Tales from the Underworld

by Hans Fallada

  He trotted off, muttering to himself. Let him mutter, I’d had it up to here. Wrede was the big man, he let them all drink on his tab, and they did, as if they believed he could pay for them all out of his piddling Inflation-era wages. And they crawled to him, just as he crawled to the lieutenant, whose ear he had. I did guard duty at night, and come the end of the month my wage wasn’t enough for new soles for my shoes. But now I had some money, and if Wrede cut up rough with me tonight, then I was out of here, I’d go someplace else, and let them see how they could keep the hungry people of Stettin out of their potatoes.

  Not that I could do anything about it myself either. Two potato clamps open, yes, why not. They lay there in the dark like endlessly long, slightly darker animals, a regiment of long earthworks, each of them two hundred and fifty yards long, five feet high, about thirty of them, twenty-eight thousand hundredweight of potatoes packed in with straw and earth to protect them from the cold. Well, plenty of people walked the ten miles from Stettin with their sacks and their handcarts to get potatoes cheap in these dear times. How was anyone going to catch them? The bit of field where the clamps were abutted the wood on two sides. It was out of the wood that they came. And then they scrabbled at the clamps’ ends like moles. If you walked down the long sides, they played hide and seek with you. Usually you didn’t see them, or at most a couple of fleeting shadows.

  But the next morning, when the lieutenant came, he could see where they’d been all right. Because here was one open clamp and there another. And the worst of it wasn’t the three or four hundredweight that had been taken, it was that frost could penetrate the open clamps. The frozen potatoes mouldered away, and the mould spread and ate its way right through the whole clamp, and in the end, come spring, you were left with a stinking heap of mould that was good for compost and nothing much else.

  Could I do anything about it? No, I could not. I walked up and down, I was a conscientious worker, and in the end I was shouted at.

  I felt depressed that night on guard, furious with Wrede, the gamekeeper, the lieutenant. But I wasn’t quite as hopelessly sad as I was sometimes, there was a bit of gristle in my rage. I had half a million marks in my pocket, that was a bit of freedom. While I walked and from time to time flashed the bull’s-eye, I thought about what I might do with the money. And when I had got through it, I would get more. I would find it lying in a railway compartment, and buy myself more stuff. And in the end, I would get myself enough to fit out my own flat.

  Once I’d done that, it was past midnight. I got under the trees in the lee of the wind, unpacked my sandwiches and began to eat. Now the scene with Wrede was bugging me again. It was possible he’d shot at me on purpose, but most likely he was just drunk, and hadn’t been sure about the safety catch. I shouldn’t have said that stuff to the gamekeeper. I wondered what I could say to get out of it tomorrow, when Wrede asked, because the gamekeeper was certain to blab …

  I lost my train of thought because I heard a sound. I stood perfectly still and now I could hear it clearly, repeated and dull: someone was going at the frozen clamp with a mattock. It was maybe six or seven clamps away from me, at the head end facing the open field, a crazy place to start, seeing as if you tried at the woods end, you could always duck under the trees if I happened to come looking.

  I took a decent pull of the pint of corn brandy I got every night, took the pistol with the catch off in one hand and the bull’s-eye lantern in the other, and set off. The hacking was very obvious. I was making good headway, and not making too much noise either, of course you can’t get across frozen plough land like parquet. The banging was ever closer. I was pretty close to it now, just past one more clamp, and the fellow was ten feet away. I would dazzle him with the lantern.

  I listen out for the next hack. But there’s silence. I think it’s just time feeling slow, in a moment he’ll get going again. But he doesn’t. Has he heard me coming?

  I make my move. I take three paces round the clamp and switch the lantern on. Nothing! Am I drunk? No sign of anything. Someone’s just been hacking away for the past five minutes at least, and the clamp is perfectly intact. What’s going on? No sign. It was here – but what?

  More banging. At the other end of the clamp this time, two hundred yards away, the head end, into the woods. I’m not drunk, am I? Some funny business here. Ach, sod it, I’ll go home. Something stinks. After all it’s my own bones I’m risking, no thanks, not me.

