by Hans Fallada
‘Doll!’ he cried, seizing his hand, and his entire body seemed to be shaking with excitement. ‘Doll! You’ve finally come!’
Completely overwhelmed, Doll was tugged from the anteroom into the blue-and-white salon, while Mrs. Doll followed on silently behind. ‘Doll! So you’re not dead after all! You’ve no idea how worried we’ve been about you!’
And Doll, his hand clasped between the large, soft, moist hands of the other man, could think of nothing to say apart from the name that he had heard for the first time an hour and a half previously: ‘Granzow! Yes, here we are, Granzow!’
They looked at each other with tears in their eyes. It was like a reunion of old friends. And there was nothing fake about these tears. They were overcome by emotion, and the memory of the past twelve years, spent in exile or in servitude, swept through them again. They were both survivors of a catastrophe, after all. Both felt the other’s joy at seeing each other and getting acquainted. Under normal circumstances they would have got to know each other a long time ago.
Doll felt rather more conscience-stricken than Granzow, who did at least know Doll’s books, and he was filled with a faint sense of guilt. As in: I hope Völger never tells him that I hadn’t even heard of him. But this sense of guilt was quickly dissipated. Granzow was plainly quite uninterested in himself. He only wanted to hear about the Dolls, about what had happened to them in the last few years, where and how they had lived, where they were living now, and how they were doing. All Doll could see in the eyes of Granzow, who was listening attentively to every word he said, was joy, kindly joy. And what am I, when all is said and done? A minor novelist, who had given up on himself a long time ago and gone into hopeless decline. But I can’t let him see that, now I need to pull myself together again …
As these thoughts were going through Doll’s head, the three of them were already comfortably installed on the curved blue-velvet sofa around the big table. Lying on the table were packs of Granzow’s cigarettes, to which the Dolls were free to help themselves. Coffee had also been ordered and brought in — not coffee substitute, but the real thing, even if it was a little weak: ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Doll. Our canteen is not quite up to scratch yet. But that will soon change, things are getting better now …’
The ‘now’ almost sounded like a reference to Doll being found again, as though this moment marked the beginning of a new era — which in the present context could hardly be the intended meaning.
The conversation now took a quieter turn. The two Dolls did most of the talking, describing their experiences over the preceding months. It was very different from their meeting with Völger; here, Alma spoke, too, with no thought of demurely holding back. Which was only right and proper, for while Völger had taken no notice of Mrs. Doll apart from an initial surprised look, Granzow was visibly charmed by the vivacious young woman. He divided his attention equally between her and Doll himself, his expression by turns smiling or solicitous.
Granzow knew how to ask the right questions — and he was a great listener. What happened with Völger couldn’t possibly happen here — that both parties couldn’t wait to talk about their own sufferings. Granzow seemed to feel no need to talk about himself; he was, as the expression goes, all ears. He nodded eagerly when they talked about their decision to leave the small town for good. He shook his head with a worried look when he heard about the state in which they had found their Berlin apartment. He slapped the table with his hand when Doll was telling the tale of the tyrannical official at the housing office. In short, he appeared to take a lively interest in every phase of the Dolls’ recent life, and they had the impression that he was not just listening for the sake of it — in one ear and out the other — but that he was already drawing conclusions and reaching decisions even as he listened …
And they were correct in their impression, because, during a lull in the conversation, Granzow said: ‘I think I’ve got the picture, and I know what needs to happen next.’ They looked at him expectantly. He went on: ‘First, you need to get a decent apartment, ideally in an area that has not been too badly damaged. Secondly, we need to sort out a truck and trailer to fetch your things from the small town. And thirdly, you need to be issued with ration cards, preferably the No.1 card, but failing that, the No.2.’
He smiled in an affectionately fatherly way when he saw their astonished, incredulous expressions. They had only wanted to get things off their chest, after all; they were quite prepared to shift for themselves. All they wanted was a bit of sympathy, a bit of encouragement. And now it looked as if they were about to get something like real, practical help.
‘Yes,’ continued Granzow, still smiling, ‘we can sort all that out. I’ll just go and make some inquiries …’ And the big, heavy man stood up, hurried from the room, and left the two of them alone.
They looked at each other, and their faces had brightened. ‘It’s not possible’, said Doll. ‘And yet it is so. Someone’s really going to help us again!’
And she replied: ‘I’ve always liked my apartment, even though it’s been wrecked — but if we can get a place of our own, just for us …’
Doll said: ‘It was that simple: we just needed to talk to this one man. And we were pretty much on our last legs, Alma!’
He felt a kind of trembling in his limbs, and she too was sitting quite still, thinking back on the journey that had led them here, to the blue-and-white salon. They had got through the bad times; now things were looking up again. At that moment it did not occur to Doll to think that maybe it wasn’t that easy, that it would take more than having a place to live, food to eat, and their old things around them. He forgot now that there had been a war on, the time of suffering before that, that he was a burnt-out case, an empty shell devoid of content … That even the helpful Granzow could not give him this content, that he would have to create it for himself, finding a faith again, not only in himself, but more especially in his fellow Germans, in the entire world, in the meaning of work and perseverance, a firm belief in a bright future for mankind: he forgot that he had none of this in him.
