by Hans Fallada
‘But you’d have to tell her, Emil. Otherwise you’d always be afraid it would come out, and she’d bolt.’
They stood in the bright sunlight, not looking at each other, but staring at the grey sand before them in which Kufalt was burrowing with his slipper.
Bruhn tried again: ‘Come with me, Willi.’
And Kufalt: ‘No. No. It would be like being in the clink again. We would always be talking about our life here. No, no.’
‘No!’ said Bruhn too.
‘We’ve both been in it up to our necks together; we’ve wangled what we could, done the dirty on the other lads and sucked up to the warders—but now it’s over.’
‘Yes,’ said Bruhn.
‘And there’s another thing . . . Do you know, when I was a boy at school, I fell in love—from afar, we didn’t speak to each other more than twice, and once I saw her fixing her stocking in the gardens. That was when girls still wore long skirts, you know . . . ’
‘Yes,’ said Bruhn.
‘But that was nothing compared to the first year here, when you had the cell opposite me, on the other side of the passage, and I saw you in the morning. You only had a shirt and trousers on, and you put your bucket and water jug outside the door. And your shirt was open at the neck. Then you smiled, and I used to wait till the door opened, hoping to see you . . . And then you slipped me the first note . . . ’
‘Yes, through that big orderly, Tietjen, who was in for burglary. He was safe, he was up to it himself.’
‘And then the first time, in the shower room, when the warder turned round and you crept under my shower and hid behind the screen when he looked . . . God, we’ve had some good times in this old place . . . ’
‘Yes,’ said Bruhn; ‘but a girl’s better.’
Kufalt pondered: ‘Well, you see, I’ve been thinking that if we were together it would just go on as before . . . ’
‘No,’ said Bruhn; ‘not when there are girls around.’
‘Yes,’ said Kufalt. ‘And it must all come to an end. It was great, but it must come to an end now. We’re making a fresh start, and I want to be like everybody else.’
‘So you’ve made up your mind to go to Hamburg?’
‘Yes, to Hamburg; no one will ask questions there.’
‘All right, only mind you keep straight there, Willi. Shall we walk a bit further?’
‘Yes, the sun’s quite warm today.’
‘I shall fix up with Krüger, then,’ said little Bruhn. ‘He comes out on 16 May.’
Kufalt was taken aback. ‘You can’t mean that, Emil. He’s no good.’
‘No, I know. And he always pinches our tobacco. And he’s been dropped on three times for robbing the men on his shift.’
‘There you go.’
‘But what am I to do? I must have someone, I can’t stick it alone. And there’s not many people want to take up with a murderer, you know.’
‘Yes, but not Krüger.’
‘But who else is there? You’ve said you won’t.’
‘Not for that reason, Emil.’
‘And I must have someone to help me, Willi. I’ve been eleven years in jug, and I don’t know my way around. I’m often terrified, I think I’ll get into a mess again and spend the rest of my life doing time.’
‘That’s just why you shouldn’t take up with Krüger.’
‘Then you come with me.’
‘No, I can’t. I want to go to Hamburg.’
‘Then I’ll go with Krüger.’
For a while they walked in silence, side by side. Then Bruhn said: ‘I want to ask you something else, Willi. You know about such things . . . ’
‘What things?’
‘Money. Savings bank books.’
‘A little, perhaps.’
‘When a bloke . . . has a savings bank book in my name, and he has the receipt for it, can he draw any of the money? He can’t, can he?’
‘Usually he could, if the savings book isn’t actually closed, or notice has been given. Usually he can. Have you got a savings book?’
‘Yes. No. One has been taken out for me.’
‘Before you came in?’
‘No, here . . . ’
‘Look, you had better tell me all about it, Emil, I shan’t split. Perhaps I can help.’
‘I’ve always worked in Shed 3, first with the cabinetmakers, and afterwards I was on nest boxes for Steguweit’s . . . ’
‘Yes?’
‘And then at the big poultry exhibition Steguweit got the gold medal for his nest boxes, and a lot of orders. So, to get us on with the job, his foremen used to slip us tobacco on the quiet. That was when there was no smoking allowed in the prison at all.’
‘Before my time . . . ’
‘Yes, and then it came out, and there was a row, and no more tobacco. But they fixed up something else. We didn’t see why we should work the skin off our hands just to make money for Steguweit, and we knocked the nest boxes together to pass the time. Then one day the foremen came along and promised us twenty pfennigs for every nest box over fifteen per day per man. And the money would be paid into a savings account under each man’s name. And when we came out, we were to go along and draw the cash.’
‘Sounds all right! And did you deliver the goods?’
‘Didn’t we just! There were days when we turned out thirty-two or even thirty-five extra. By God, it was a sweat, you should have seen my hands sometimes.’
‘And was the money paid in all right?’
‘Absolutely. In the first year there was already more than two hundred marks; and in the next it was more. It must be well over a thousand by now.’
‘Well, then, ask for the savings book; and just take it when he shows it you.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t show it any more. Too risky, he says, he’s afraid of a stink, he says. A lot of men have come out and made a stink and gone to the governor because they said the money wasn’t right. And Steguweit said to the governor it was all bollocks, there had never been any savings books, because it wasn’t legal for prisoners to earn any extra money.’
‘Some of them must have come back here in the meantime, what did they say?’
