by Hans Fallada
And I go out into freedom again, into that fresh green sunny morning where an old man with a sack can gather green stuff along the roadside wherever he will. I am free again. If it had been a really serious matter, would the sergeant have put a bottle of schnaps into the cell with me?
So I pacify myself, and when any recollection of that scene in the night with Magda tries to sneak up on me, I firmly ward it off. Magda is my wife. In spite of all our differences lately, we’ve been together for so long, she will forgive me, she has already forgiven me. She understands that I was ill. But this warning example has sobered me. I’ll never drink again. Not a drop.
I jump up and pace about my cell. No, I want to be honest now, I don’t want to lie to myself any more: when I’m released from here, I shan’t be able to give up the drink immediately. I am terribly tortured by thirst already. It is like a voracious longing in my body, a greed that seems to want to kill me if it is not satisfied. My limbs tremble, one fit of sweating follows another, my stomach is in revolt.
Suddenly I remember that before I left the inn, I had paid for a whole bottle of kirsch, which had remained only half-emptied, on the table. I should have asked the sergeant to let me finish it. He would have allowed me, and then I would have had more alcohol in me, and I wouldn’t have had all this terrible trouble now!
Well then, I want to be honest with myself: I cannot entirely give up alcohol at once, but from now on I shall drink only very moderately, perhaps a mere half bottle a day, or only a third, I could even manage with a third already. Just now, one single little schnaps would make me happy, a tiny glass, barely a mouthful of schnaps, in the state I’m in at present.
When I am let out of here shortly, I’ll treat myself to a little glass in the village, just the one, only, and then I’ll go home on foot, and never drink again. I haven’t any more money on me, but I’ve got my blueish spring coat. I’ll leave it with the landlord as security. He’ll give me a bottle of schnaps on it, perhaps two, and then I’ll be provided for, for three or four days. Certainly for three days, anyway! And in three days I’ll have Magda around, I shall be very friendly and loving with her, I’ll get money from her again.… For a moment I shut my eyes: I have just thought of that five thousand marks I drew from the bank about this time yesterday. It must have been a heavy blow for the business. It might not be such a simple matter to pacify Magda … but I quickly assure myself, I can mortgage our house, it’s free of debt so far; I’m sure to raise five thousand marks on the house. Then Magda would be placated. And of course I’m not going to let Lobedanz get away with his robbery unpunished. I’ll go and see him today and he’ll have to give back my things and the silver and jewellery, at least. I’ll let him keep two thousand marks of the money. And if he won’t come to terms, I’ll prosecute him, and then good gentle hypocritical Lobedanz goes to prison instead of me.
So my thoughts run on. Despite occasional uneasy moments, they are on the whole optimistic. I’ll get by, all right. After all, I’m a respected citizen. They’ll take care not to treat me too harshly!
In between times I stare almost unconsciously at the inscriptions on the cell walls. Some are written in pencil, some are scratched in the whitewash with a nail. Mostly, a name is written above, and below are two dates—the date of entry and of release. I find it very reassuring that all these dates are so close together. According to the inscriptions the man who occupied this cell for the longest time was here for ten days. Another proof that they have no bad intentions towards me. Ten days—well, ten days are quite out of the question for me. With my hunger for alcohol, I’d never be able to bear it. But I, of course, I shall be released in a few minutes. And besides, what about breakfast? Prisoners have to have breakfast don’t they? Probably dry bread and water, but still breakfast. It is at least half-past nine now, to go by the sun, and nobody has brought me any breakfast. Of course, that’s another sign they don’t mean badly by me. They intend to let me out so quickly that they don’t want to waste a breakfast on me. The sergeant saves that much. I can buy myself breakfast outside! That’s as clear as day.
