The Drinker

by Hans Fallada

  Rather touched, I thanked him, but I was convinced that I would never require his advice, and that if I were in real need I would undoubtedly go to a younger and cleverer lawyer than he.

  55

  So the next few weeks passed in relative peace and quiet, a different peace from that which I had felt before the doctor’s interview, a more active peace, full of hopes and plans. I did not sleep well again, but that failed to affect my good mood: I was only a guest in this death-house. Daily I expected the indictment and the date of the hearing, and when it did not arrive, I hoped it would come the next day. In mankind, hope is indestructible, I believe the last thing that runs through the brain of a dying man is hope. The doctor never sent for me any more, I did not see him again after that interview, a sign that he had finished his report and forwarded it to the Public Prosecutor. My comrades tried in vain to make me uneasy.

  “What, trust that dirty dog? He says one thing to your face and another thing on paper.”

  I gave a superior smile. The doctor might do something of the sort with the likes of them, but to me he had expressed himself so positively that there was no doubt whatever about a favourable result. In any case, the man was judged quite wrongly—I too had misjudged him at first. That was the fault of his overbearing and sarcastic manner, which rather repelled one. But he was a man of knowledge and insight, where he could give anyone a chance. Of course, where it was quite impossible.…

  Just one thing had a disturbing effect about this time. The consequences of malnutrition made themselves apparent on me too, I also broke out in distressing boils. So long as these boils—usually they were blind boils, under the skin—appeared only on the arms and legs, it was not too bad, but when they appeared on the nape of my neck and my back, I suffered considerably. Particularly as I now had to lie on my stomach of a night-time, a position in which I have never been able to sleep. Now I joined the long file which lined up each morning outside the medical room and was salved and lanced and finally bandaged by the head-nurse. But even these pestilential “pig-boils” could hardly damp my present high spirits.

  “Once I’m out of here …” was the thought that occurred to me a hundred times a day. I now began to pay more attention to my appearance, since I was to be released in such a short time. I began to take care of my hands again, especially my nails, which had suffered from my work. I had my hair cut and washed my feet two or three times a week. I was particularly concerned about my face. The bandages had come off some time ago and my nose had healed. I had always been afraid to look at my face, and it had been made easy for me not to, since there was no official mirror in the asylum and shaving was done by Lexer with the clippers. But now it was different. I knew that Herbst, the orderly, possessed a little mirror which he constantly used when parting his hair. Now I borrowed it from him sometimes.

  Of course he sneered: “What do you want a mirror for? Want to look at your conk? Leave it alone, it’s handsome enough without looking at it!”

  He had hit on the right reason, quite by chance, but he didn’t have to know that. I murmured something about my boils.

  When I saw my nose in the mirror, I got a shock. It was completely deformed by that bite, just before the tip there was a deep hollow, out of which the tip rose crookedly, marked with a flaming red scar. It looked really horrible, I was completely disfigured. (“That damned Lobedanz. He’s the real cause of all my misfortune!”)

  Neither did a further examination of my face make me any happier. The consequences of starvation had marked it deeply. It was almost ash-coloured, the eyes sunken deep in their sockets. A five-day’s growth of stubble covered the lower part of my face. The mirror only betrayed that in this sense too I was enrolled in the death-house: I really looked no better than its poorest ghost! No better? Worse, perhaps! and I used to be a tolerably good-looking man, accustomed to wearing a good suit from our best tailor, with style. “What have they made of you?” I said sadly to my image.

  With a deep sigh I handed the mirror back to Herbst.

  “What, not good-looking enough?” he asked with feigned astonishment.

  “These damned boils,” I complained. “If only we got something decent to eat! The carrots we had for lunch today were just plain water again! Nobody can keep healthy on that!”