  And yet I follow the clamp very slowly to the other end and the trees. Knocking, then louder knocking, closer and clearer; I stop every twenty paces or so and listen out. Then I notice my heart beating as well. I can still turn back, there’s another fifty yards to go. The knocking. The bloody dark. Oh Jesus, I’m scared. Still knocking. Ten yards.

  Silence. I listen. Silence. Then I slowly take the last few steps, someone has been chopping at the clamp for the last ten minutes, and there’s nothing whatsoever to see. The clamp is all bright and clean and intact.

  It was more instinct than a sound: I drop the lantern and leap aside as far as I can. The shot thunders, echoes back from the woods. I run. I recognize the report. I’m running for my life. Another bang. It’s mad to run the length of the clamp, I’m an easy target. I throw myself against one of the walls. Here he comes running, I can see his shadow advancing, another shot, the muzzle flash lights his face, he shoots again. He runs past me, thinks I’m still ahead of him.

  I press myself against the wall of the clamp, he hasn’t seen me, he shoots once more, thirty yards away from me. Then silence returns.

  I don’t move, I feel frozen, suddenly I have the fear I haven’t had all night. Again I see the muzzle flash light up his pale, contorted face, contorted by drink, by hatred. But it’s not really him I’m frightened of, it’s this life, this perspectiveless dirty muddle that suddenly scares me. These nocturnal walks looking for poor petty thieves, these mad drinking bouts, these stupid shooting games, these loud-mouthed superiors, the hustle for a few banknotes that, no sooner are you holding them in your hand than they’re worthless – no, I can’t be doing with any more of any of that.

  The footsteps return. The first moment will decide everything. I peel away from the shade, I say: ‘Good morning, Herr Wrede!’ and step right up to him. He makes a movement, but I quickly say: ‘That was you shooting, wasn’t it? Were there thieves? Did you hit any?’

  He doesn’t say anything. I try again. ‘I want to get away from here, Wrede. You’ve got to help me. I want to leave right away. I’ve had it here. Won’t you help me?’

  He says: ‘Let’s go back.’ He clears his throat. We set off.

  I say: ‘Will you help me?’

  For a while he doesn’t say anything, then he says: ‘What do you think you would do?’

  ‘I’d go to a friend. I can stay with him till I find a new job.’

  ‘And what would you tell the lieutenant?’

  ‘What would I say? I’ve gone, I wouldn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll write you a testimonial about your time here.’

  ‘Thanks, Wrede,’ I say.

  ‘You sure you won’t say anything?’ he asks after another pause. ‘Not to anyone?’

  ‘Why would I?’ I say. ‘If you’ll write me a letter.’

  ‘Word of honour?’

  ‘Word of honour,’ I say. His hand feels for mine, we shake on it.

  We’re back at the farm. ‘Get packed up,’ he says. ‘I’ll harness up the gig with Senna. I’ll run you down myself.’

  ‘Thanks, Wrede,’ I say again.

  Finally, he’s standing by the train, I have my head out of the window. He says: ‘I wish you all the best. You’ll land a new job.’ He looks at the stationmaster with the red cap. ‘I won’t give you any more money. You’ve got enough. You’d only get into trouble otherwise.’ He is perfectly serious.

  Suddenly I ask him: ‘Hey, Wrede, how did you do that with the potato clamps, you chopped at them, but they
looked perfectly intact?’

  He doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I hit them with the flat of a plank,’ he says. ‘Just hit them. You know?’

  ‘God, I’m thick!’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  The train pulls out. He’s standing on the platform, watching me go. Once, briefly, he waves. Then I don’t see him any more. I never saw him again, and wonder sometimes what became of him. He was a short, stout guy, he looked just like a dim little farmer.

  The Open Door

  (1932)

  Lini and Max Johannsen got married in early December. He was an old bachelor – round about thirty-five – who had terrorized his farm for many years. He was not a gentle person, and marriage wasn’t his idea either. She was ten years younger, mild and blue-eyed, and so besotted with her Max that she had prevailed on him. In the end they had both said their ‘I do’s in front of the altar, and concluded the union that … etc. etc.

  The first differences emerged shortly before Christmas. He had pulled a suit out of the wardrobe, and in the process knocked down one of her dresses. She had scolded him. Whereupon he had thrown all her dresses out of the wardrobe. ‘Just because we’re married, doesn’t mean we share a wardrobe.’