Right now, all this was far from his thoughts. Instead he said, as he freed himself from her embrace: ‘Now we have been given a chance, and God knows we’ll make the most of it! We mustn’t let Granzow down and make him regret it!’
‘Definitely not’, she agreed.
Granzow returned with a smile on his face. ‘That’s all arranged!’ he said. ‘The best thing would be to come by again the day after tomorrow, then I can tell you more. Would one o’clock, the day after tomorrow, suit you? Good, then let’s say Thursday at one o’clock here!’
He looked at them both, smiling benignly, like a father who is well pleased with his children. The thought flashed through Doll’s mind that Granzow could hardly be any older than him, and yet he felt so young, so boyish and immature by comparison. ‘And there’s one thing more I must ask you, Doll’, continued Granzow after a pause. ‘But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. So: how are you getting on with your work? You understand that we’re all waiting for it … Have you written anything recently? Or have you got plans for a new work?’
‘Well’, said Doll hesitantly, ‘The thing is—’
And Granzow cut in quickly: ‘No, really, Doll, if you’d rather not talk about your plans … I’m not asking just to be nosy.’
‘Oh, I understand’, replied Doll, speaking more quickly. ‘And it’s not that I’m reluctant to talk about it. It’s just that I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, Granzow. The fact is, I don’t actually have any plans. It’s true that in the last six months before the surrender, I started to write down my memories of the Nazis …’
‘That’s great!’ cried Granzow.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think it is great. Nothing really terrible happened to me, you see, and to note down in such detail all the little pinpricks that came my way … The book might have been of
some interest, perhaps, because it shows how a person can be driven to the brink of suicide just by pinpricks …’ Thus far, Doll had been speaking hesitantly, almost reluctantly. But now he went on more quickly: ‘But it’s all so long ago. Since then the war has ended, and so much has happened to me that my hatred for the Nazis has gone completely, and been replaced by a general hatred of mankind. For me, the Nazis have ceased to exist …’
‘No, no!’ protested Granzow. ‘On the contrary, Mr. Doll, I think those Nazi gentlemen are still very much alive. There are times when I am acutely aware of that.’
‘Well, yes, perhaps the odd one here and there, who will never learn and never change.’ Granzow shook his head vigorously. ‘But’, Doll went on, ‘be that as it may, the book is past history for me.’ And when the other gestured as if to plead with him: ‘I can’t even bring myself to take a look at it or type it up — not for now anyway …’
He fell silent and looked at Granzow, who replied quickly: ‘Look, my dear Doll, nobody is going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. All in good time. And what about your own plans for the future?’
‘Nothing!’ said Doll, feeling guilty. ‘I have thought about writing novels sometimes, and about particular themes. But none of it seemed of any consequence. After everything fell apart — including me — I’ve always had this feeling that I need to start all over again, and do things differently.’ He was speaking more quickly now, only repeating what he had said to the publishing editor Völger an hour and a half previously. ‘No’, he said in conclusion, ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Granzow, at our very first meeting. Maybe my appetite for work will come back again, once my outward circumstances have improved a little. I need a certain inner calm in order to produce anything, as well as peace and quiet in my outward life.’
‘Of course!’ agreed Granzow. They carried on talking for a few minutes, but not about Doll’s work. The jovial mood of first acquaintance returned once more. Then they took their leave of each other, with the promise to reconvene at one o’clock in two days’ time.
But as they were leaving the building, a chauffeur in grey uniform inquired: ‘Mr. Granzow has asked me to drive you home. Where would you like me to take you?’
More kindness and courtesy, more indulgence! But more of an inward obligation, therefore, not to disappoint so much good faith.
For a while they sat in silence in the back of the car behind the driver, overwhelmed by happiness. Then the woman nudged her husband gently. ‘You know—!’ she whispered.
To which he replied: ‘Yes, what then?’
‘My dear’, she said, ‘I’m so happy I’m going to die! To think that someone is helping us out again! I want to shout — shout for joy!’ And she babbled on like a spoilt child: ‘And now you must be really nice to your little Alma! Now you must give her a lovely long kiss! A thousand kisses! Otherwise I’ll scream!’
‘The chauffeur!’ he reminded her, and yet was happy to oblige her anyway.
‘Chauffeur very old man!’ she babbled. ‘Chauffeur only drive car! Chauffeur see nothing! You young man, you give little Alma thousand kisses, otherwise I’ll scream!’
And so the Dolls exchanged a long, lingering kiss … It was so long since they had sat in a car that it didn’t even occur to them that a chauffeur has a rear-view mirror, in which he can see everything that’s going on in the back of the car. Just like children, they thought that nobody was looking.
The chauffeur was not a discreet man, but he was a genuine Berliner. ‘And do you know what, Mr. Granzow’, he said, as he was driving his employer home that evening and had finished telling the tale, ‘do you know what, they didn’t just give each other a little peck, like an old married couple — they were all over each other, like a pair of young things. And as for him, he’s getting on a bit, he must be our sort of age, Mr. Granzow. But he’s all right, he is, and if he writes books the same way he kisses, then I might take up reading yet, Mr. Granzow!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Restored to health
In a northern suburb of Berlin, a man is sitting by the window of a small room. It is high summer, July; to be precise, it is the fifth of July in the year 1946. Although it is only around nine in the morning, the air has lost the dewy freshness of the night. It is hot, and it is going to get a lot hotter still today, unless a thunderstorm cools things down a bit.
