But nothing stirred.

  By now my merry men were long gone. Pressure dropping like a stone, storm imminent. I made a nice big hole, after all I needed to leave by it with a couple of suitcases, and I climbed in. It took me five minutes to unhook and pack a couple of hundredweight of salmon, and head off home. No sign of the others.

  The whole time I was wondering what to do with the suitcases. I didn’t want them at home. I end up stashing them two streets away on a building site. It was nice and quiet, fifteen below, the brickies would all be lounging at home with the missus.

  In bed at night with my blonde I’m thinking and thinking: what am I going to do with the stuff? A fence who doesn’t know me puts the frighteners on me and fobs me off with ten marks; the ones that do know me are all behind bars or in the Bahamas. Ach, I think, just risk it. I need money, what use is this rotten life? In the morning I check out the prices in the shops, then I go to my building site, pack a case with sixty pounds or so of the stuff, get into a nice suit, and totter off.

  So I walk into a delicatessen, ask to talk to the boss; he won’t even see me: no thanks, no interest. The next one has enough salmon to last him the whole year, and so it goes on, up and down the scale, a great product I’ve got, I don’t even need to open my little case.

  Finally, I think, you’re wasting your time with these small fry, think big. The department stores sell the stuff too. Right. Specials. Seasonal goods, bulk buyers, now we’re cooking with gas. What have you got with you? Let’s see. Very nice fish. Looks good. Let’s sample it, shall we?

  Takes a knife, hacks off a piece, tries it, looks at me. ‘Oh dear, sir, this has got frost damage.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say. ‘The fish has got frost damage? You must be joking.’

  ‘The fish has got frost damage. It’s all soft.’

  ‘Soft, you say?’ I ask. ‘Well, it’s reflected in the price.’

  ‘No,’ says the man, ‘you don’t get it. This is a write-off. Mr So-and-so, would you show the gentleman one of our salmon.’

  We wait, the fellow brings the salmon. ‘You see, it’s firm under the knife, whereas yours cuts up soft.’

  He starts sawing away; hello, I think, there’ll be nothing left.

  ‘Now let’s wait a moment longer,’ he says. ‘There’s still ice in your fish. Once that’s melted away, you’ll see how soft your fish is then, I tell you it’ll be like a pudding.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t wait just now,’ I say. ‘I need to go …’

  ‘You can go here,’ he says. ‘Use the staff toilets. I just want to save you from losses.’

  ‘You do,’ I say. ‘I have the utmost belief that you do, Mr Salesman. But if you knew there’s a price on my head of three thousand, then you’d understand I can’t be all that patient.’

  And so saying, I pull my friend halfway out of my pocket, and look at him. He turns pale, and all the other fellows look at me too, but none of them does a thing.

  I walk out backwards, saying: ‘Hang onto that fish, Mr Salesman, I think it is a bit soft. Let me make you a present of it for your bravery for wanting to get one over on me.’

  And with that I’m outside, and down the steps and across the yard, and on the pavem
ent. I take a carriage and then a car, and then I take a little ride out in the countryside, and in the evening I go back to my place, and as I pass the building site, I think: There’s my salmon! When the builders see that in the springtime, they’ll think someone started a maggot farm.

  The next morning, it’s just getting light, and I’m thinking I’m hearing some whispering. My door had a translucent glass panel, and the corridor behind it was in light, so I had a good view of a couple of heads with pork pie hats. So they’re onto you, I think. Well, the door’s locked, I think, and by the time you’re inside, I’ll be into my trousers and out the window.

  I’m just wondering whether to wake my little bird first, when I see the handle turn. You turn away, I think to myself, you can turn that for a long time when – words fail me – the door opens. Did I forget to lock it? I tell you, in those days my head was all over the place.

  So the two coppers are in the room, with their little friends out. One of them – the copper, not the friend – even looked familiar.

  ‘You’re up early, gents,’ I say. ‘Don’t frighten my little bird, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘No tricks,’ they say. ‘We know you. One move, and we’ll shoot you full of holes. We’re not going to stand there and let you shoot us.’

  ‘Peace,’ I say. ‘You’re talking to a naked man. Now be nice and let the girl out, she’s nothing to do with anything.’

  She was lying beside me trembling and teeth chattering.

  ‘You get up,’ he said to me. ‘Stand in the middle of the room. Fräulein, get out of here.’

  The little one goes, not even dressed, things over her arm, in her slip. She was so afraid it was funny.

  ‘You surely won’t mind me getting dressed, Inspector,’ I say.

  ‘Stay where you are. If you try anything, I’d love to let you have it, you know because of whom.’

  I knew they were thinking of the cop I’d shot. One of them handed me my things, one at a time. Once he’d checked the garment over, he tossed it to me. There was nothing I could do, his buddy kept his pistol in my face, while my own was on the bedside table, under the bowl.