  She thought he was terribly mean. And that was just the beginning.

  Christmas wasn’t Max Johannsen’s thing at all. He sat around at home, not able to yell at anyone or do anything. He had to keep eating and drinking and smoking, and had his wife in his sights all day long. He noticed she went into his room and said something to him. She left the door open, he got up and shut it. They spoke. She left. The door was open. He closed it. He noticed.

  As established, he was unoccupied. If it hadn’t been Christmas, maybe nothing would have happened. As it was, he said: ‘Lini, shut the door, will you.’

  He said: ‘The door’s open, Lini.’

  He asked her: ‘Please will you shut the door after you, Lini.’

  He reckoned: ‘You must have had sacks outside your door at home.’

  She was in a wonderful mood. She burst into his room, eager to tell him something. He looked from his room across the drawing room and the yard to her kitchen. He said: ‘The door’s open again, Lini.’

  She said: ‘Oh, sorry!’ and rushed back to her turkey. Of course the door stood ajar.

  At heart, Max Johannsen was a patient soul: you can’t work with animals and not be patient. The second phase of his campaign regarding doors was to warn Lini: ‘Lini, you must close the door after you.’

  ‘Lini, there’ll be trouble if you don’t close the door.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, you’ve left the bloody door open again!’

  Lini said: ‘Sorry,’ and then either shut the door, or forgot to.

  On Christmas Eve, Johannsen said threateningly: ‘Lini, if you don’t start shutting a few doors around here, I’ll have to teach you to, and you won’t like that.’

  ‘But I do shut the doors, Max,’ she said in puzzlement, ‘almost always.’ Went out, and left it open.

  That night Johannsen woke up. There was a cold draught around his shoulders, and the door was open. Quietly he called out: ‘Lini?’ but Lini was gone. Johannsen stood up, shivering, and closed the door. He lay there waiting. Lini came back to bed. Johannsen felt the chill round his shoulders again. He waited a while, then got up and shut the door.

  The next morning at five he had a meeting with Stachoviak in the cowshed. Stachoviak was a young fellow from Galicia, eighteen or nineteen, no oil painting. A clink of silver, Stachoviak grinned.

  At six, Frau Johannsen got up. She emerged from her bedroom and got a shock. There was a person standing there. The person grinned, said ‘Good morning, Madka,’ and then he closed the bedroom door. Frau Johannsen went into the kitchen. Stachoviak went into the kitchen. She had left the door open, he closed it. Frau Johannsen said something hasty and agitated to Stachoviak, but maybe his German wasn’t good enough. He laughed. Frau Johannsen said very loudly: ‘Out! Get out, Stachoviak!’ and pointed to the kitchen door. Stachoviak went over to the door, tried the handle and nodded approvingly: the door was closed.

  Lini gets an idea, she plunges out into the yard, and calls her husband. Stachoviak dashes after her, closing the doors. Herr Johannsen has ridden out into the fields.

  Max is back for lunch. He sits at one end of the table, his wife at the other. In between are the inspector and his assistant, the steward and the housekeeper-cook. Behind Frau Johannsen stands Stachoviak. Frau Johannsen notices the salt is missing. She dashes into the kitchen, shutting the doors. Stachoviak dashes after her.

  The assistant gets a laughing fit, Johannsen asks tetchily: ‘Something the matter, Herr Kaliebe?’ Frau Johannsen returns more slowly bearing salt, Stachoviak in her wake. No one speaks at lunch.

  The couple’s conversation afterwards is short. Max is adamant. ‘Asking you politely didn’t produce the required effect, so we have to do it this way.’

  ‘I think it’s cruel.’

  ‘Maybe, but so long as it helps.’

  ‘How long is it going to go on for?’

  ‘Till I’m convinced it’s done the trick.’

  ‘All right. But you’ll see …’

  What he is to see is not spelled out. At any rate, behind the door stands Stachoviak.

