by Hans Fallada
Doll was getting more and more angry as he looked at the man, his impassive silence driving him to distraction. The time before, he had not succeeded in getting any reaction out of him, any sign of human feeling, and it was just the same this time.
‘And another thing’, Doll went on, collecting himself again, ‘hasn’t it occurred to you how much damage you have done to whatever might be left of Germany’s reputation! If I have to go cap in hand to the town commandant because I’ve run out of food again for the babies, the tuberculosis patients and the seriously ill, or because I can’t allocate any beds for the hospital, do you know what they’ll say to me? “Mayor must go find himself! Germans still have everything, only hidden! All Germans lie and deceive. Mayor, go find!” And do you know what? The Russians are right! How are they supposed not to think that, when they find something like they did at your place, you scumbag?! And now hundreds of people will carry on freezing, because you didn’t speak up at the right time, you scumbag!’
It was at this point that the man who had been hauled before him and berated opened his mouth for the first and only time, and what came out was a classic piece of National Socialist thinking, which perfectly exemplified the mindset of Party members: ‘I would have told the mayor about my hiding place if he had let me keep a share of the stuff, however small …’
Mayor Doll stood there motionless for a while, shocked by this shameless display of heartless egoism, which was not in the least bit troubled by the sufferings of others, just as long as it didn’t have to suffer itself. And he was reminded of a conversation he had had recently with an adjutant in the town commandant’s office. The adjutant had told him how the ordinary rank-and-file soldiers in the Red Army had pictured the German people living much like their own people: frequently enduring abject misery because of the war, facing starvation … That was the only way they could explain the way the Germans had so ruthlessly despoiled the Russian homeland. But then, as their armies advanced, they had entered German territory and seen with their own eyes farming villages amply supplied and provisioned, the like of which simply didn’t exist any more back home, cowsheds bursting with well-fed cattle, and a rural population that was healthy and well nourished. And in the solid stone-built houses of these farming families they had found not only huge wireless sets, refrigerators, all the comforts of life, but also, in among these things, cheap, basic sewing machines from Moscow, brightly coloured scarves from the Ukraine, icons from Russian churches, all of it stolen and plundered: the rich man, who had plenty, had robbed the poor, who had nothing. And the soldiers of the Red Army were consumed with rage at these Germans, and felt utter contempt for a nation that had no shame, that could not control its greed, that wanted to grab up everything, possess everything for itself, without caring whether others perished in consequence.
Here was a perfect example of that nation, standing before his mayor. And they were exactly as described — in the end, it was all the same to them whether Russians or Germans perished. The very people whose Party principles put the good of the nation first did not have an ounce of fellow feeling in their bodies. They had an eye to the main chance in everything, and didn’t care if thousands perished as long as they got what they wanted. The man who was standing there now was just one of many. Doll told the police constable to take him away and bang him up in jail on bread and water; they’d find someone else to take his place at the dairy. He gave orders for him to be put to work carrying sacks all day long under strict supervision, and with any luck this creature who had betrayed his own people would soon be done for!
With that, the former beer wholesaler Zaches was led away. Doll never saw him again, and never found out what became of him. Shortly afterwards, Doll became seriously ill, the outbreak of his illness brought on, or at least hastened, by this whole episode.
The man had been led away, and the mayor was sitting alone in his office. He was sitting at his desk, his head resting on his hand. He could feel that the anger inside him had completely subsided, and he was filled with a deep, nameless despair. The anger had been easier to bear than this despair, which was devoid of any hope. He suddenly realised that in this despair his hatred, too, had gone. He struggled to recall all the things the Nazis had done to him: years of persecution, arrest, surveillance, threats, countless prohibitions. But it made no difference; he felt no more hatred for them. And he also realised that he hadn’t hated them for quite some time now. If he had come across as harsh and abrasive when carrying out these confiscations at the homes of Party members, it was only because he felt duty-bound to act like that. He was slightly shocked to realise that he wouldn’t have behaved any differently in the homes of non-Party members. He found them all equally contemptible. He couldn’t hate them any more, they were all just vicious little animals — which was exactly how the first Russian soldiers had looked upon him and his wife, and exactly how he now saw the Germans himself — all Germans.
But he was one of those Germans, he was born a German — a word that had now become a term of abuse throughout the world. He was one of them, and there was nothing that made him any better than all the others. It was an old saying, but no less true for that: if you fly with the crows, you’ll get shot with the crows. He too had eaten of the bread stolen from nations they had plundered and looted: now it had come back to haunt him! Oh yes, it all made perfect sense: he couldn’t hate them any more, for the very good reason that he was one of them. All that was left to him was a feeling of helpless contempt — contempt for himself as much as for anyone else.
What was it they had said to him in the town commandant’s office? All Germans lie and deceive. A sequence of chance events had led to his appointment as mayor of this small town, and as mayor the truth of the remark about lying and deceiving was borne in upon him every day. The memories came flooding back: once again he saw that woman, mother of two small children, who’d come to see him during his consultation hour. Her face was streaming with tears, she’d lost everything in the bombing of Berlin, and she didn’t have a bed, a cooking pot, or clothes to put on her children’s backs: ‘Have pity on me, Mr. Mayor, you can’t send me away again like this! I can’t go back to my children with nothing!’