  With that, I had brought him round to the inexhaustible topic of this place: food, and nothing more was said of my personal appearance. Subsequently I often borrowed the orderly’s mirror, but always in his absence and without asking him. At the third or fourth time, I found I had judged my appearance too unfavourably. After I had inspected myself in the mirror a few times, I found that I really looked quite tolerable. In any case, one would quickly get used to this slight disfigurement. I had got used to it, Magda would get used to it, so would my fellow townsmen, so would everybody. There were people who had been much worse disfigured in the World War, and still had married pretty women, and lived happily with them. I was absolutely convinced that this scarred nose would not interfere with my happiness with Magda.

  56

  I was soon to have the opportunity of putting this to the test. One afternoon the head-warder Fritsch entered my cell and said briefly: “Come on!”

  Fritsch, a fleshy man with a rubicund face, was one of those officials to whom a man might put a question. He did not look on us merely as criminals.

  “What’s the matter,” I asked. “Is it the doctor?”

  “No,” he replied. “Visit. Your wife. The medical officer’s given permission for you to put civilian clothes on. Get a move on, Sommer, your wife’s waiting, and I haven’t much time.”

  He conducted me to the clothing store, where my suitcase lay on a shelf, rather lonely. Most of the patients were put in here for life and never needed civilian clothes again. Sitting on a table, the head-warder watched me as I first undressed, then dressed again. All the time he was urging me to hurry. But I couldn’t go so fast. My hands trembled so much, my heart was thumping. A visit from Magda in this death-house, life had come to visit me, soon I would be with her again.… And a deep emotion, a boundless love for my wife filled my breast. She had come to me at last, the long time of trial was over. Love had come back to me again, and I firmly determined, at this very first meeting, to show her how deeply I loved her, that the time of our estrangement was over, and that I put myself entirely into her hands, unreservedly and with complete confidence. Suddenly something dreadful occurred to me! It was Friday and we didn’t get shaved till Saturday: my stubble was in the worst possible condition!

  “Sir,” I cried imploringly. “Could I shave myself quickly? My shaving things are in the suitcase here. I really would be very quick. Please let me.”

  “Out of the question, Sommer,” said Fritsch coldly. “How much time do you think I’ve got? Besides, you can’t keep your wife waiting that long.”

  “But it’s so important for me to make a fairly decent impression at this first meeting! Whatever will my wife think of me?”

  “As far as that goes, Sommer,” said Fritsch, “I don’t think shaving would improve your beauty much. If your wife can put up with your nose, she should be able to stand a few bristles.”

  “But she’s never seen my nose yet!” I cried, still more desperately. “That only happened in remand prison!”

  But it was no use, Fritsch remained implacable, and I had to go with him, the saddest figure in the world, even the civilian clothes the doctor graciously allowed me, could not help much. Besides, they were completely crumpled through being in the suitcase so long.

  With the warder, I enter the administration building. The corridor before me is long, gloomy and dark, my knees are shaking and I would like to lean against the wall for a minute, to rest and compose myself. But the head-warder’s voice sounds peremptorily behind me: “Come on, come on, Sommer! Third door on the right!”

  If only he wouldn’t shout so loud and in such military fashion, Magda can hear him by now!

  A hand on the knob, and
the door opens! Useless to hesitate, in this life you are driven forward pitilessly.

  There is no rest, no remission.

  I see Magda. She has been sitting by the window, now she gets up and looks towards me. Momentarily I notice the expression of puzzled astonishment in her face. But already I hurry over to her, my arms wide open, I cry, “Magda, Magda, so you’ve come! I’m so thankful.…”

  I fold her in my arms, I try to kiss her on the mouth, as in the old days, the old days that are going to come again—and I notice an expression of shuddering resistance in her face.

  “Please don’t,” she whispers, still in my arms, suddenly almost breathless. “Not here, please!”

  I have let her go, all my joy is extinguished, a cold ominous silence overtakes me. She looks at me, the expression of confused astonishment still in her face.

  “I hardly recognised you,” she whispers, still breathless, “what’s happened to you? What’s the matter with your—” she dare not say the word.… “What has changed you so much?”