Completely reassured for the moment, I throw myself on to my straw mattress again, and try to go to sleep. I think of Elinor. I try to recall the sweetness of the moment when she gave me schnaps to drink out of her mouth, but strangely enough, this doesn’t seem so sweet to me any more. No, I don’t want to think of that country inn again. It was too horrible. And how that little whore fleeced me, like any silly schoolboy. But I’m not going for her like I will for Lobedanz, let her sink or swim with her loot, I’ll never see anything of her again. From now on, I live only for Magda. It’s a good thing I’m absolutely finished with those people at the inn. I’ve paid for everything, they can’t want anything else from me, I shall never see them again. I only wish I was so sure of Magda’s attitude to me.…
So my thoughts run. In between times I sleep a little, half drowsing or else suddenly gone right off as in a deep faint. And then I am awake again, conscious once more of the torment in my body, I groan: “My God, my God, I can’t bear this … am I never to get out of here?”
I run to and fro, shake the iron bars, lean against the door in the mad hope that perhaps it has been left open, and think of Magda.… To tell the truth, I am afraid of Magda … she can be so damned energetic.… But I am her husband, we loved each other, she will forgive me, she must … so turns the mill-wheel of my thoughts.
26
I have been sleeping again. The clatter of keys has awakened me. I spring up from my bed and look expectantly at the four gentlemen who come into my cell. Two of them I accord only a short glance: they wear police uniform. One is the sergeant who brought me here last night; the other is a policeman whom I know from my home town. Many a time I have played cards with him over a glass of beer, a good respectable man, not of my social class of course, but I never was proud. One of the two men in civilian clothes I do not know, a young man with sharp features and rather staring severe eyes. His lower lip protrudes heavily. But I know the other civilian all too well, it is our family doctor, good old Dr Mansfeld. The moment I recognise him, it passes through my mind like a lightning-flash that I’m not going to be released. He will take me to a home for alcoholics. But that is not so bad, on the contrary, perhaps it’s much better. In such a home, my present torments would be eased, they are bound to have some remedy there, and then I shall be spared that impending discussion with Magda. Magda will think much more leniently about a sick man in a home of that kind. All this runs through my mind in a few seconds and I hurry across to the doctor. I shake his hand. I say excitedly: “Thank you for coming, Dr Mansfeld. You see,” I laugh, a little embarrassed, “how they’ve housed me here!”
I glance around the dirty cell. Dr Mansfeld presses my hand firmly. I notice that he is upset too, his face is trembling.
“Yes, my dear Herr Sommer,” he says and there is a tremor in his voice, “I hadn’t intended things to end like this.”
“To end?” I say and try to give an easy tone to my voice. “To end, Dr Mansfeld? I think this is a new beginning. You’ll send me to a nursing-home and make me well again.”
“I wanted to do that a fortnight ago, my dear Herr Sommer,” says Dr Mansfeld, shaking his head, “but unfortunately you’ve made it impossible. Now it’s for the Public Prosecutor to say.”
And with that, he looks across at the younger man with the staring eyes, who pushes out his protruding underlip still further, looks at me severely, and says, at first hesitantly: “Yes, yes, of course.”
Then quickly, “Herr Sommer, I have to arrest you for the attempted murder of your wife. You are under arrest.”
I stand thunderstruck. For a moment I cannot utter a word.
“They can’t be serious,” I think feverishly. “They’re only trying to frighten you. Attempted murder? Of Magda?”
At last I can speak. I say in a trembling voice, “Attempted murder of my wife? That’s ridiculous. I never tried to murder Magda!”
>
The Public Prosecutor gives me a crushing look, and barks: “We’ll soon show you how ridiculous it is, Sommer!” and, “Come, doctor!”
And again, to the policeman from my own town. “You know what to do, sergeant. Take the man away.”
“Dr Mansfeld!” I call after them in boundless despair, as they leave, “Dr Mansfeld, you know how much I loved Magda.…”
The door slams behind the two civilians. I am alone with the two men in uniform. Distracted, I slump down on my straw bed and hide my face in my hands.
27
After I had sat motionless like that for a while with the words “attempted murder of your wife” running round and round in my head, the sergeant from my own town, Herr Schulze, put his hand on my shoulder and said, as a gentle reminder: “We have to go now, Sommer.”