But for now the sky does not look as if a storm is brewing. It is radiant with sunshine, completely cloudless, and not so much blue as a dull, whitish silver with just a hint of blueness. Whenever the man looks up from his writing and gazes out of the window (which he does not infrequently; he appears to be not all that absorbed by his labours), he finds himself squinting a little to shield his eyes against the glare of the summer sky. But then beneath this sky shimmering with heat he sees something that gladdens the heart, even in a suburb of Berlin: green treetops, the gables of houses, and red roofs, but not a single ruin. There’s not so much as a freshly repaired roof to be seen, and even the windows of the houses appear to be all intact. A real sight for sore eyes in this city of ruins!
The writer looks up frequently from his work. He sits there, pen in hand, poised to begin writing again. But first he listens out for the voices down in the yard. The voices he hears are invariably women’s voices, and almost always those of young women, and they all speak in the easy, rather throwaway manner of native Berliners. More than once, somebody says: ‘It’s too ‘ot indoors by ‘alf today!’ or: ‘I’ll tell you what that’s all about, so I will!’
But the man doesn’t smile at this, and he doesn’t feel the slightest bit superior when he hears this kind of rough, ‘uneducated’ talk. He has learned that he has no reason to feel superior to anything or anyone.
Although the voices sound young, and although the man only needs to stand up and step over to the window to get a good view of the women as they speak, he doesn’t do so. He knows that some of these girls and women are very pretty, and they are sunning themselves out there in the most casual state of undress, but he is not curious; instead he feels old, very old, and tired. During the last year, his hair has gone very grey; but given how old he feels, it ought to be snowy-white.
As he writes, the man frequently hears another sound apart from the chattering of the women. He lays the pen down and listens, straining hard to hear. It’s a very strange sound that comes to his ears, a cross between the cooing of a dove and the fluting of a slightly out-of-tune blackbird. This strange sound, which he could not identify at all during the first few weeks of his stay here, is made by a large dog, half Doberman and half Alsatian. This creature was probably driven out of its mind by all the gunfire and the flames and the crazy commotion during the final assault on Berlin, and is now chained up somewhere down there beneath the green treetops, looked after by a halfwit who lives in this building at No.10 Elsastrasse. In the evening, Hermann — that’s what everyone in the house calls her, though her real name is Hermine — lets the dog loose, and the creature then guards No.10 Elsastrasse through the night; and woe to the stranger who dares to climb over the fence! The dog would tear him apart without a moment’s hesitation: it is a mad dog, and nothing could hold him back, not even his keeper Hermann.
The strange thing is that this dog — called ‘Mucki’, a name conferred on him in happier times that no longer suits him at all — can bark at night, but during the day, when he is chained up, he can only flute and coo like a bird. He just didn’t have a good war. Wounded inside, he cries out in pain, is capable of murder, and is no use for anything. The man sometimes wonders, when he hears this strange sound, how many humans are in much the same place as this Mucki.
Yes, the man finds all kinds of reasons for looking up from his work and taking a break for a few minutes from the concentrated effort of writing in his scratchy hand. From time to time, he looks across at a loudly ticking wall clock to check the time and see if it is
still too soon for him to stand up and tidy his papers away. This wall clock with its faded blue face and brass-coloured pendulum is the only item of furnishing in the small, cramped room that goes beyond the bare essentials. A table, a chair, a bed, a narrow wall closet, and an ancient, completely faded velvet armchair constitute the sum total of the room’s furnishings.
Except — there is one object that should not be forgotten, even though it is generally tucked away out of sight. It is a black velvet cushion, decorated with a kind of painted scene. The scene depicts a castle with three turrets, lilac-coloured roofs, and lots of windows, which are red at the bottom and yellow at the top, while the walls of the castle are formed by the unpainted black velvet. One turret has a white flag on top of a long pole, the second has a cross, also in white, and the third just has a kind of very long white lance. Also in the picture are trees with white trunks and green leaves in many shades; rocky crags in pink, lilac, and flame-red; and dotted about here and there, for no apparent reason, are white railings. Hanging over the whole scene is a circular, yellow orb, which might equally well be the moon or the sun.
The man loathes this cushion with a fierce hatred. He curses it just because it has survived this war undamaged in all its bovine ghastliness, while so much of beauty has been destroyed. He hides the cushion at the bottom of his bed or in the little wall closet, just so that he doesn’t have to look at it all the time. But the cleaning lady keeps on finding it, and helpfully pats it out flat again on the faded velvet armchair, clearly delighting in this choice work of art. The man could ask the cleaning lady to leave the cushion where he has hidden it, but he refrains from doing so. He never says a word to this woman, even though she always announces in the same friendly manner, when she has finished cleaning the room: ‘Now you can get back to your work!’ or: ‘Now you can have a cup of coffee.’