The mayor had nothing either, but he went to see what he could find. He sought out Party comrades who had plenty and to spare, and he took from them to give to their ‘fellow German citizen’ — not an abundance, but a sufficiency. But the following day another woman stood before him in tears, the neighbour of the woman he had just provided for, likewise a mother of children, likewise living in abject poverty; and the woman who had just been given gifts and furnished with what she needed had stolen her neighbour’s few pieces of tattered laundry from the washing line during the night! Germans against Germans, every man for himself, and every woman, too, keeping up the fight against the whole world and everyone else.
The mayor also recalled the carter who was given the job of taking the belongings of a paralyzed old man to the old people’s home. But when he got there, anything worth keeping had been stolen from the cart, either by the carter himself or by passers-by, as he maintained. Germans against Germans …!
He also thought about the despicable doctor who, in order to settle some wretched private score from earlier times, certified a sick woman as healthy, and indeed fit for heavy work — the same doctor who, when medicines were in short supply, always had plenty for his friends, but never any for his enemies or strangers. He was happy to let them suffer — serve them right, the more the better! Germans against Germans!
He remembered how they stole horses from each others’ stables, and poultry, and the rabbits they had so painstakingly fattened up, how they broke into each others’ gardens and tore the vegetables out of the ground and the under-ripe fruit from the trees, breaking off the fruit-bearing branches in the process, which caused a lot of damage and did nobody any good. It was as if a herd of madmen had been let loose and were now just behaving as the
ir crazy instincts directed them. He also knew about their denunciations — often completely absurd accusations, so obviously false that they wouldn’t bear any kind of scrutiny, made out of pure malice, just to scare their neighbour and put the fear of God into him. Germans against Germans … !
So Doll sat there at his mayor’s desk, his head in his hands, feeling completely drained. It had been an illusion, the idea that the world was just waiting to help the German people out of the mire, out of this huge bomb crater into which the war had flung them all. And it had also been an illusion that he, Mayor Doll, should be seen as any different from his fellow Germans: just like all the rest of them, he was nothing but a vicious little animal. Someone you didn’t shake hands with, someone you looked straight through, like staring at a brick wall.
And they were right to hate and despise the German people, every last one of them. Doll had hated, too, after all — in private the old vet, Piglet Willem, and a good few others, but then more generally all the Nazis, every one of them. But his hatred, the small private one and the big general one, they had gone away, because he himself was just as hateful as the people he hated.
There was nothing left, Doll was drained and empty — and a profound apathy descended upon him. This apathy, which had been constantly lurking in the background in recent months, held at bay only temporarily because his duties as mayor had kept him so busy, now engulfed him completely. He looked over his desk, strewn with dozens of things that had to be dealt with as quickly as possible — but what did any of it matter any more? He was doomed, finished, he and all the rest of them! All effort was futile!
His secretary opened the door: ‘There’s someone from the town commandant’s office here — they want you to go and see the commandant straightaway, Mr. Mayor!’
‘All right’, he replied. ‘I’ll go straight there …’
But he didn’t go straight there. He stayed sitting at his desk for a good while yet; his secretary had to remind him about the commandant a couple of times. Not that he was thinking any definite thoughts, or that he decided, in his state of apathy, that this too was a pointless errand, just as all errands were pointless, since all errands, for a German, just led nowhere …
No, he simply sat there, thinking about nothing in particular. Had he wanted to describe what he felt like inside, he might have said that his head was filled with fog, a grey, opaque fog that nothing could penetrate — no gaze, no sound. And otherwise nothing …
Eventually — when his secretary reminded him again with some urgency — he stood up and went to the commandant’s office, just because he had been there a hundred times before. It was no worse, and no better, than anything else he could have done. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more — including Dr. Doll himself. He was wounded in his vital core, and had lost his instinct for survival.
Shortly after this, Mayor Doll fell seriously ill; now he was no longer mayor. His wife, who was also ill, went with him to the local district hospital.
CHAPTER FIVE
Arrival in Berlin
On 1 September of this pitiless year, 1945, Mr. and Mrs. Doll travelled to Berlin. They had lain in the local district hospital for nearly two months, and they were still far from well. But the worry that they might lose their apartment in Berlin altogether if they waited any longer had driven them from their hospital beds.
The train was supposed to leave at noon, but it had not been released until after dark; it was completely overcrowded, with its broken windows and dirty compartments. As they boarded the train and made a dash for the pitch-black compartments, all the passengers were in a foul mood, flying off the handle at the slightest provocation and viewing every rival for a seat as their personal enemy.