  Head-warder Fritsch is sitting on a chair behind us, and now he loudly clears his throat. I know that it is not permissible for us to stand here whispering by the window. With a pretence at light-heartedness, I say “Shan’t we sit at the table here, Magda?”

  We do so. Then: “You find I’ve changed? You don’t like my looks? Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t like them either, when I saw myself quite recently in the mirror for the first time again.” (I shouldn’t have said that. Head-warder Fritsch may ask me later where I got the mirror from, and then I’ll have got Herbst into trouble. Mirrors are forbidden in the wards. You can’t be careful enough in this place!) I quickly laugh: “But one gets used to it, Magda, I don’t look so bad as you think; I’ve got better rather than worse.…” At these last words, into which I put deep meaning, I have noticeably lowered my voice. But Magda takes no notice.

  “What’s the matter with your—nose?”

  At last she manages to utter the word, even if only after a brief hesitation.

  “It looks really bad, Erwin.”

  “A fellow-prisoner tried to bite it off, while we were still in the remand prison,” I explain. “It was that Lobedanz who stole your silverware, you know, Magda.”

  She only looks at me, with a slight twitch of the mouth. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, either; perhaps Magda thinks it was I who stole her silverware in the first place. But no, she can’t think anything so stupid and unjust, the silver was bought out of my own money, so it was my silver, one can’t speak of theft in such a case.

  “I tried to get it back for you, but unfortunately without success. You haven’t heard any more about it, Magda?”

  She shakes her head as if it were all quite unimportant.

  “You’re changed in other ways, Erwin,” she maintains. “Your voice sounds quite different, much louder.…”

  “There’s fifty-six of us in one block, Magda,” I explain. “Over thirty men eat in the one room with me, so you have to strain your voice a bit if you want to make yourself understood.”

  “I see.”

  She smiles weakly, defensively.

  “You lead a very changed life, don’t you, considering you were always so much for keeping to yourself.”

  But again, with irritating obstinacy, she returns to my appearance, she can’t get over it.

  “But you really look bad, Erwin. Is anything the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I say deliberately. “Practically nothing. A few boils, look, I’ve got some on my neck here, and on my back … but one gets used to them, everyone in this place has them …” (Head-warder Fritsch clears his throat warningly. Perhaps this is unseemly criticism of the institution. But I would not dream of taking any notice of that.)

  I continue, “And if I look thin and rather grey, well, Magda, we don’t get roast goose and red cabbage here every day. Generally we’re fed on good hot water.…”

  Now my rage has run away with me, rage over the rejection of my love, over Magda’s horror of me: I speak with a voice trembling with scorn, I want to wound her to the heart, since I cannot move it. Head-warder Fritsch says threateningly: “One more remark like that, Sommer, and I’ll break this visit up and report you.”

  Magda turns to him: “Oh, please don’t be cross with him! You can’t imagine how changed he is. He must have been having a terrible time!”

  Her voice trembles, I listen to this weakening feminine voice with greedy delight.

  “A little while ago he was a fine good-looking man—and now I wouldn’t have known him in the street!”

  A few tears well up from the depths of her eyes and run slowly down her cheeks. I note them with delight. No, they do not move me. Nothing can soften my heart now, she has offended me too deeply! But I enjoy seeing her suffer too: she ought to be made to feel, and at last she does feel, what she has done to me, how seriously she has harmed me with her spying and her talk, what a fate she has brought down on my head. Magda continues, in almost feverish agitation, half turned to the head-warder, half to me: “But I can send you what you need, Erwin! If only I had known! May I send him a parcel of things to eat, Herr—?”

  “That’s quite in order, Frau Sommer,” says Fritsch graciously. “Tobacco is allowed too. A great many things are allowed here—But,” he continues and looks at Magda, blinking out of his fat face, “you must remember many of these patients really don’t know when they’ve had enough. They eat and eat—a whole parcel, two loaves in one day! And then they’re ill and we have trouble with them. You mustn’t believe everything the patients tell you.”