  Then the farmyard witnesses the spectacle as well: wherever Frau Johannsen shows up, Stachoviak is in attendance. Lini is grim, restrained, quiet, she doesn’t seem to be aware of the presence of the cowhand. The farm is all too aware of him. She needs to see to her hens. Stachoviak sees with her. She sees to the calves. Stachoviak too. Oh dear, Wandlitz is a bit primitive … in the yard, between stable and barn are two green-painted hutments with little heart-shaped cut-outs in their doors, Frau Johannsen is only human. Well, Stachoviak stands guard, even though this is one door she certainly remembers to close.

  It’s evening. It’s night. It’s morning. A second morning with Stachoviak. The debate between the couple is very lively today, and there is a new development: Frau Johannsen gives Stachoviak a slap! And how! Whereupon Johannsen calls the youth into his office. More silver changes hands … and the door-closer is fortified against further slaps.

  The crisis is on the third day. Frau Johannsen is in the farmyard, a coach comes up the drive, visitors! Frau Johannsen dashes along, Stachoviak dashes after. It’s Frau Bendler from the neighbouring estate of Varnkewitz … It’s so embarrassing, they walk into the house together, with Stachoviak following after. As they cross the gravel and the drawing room, Lini keeps making sounds and gestures, as though shooing away a hen, but Stachoviak will not be shooed away. What must Frau Bendler think!

  Well, the women have a long chat together. When the maid comes in with a tray of refreshments, they see Stachu politely closing the door after her. Well, that opens her heart. The women laugh and cry, they whisper and then they laugh again: they are closeted together for a long time. Finally Johannsen joins them, and accepts an invitation to see in the New Year with the Bendlers … It’s a great honour, and seems to have done him some good … He hums and whistles to himself all evening, and the next morning, Stachoviak is back with his oxen.

  So it’s too bad that the young wife can’t make it on New Year’s Eve! It’s their first party together, and she can’t come! She’s sick. No, she isn’t upset, she’s very nice about it: she insists that he go on his own. Finally he goes.

  Ah, New Year’s Eve at Varnkewitz is something else! What a dinner! The charming ladies! The wines! The brandies! The cigars! And everyone is so nice to him. They drink his health. They keep refilling his glass. They need to comfort him, newly married and already a grass-widower … Such a delightful lady, too! Well, drink, brother, drink!

  Did Johannsen even make it to the midnight hour? He no longer knows. There’s only one thing he remembers for sure: Wacker came driving up in his dog cart, Wacker his good old coachman, Wacker* like his name. Johannsen tries to get in, but the steps on those dog carts are deuce
d steep, and he doesn’t make it. He laughs and takes a little run-up, he still doesn’t make it. The other gentlemen laugh with him. Finally two take him under the arms. They heave him up. He’s up and in, but … no sooner in than out again, he passes through it, like a cannon ball.

  The gentlemen are covered in confusion … is he hurt? They help him up again, swing him up, Oh Lord, there’s the handle, I’ve got to hold on. Out again! No, this can’t be. Another wagon drives up, this one laden with straw. They lay him down on it gently, and he’s asleep right away. They could harness a pair of cows to it and he wouldn’t notice. But they’re not like that, they take oxen.

  It’s night when Johannsen wakes up, feeling very ill. And with the clear-sightedness that comes with a royal hangover, he knows: they have made a fool of him, it wasn’t for nothing that they kept toasting him … and propelling him through his dog cart. The only thing they meant was that he had a charming wife. Such a gentle little creature, and he such a barbarian and uncouth …

  He lies there for a while, it’s perfectly dark. Is this his bed? … He’s not undressed … There’s someone snoring … Oh my God, he feels so ill!

  ‘Lini?’ he asks softly. Silence.

  ‘Lini?’ this time a little louder.

  ‘Lini, darling?’ he feels in her direction.

  He feels stubble. A rough voice asks: ‘Panje?’

  It gets light. Stachoviak is leaning over him. ‘Do you want a drink, Panje?’

  He is with Stachu, in Stachu’s bed.

  What else is left to say? Max Johannsen went quietly and gently across the farmyard to his house. He sits down in his room, and has a long think. He’s left alone, because it was New Year’s Day, then Lini came into the room.

  He’s had time to think. Time for him to wish her a Happy New Year, and he meant ‘new’, rather more than most conventional well-wishers.

  War Monument or Urinal?

  (1932)

  Report from a German Provincial Town in 1931