The Dolls had managed to bag two seats, where they sat squashed up by their seated neighbours and people standing in front of them. Boxes were shoved up against their legs, and rucksacks were dragged painfully across their faces. It was so dark that you couldn’t see a thing, but the hatred that everyone felt for everyone else seemed to manifest itself in the stench that hung about the compartment, despite the shattered windows. It smelled to high heaven in there, and it just got worse as more people boarded the train during the journey, squeezing into the already packed compartment and cursing anyone who already had a seat.
These later arrivals were mostly Berliners who had been foraging for mushrooms, who simply parked their baskets of mushrooms on the laps of the people in the seats, sullenly muttering something about taking them away later. But since the compartment was already overfull to start with, the baskets stayed where they were: Mrs. Doll had four on her lap; Doll had three.
But they made no protest, spoke not a word to their fellow passengers, and kept themselves to themselves. They still felt far too weak and ill to get involved in these sorts of arguments. It was only the thought of at least hanging on to their apartment that kept them going, and especially the husband: to him it seemed the last opportunity they had to begin a new life again.
Doll knew, of course, that he was clutching at straws with his hopes for the apartment, but he wanted to give fate this opportunity at least of saving them — as he sometimes said ironically to his wife, whose constant gallbladder attacks had made her quite despondent and easily influenced by her husband’s depressive moods. ‘We’re probably going to die soon anyway, but you can do it more discreetly and comfortably in the big city. They have gas, for one thing!’
If the others had too much luggage with them, perhaps the Dolls did not have quite enough. All they were carrying was a small weekend case, which contained a little bit of bread, a can of meat, and a quarter-pound of coffee beans wrapped in a twist of paper, plus two books and a few basic toiletries. Doll was wearing a lightweight summer suit, while Mrs. Doll had at least managed to borrow a pale summer coat from a friend before leaving. In his pocket, Doll had barely three hundred marks, which he had borrowed from an acquaintance; the only precious item they had with them was the young wife’s diamond ring.
The train halted for ages at every station, and when it was moving its progress was very slow. The Dolls could dimly see the fiery lines and dots shooting into the night sky from the chimney of the locomotive, which was burning brown coal. They had seen rather too much in the way of fireworks during the war to take any pleasure in the sight. The memories were still painful. But in the light of these dancing glow-worms, they could make out figures standing on the running boards, ducking down with their backs turned towards the dense shower of sparks. The contents of their rucksacks must have been very precious to justify burning and singeing their precious clothing, and hanging on precariously by one hand to the cold brass rail, at constant risk of falling off.
Most of the rucksacks probably held nothing more than a few potatoes, or a little bag of flour, or a few pounds of peas — enough food for a week, at most. But there they were, hanging on for dear life in the sparks and the cold, letting their clothes get singed with a kind of brutish resignation. They were doubtless all poor folk who used this mode of transport; there would be a wife and numerous children waiting somewhere for what these men were carrying. The black marketeers, who bartered items for more valuable commodities — butter, bacon, eggs — and who picked up potatoes and flour by the sackful, they didn’t risk their lives when they travelled; they recruited truck drivers in return for a share of the goods, and they didn’t have any starving children waiting at home …
But who was a black marketeer and who wasn’t? When the Dolls ate some of their bread and tinned meat in the total darkness of their compartment, some of the others smelled it through all the stench and began to pass pointed remarks about the sort of people who could still get hold of meat to eat. There was definitely something funny going on, and it needed to be looked into, in the cold light of day!
The Dolls said nothing, but quickly ate up what they had in their hands, and put the rest back in the little case before snugg
ling up more closely together. Mrs. Doll draped her thin, borrowed coat around them both, as the temperature was dropping fast. They put their arms around each other and held each other tightly. Doll rolled himself a cigarette from the last of his tobacco, and immediately someone piped up in a shrill voice: ‘That’s the third one he’s smoked! It’s like I always say: some people have it all, and the rest never get a thing, no matter what happens!’
The conversation ranged more widely over the racketeering and petty officialdom that were just a fact of life, and for the moment the Dolls were forgotten. They had a whispered conversation about their Berlin apartment; now that they were getting closer to their goal, and indeed had a goal to aim for again, the fact that they had heard nothing more about the apartment since March weighed heavily on their minds. There had been fierce fighting in the city since then, which had caused a whole lot more destruction, apparently — maybe their apartment didn’t even exist any more?
‘Wouldn’t that be just like it? All this travelling, half frozen to death, and when we get there, the apartment’s gone! I’d die laughing …!’
‘I have a feeling it’s all still there, just as we left it. And it won’t take much to get Petta’s room sorted out — there wasn’t a lot of damage.’
‘I can always count on you to look on the bright side!’
‘I’ve got lots of good friends in Berlin, you know! When my first husband was alive, we helped so many people — now they can do something for us in return! I’m pinning my hopes on Ben, in particular. Ben had an English mother, so he’s bound to be doing very well now. Ernst’ — the young woman’s first husband — ‘got him out of the concentration camp, so he’ll always owe me for that!’
‘Let’s hope so, Alma! Let’s hope for all kinds of good things — but not take anything for granted. The only thing we can be sure of is that we have each other, and that we will always be together! And that nothing can ever separate us. Nothing!’