“Sommer.” How it touched me, this simple “Sommer” without “Herr”! To be spoken to like that by quite a humble man with a yearly income of hardly more than two thousand four hundred marks, brought home to me in the clearest possible way the changed circumstances of my life. Ever since I finished my apprenticeship, no one had addressed me without calling me “Herr”, and now—I took my hands from my face and with tears in my eyes I asked, “Where are you taking me, Herr Schulze?”
I stressed the “Herr” but he took no notice. Such a simple man probably has no feeling for these fine shades of intonation.
“Only to the police-court, Sommer,” he said. “Only to the police-court.” And he continued, “Look, Sommer, you’re an educated man. You won’t cause any trouble, will you? I ought to put you in handcuffs, but if you promise not to cause trouble.…”
“I promise you, Herr Schulze”, I said eagerly, and almost cheerfully now, “I promise on my honour.”
“Fine,” he replied, “I’ll trust you. Put your coat on. There’s your hat. Have you got anything else? Then come along!”
He went with me out of the cell, we descended a stairway and stood in the village street. I had only been in the semi-darkness of the lock-up for a few hours, but the spacious brightness of the countryside overwhelmed me. My heart beat faster at this greeting from the outside world. “Supposing,” I quickly thought, “supposing I were to jump over the fence and run through that bushy garden, across the meadows and into the forest, would Schulze trouble to catch me again? Would he even shoot after me as if I were a real criminal? Oh no,” I thought, with a weak smile, “he’d never do that. We’ve often played cards together, and he knows who I am and what I represent. But I don’t want to run away from him at all,” I quickly thought, “I promised I wouldn’t cause any trouble, and I’m a man of my word. But there’s something else I want from him.…”
When Schulze had mentioned that he had to take me to the police-court, a hopeful possibility had occurred to me.
“Herr Schulze,” I said very politely, “I would like you to do me a favour.…”
“Well, what is it, Sommer?” he asked. “Am I walking too fast? We can easily go slower. The train doesn’t leave for another twenty minutes.”
“Look, Herr Schulze,” I began, “I’ve got a frightful toothache. And I see there’s an inn just over the road. Couldn’t I quickly nip in and have a rum or a brandy? That always relieves my toothache immediately. You can stand at the bar with me,” I quickly continued, “if you’re afraid I’ll run away from you. Of course, I won’t run away. It’s just on account of this terrible toothache.”
“You put that right out of your head,” said the sergeant firmly. “I’d lose my uniform if it got around that I’d been drinking schnaps with a prisoner in some pub. Nothing doing, Sommer.”
“But nobody knows me here, Herr Schulze,” I cried pleadingly. “It’ll never come out.”
“There!” cried the sergeant, and he raised his hand to his helmet in salute. The doctor’s car, with the Public Prosecutor sitting next to Dr Mansfeld, had passed us.
“If those two had seen us going into a pub, I’d have been for it! So let’s get on. Sommer!”
“Herr Schulze,” I pleaded, and I did not stir a step from the square in front of the inn, my last chance. “There’s really not a soul here who knows me. Please do me this one favour! Just one single schnaps! I’ll tell my wife to let you have a hundred marks …”
“That’s going too far!” shouted the sergeant, red with rage. “Have you gone raving mad, Sommer? That’s bribery, what you’re trying to do. I ought to charge you on the spot. Come on immediately, or I’ll put you in handcuffs.”
Utterly crushed and intimidated, robbed of my last hope, I followed Herr Schulze. For a while we walked silently side by side, he muttering angrily to himself, I with bowed head and dragging feet.
Then the sergeant said more calmly, “I can’t understand you, Sommer. You used to be a solid and respectable man, and now you get up to tricks like this. Haven’t you had enough of that old drink? Hasn’t it got you into enough trouble? Anyway, I don’t want to put you into a worse plight than you are already. I didn’t hear a thing. But be a good fellow now, Sommer, and pull yourself together. In a few days that boozing fit will be over and you’ll have a clear head again. And you’re going to need a mighty clear head, as you ought to know by what the Public Prosecutor said.”