  And I have to sit quiet and listen to this common liar. The fat Fritsch is my superior, I dare not contradict him. I think of the figures of starvation back there, who eat potato peelings and lick off the table every drop of spilt gravy, and my rage rises within me again. But I control myself, I quickly say with a smile: “Thank you very much for your good intentions, Magda, but I really don’t need anything. Head-warder Fritsch is quite right: the patients don’t know when to stop. But thank the Lord I don’t belong among them. Please God I’ll soon be out of here.…”

  Magda looks at me in confusion.

  “But you yourself just spoke about getting water, Erwin …” she said.

  “I spoke about roast goose,” I laughed, “and I only mentioned water as a contrast. No, no, Magda, think no more of it, we get quite sufficient to eat, as Herr Fritsch has explained. After all, I’m not doing any heavy work, I make brushes, Magda, I’ve become a real brush-maker. Can you imagine that, Magda? You’re sitting in my chair in the office, and your husband is making brushes in the meantime. Isn’t there a song about the happy brush-maker? Oh, no, it’s a happy soapboiler. But I’m happy and cheerful, brush-making in my cell. I whistle and sing all day, well, no, I don’t really, of course, because in this place where such a great many things are allowed, that is forbidden. But inwardly I whistle and sing.…”

  I have been speaking faster and more sarcastically all the time, I am carried away with anger, but I manage to control myself. Outwardly, everything looks calm and peaceful. I notice the growing perplexity in Magda’s face; during my words she has occasionally used her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Fritsch has been leaning back in his chair, with a bored expression, counting the flies on the ceiling. He is much too coarse-witted to detect the ironical undertone in my words. Incidentally, Magda is wearing a costume which I do not recognise: a very smart dark-grey costume with a light pinstripe. I reflect bitterly how my very own wife, while I am suffering beyond measure, has time and leisure to think of a new costume, to go to the dressmaker, to have fittings.… So unjustly is fortune shared out, so thoughtless are even the best of wives! By the way, Magda is looking very well, during the period of our separation she has considerably improved, she looks decidedly pretty. While I, during this time.…

  57

  After my swift ironical words, a deep silence ensues. I am in no hurry to break it. Magda fidgets rather u
neasily in her chair, I am waiting for what she will say next. But when she begins to speak it is only to thank me for the power of attorney.

  “I don’t really need it. Neither the post office nor the bank have made the slightest trouble about my signature. But I understand what you meant, Erwin, and I want to thank you for your good opinion of me.” She reaches her hand to me across the table, and I take it coolly and cautiously, being careful not to press it warmly. The hand returns somewhat disappointed to its owner.

  “And how’s business?” I ask, just for something to say.

  But Magda livens up.

  “I’m happy to be able to tell you, Erwin, that business is going well. Yes, remarkably well. The harvest turned out quite satisfactorily, and we did well out of it. Particularly with peas and beans, I had unbelievable luck. I bought just before the price suddenly went up.…”

  For a while we go on quietly talking about the business. Really, quite incontestably, an efficient woman. How her eyes light up, how lively her voice becomes, as she speaks of it! Her eyes did not light up before, when it concerned her husband. But it was always like that with her: the business, the garden, the house, everything was more important than her husband. I might have been jealous of these inanimate things, had it not been somewhat ridiculous. But perhaps not so ridiculous as this efficiency which the doctor found so praiseworthy, too. If only she could think a bit more rationally, she wouldn’t go to all that trouble, she would lease the business for a small income and live comfortably on our property. But of course such a thing wouldn’t occur to a woman of her kind.

  So my thoughts ran on, while I listened absent-mindedly to Magda’s eager chatter, which awakened memories of old clients, of drives through off-the-track villages, of lucky deals.… But suddenly I prick my ears up, for Magda has mentioned our rival, the young beginner who had set up in my native town in defiance of myself, and had already given me some trouble on two or three occasions. Am I mistaken, or does a special undertone creep into Magda’s voice, something warmer than hitherto? I listen very attentively to what Magda is saying.