I heard all this in silence, without answering. I found it most humiliating and offensive that such a simple fellow as Sergeant Schulze should dare to presume to speak to me in such a way. Of course I did not know then that I stood at the beginning of a long road of suffering, and that quite other people, of much lower standing, were to be far more outspoken with me.
We had arrived at the station, and Sergeant Schulze bought two third-class tickets for us.
“Well,” he said, and marched me on to the platform among the waiting people. “Keep your head up, Sommer, and go on talking to me, then nobody will notice anything. They’ll all think we’re old acquaintances who’ve just met by chance. At home, after a game of cards, we used to walk along the Breitestrasse together for a bit, and it never occurred to you or anyone else that we were anything other than acquaintances.…”
He was right there. And since by now I had somewhat recovered from my shock over the schnaps, we really managed to hold quite a sensible conversation, first about the hay harvest which was just starting, then about the harvest prospects in general. Schulze and I were both of the opinion that on the whole the outlook was not bad, but it ought to rain now, the spring had been too dry, and the forage especially, but the mangolds as well could do with a bit of moisture.
The short train journey passed quite quickly, and probably none of the passengers had an inkling that here was a man under arrest for attempted murder. (Sometimes I liked to imagine myself as some real and gloriously villainous criminal.) But when we reached our own station and forced our way through the waiting crowds, into the booking-hall then out into the square in front of the station, I felt quite apprehensive again. For at any moment I might meet a close acquaintance, or one of my own employees even, yes, even my own wife. I tugged at the sergeant’s sleeve, and begged, “Herr Schulze, couldn’t we go round by the back streets a bit, and through the park? I know so many people here, and it would really be most embarrassing.…”
Herr Schulze nodded his head.
“That’s all right as far as I’m concerned. It doesn’t matter whether you get to the police-court a quarter of an hour earlier or later. But I’d like to relieve myself.…” And with that, Herr Schulze accompanied me diagonally across the square to that very edifice I had visited with Lobedanz, coming from another direction some twenty-four hours before. It was a strange feeling, to be standing again in this room with its six basins, to hear the water rushing and to look at the dirty wet asphalt floor. This was where I had wrestled with Lobedanz—it was such a short time ago and yet already it seemed quite incredible. Like a wild dream that is completely convincing while one dreams it, and yet seems absurdly grotesque as soon as one awakes. But I had fought Lobedanz here, it hadn’t been a dream
, and no word of honour nor feeling of consideration bound me to that arch-rogue. So when we came out of the public convenience again and were making our way along the edge of town, avoiding all the busier streets, I took heart and told Sergeant Schulze one after the other, all my experiences with Lobedanz, from the time I first appeared in his steam-filled kitchen after my flight from the doctor’s car, to my fight for my suitcase and money in the toilet. In the course of his duty, Sergeant Schulze must have experienced too much of human passions and weaknesses to be very surprised about an affair like this, but during my story he stopped several times, quite moved, and exclaimed, “Good heavens, it’s unbelievable!” “You don’t say! Is that really true, Sommer?” He whistled through his teeth as well. Finally, when I had finished and was waiting for an outburst of indignation against that scoundrel Lobedanz, Sergeant Schulze remained silent for a while and then, looking me full in the face, he said deliberately: “I only know you from playing cards with you. That’s to say, I don’t really know you at all, but I always took you for a sensible clear-headed businessman. That you’re such a—excuse the expression but it’s the truth—such a stupid ox, is something I would never have dreamed of. You can twist and turn it about as you please, but it wasn’t just the booze. You can’t blame such thick-headedness as that on the booze. You must have seen what a scoundrel the fellow was, the very first day. Well, you did see it, and yet you didn’t get out, though you would have been able to soak as you wanted in any little pub around the corner. No, it absolutely served you right that that fellow took you down. It served you right, and I only wish he’d taken that last thousand marks from you as well, then you wouldn’t have been able to get up to mischief in that inn.…”
The sergeant drew breath and looked at me severely. I was most indignant at this quite unexpected effect of my account, and I said crossly, “I didn’t tell you this story so that you could give me a moral lecture, Schulze.…”