‘Steguweit asked some of them what the hell they were talking about, he knew nothing of any savings books. And when they turned nasty, he threatened them with the police. He gave twenty marks or even fifty to some who pressed him, but what’s that against the hundreds that they ought to have had. And I’ve got the most anyhow, I was there from the beginning.’
‘And what do the foremen say?’
‘That the guys are telling lies. That they got the money, but won’t admit it because they threw it all away at once on drink and women.’
‘Well, that’s possible. The ones that get back into the clink again are shits. But why don’t they show you the book? That’s a bad sign. You ought to report Steguweit. No, that won’t work, I wouldn’t do that. You’d get yourself another stretch for blackmail, like Sethe there over by the wall.’
‘That was some business with the chef, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, don’t talk about it, I see red whenever I think of it. He’d be coming out the day after tomorrow, and now he’s got to do another three months because I couldn’t hold my tongue. He’d like to do me in. Let’s drop it . . . ’
‘I thought,’ said little Bruhn, ‘that at the worst I could go to the old man. He’s a decent bloke, and helps us when he can.’
‘Sure, when he can. But he can’t do all he wants.’
‘Why not? He’s only got to ask the prisoners in Shed 3, and he’ll find I’m speaking the truth.’
‘But even if he believes you, he can’t do anything. These savings accounts were against the regulations, and he can’t help you over a thing like that. After all, old Sethe’s business wasn’t so very bad, but he got another three months for it.’
They were standing in a corner. The football players were tired, and were lying against the wall in the sun, sleeping and smoking. ‘Smokin
g again, the bloody fools,’ grumbled Kufalt. ‘They know it’s forbidden to smoke here in front of the Junior Prison. Well, never mind, the day after tomorrow I’ll be a category above category three, I don’t care what happens to ’em. Well, old Sethe was potato-peeler in the kitchen, and spent his six or eight years in the potato cellar, peeling potatoes. And once every month he reported to the work inspector and asked for another job, he said he’d been in the potato cellar long enough, he wanted to get out into the air. And he was always refused. Eventually he found out that the chef had got at the inspector so that Sethe shouldn’t be let out of the cellar, because he did as much as two other potato-peelers. That’s what happens if you work hard in this place.’
‘I know.’
‘So he begged the smarmy old brute to let him out, he said the damp dark cellar was getting on his nerves; and he was told to stick it out for another three months and then he could join the gardeners in the spring. But the chef said this again and again, and Sethe got mad in the end.
‘He knew a lot about the kitchen and he also knew that every Wednesday and Saturday the chef shoved five or six pounds of meat under his jacket and carried it home. The prison officers are allowed to take shavings out of the carpenter’s shop as kindling, they put it into a sack and carry it home in a wheelbarrow. But in the chef ‘s sack there were shavings on top, and peas and lentils and barley and semolina underneath. And the joke was that Sethe usually had to push the old swine’s wheelbarrow to his house.
‘Well, Sethe kept on thinking how he could shaft the chef, so that another man would get the job and he could get out of the cellar. Eventually he told me the whole yarn, and said: “Kufalt, what shall I do?” And I said: “Sethe, the whole thing’s as plain as the nose on your face; let’s go to the governor.” And he said: “To the old man? Not on your life. I’d be shit scared.” And I said: “I don’t see why, it’s a perfectly simple story, and we’ll fix it so you don’t get into trouble.” And he said: “I wish to God I’d never told you, I know I’ll be for it, you’re too green.” And I said: “I’m not green, and you’ll be on garden work inside of a week.” And I reported to the governor.
‘I tell you I felt pretty pissed off with that chef, the fat pig; to think of the old grafter pinching what little meat we get, from us poor half-starved prisoners.’
‘And what did the old man say?’
‘Well, the governor listened, shook his bald head and said: “So that’s what’s going on. I had heard something, but I didn’t know how it was carried out.” And I said to him: “Yes, but Sethe mustn’t get into trouble. How about if you stand by the gate next Wednesday or Saturday at six o’clock? The chef will be along with his barrow of shavings, and Sethe in front. And if there’s only shavings in the sack Sethe will blink as he passes, but if he keeps his eyes open you can stop him and nab the old swine.” “Yes,” said the governor; “that’s a very good scheme, we’ll do so. Thank you, Kufalt.”
‘“Now,” I said to Sethe; “it will be all right.” And he was delighted. But the next Wednesday he said: “The governor wasn’t there, and there were three tins of corned beef in the sack.” And on the Saturday he said: “They’ve squealed to the chef, I know it by the way he treats me.”
‘And when the whole thing burst open, Sethe was hauled in for libelling prison officers. And the cooks stood and swore to a man that they had never seen the chef pinching meat or peas, and that it wasn’t possible anyhow, and old Daddy Sethe got three months. And he would have come out the day after tomorrow.’
‘But perhaps he was trying it on. Why should the governor do such a thing?’
‘The governor didn’t, it was the Prison Board that did it. They couldn’t have a prisoner putting it across an old officer. Now be sensible, do what I tell you and don’t go to the governor.’
‘I don’t know, Willi. It’s different in my case.’
‘Of course it’s different in your case. But what’s the same is that Sethe’s a convict and so are you, and they won’t believe us from the very start. Do what I say. Shut your trap and be glad when you’re outside and have got a job.’
‘Do you really mean it, Willi?’
‘Of course. I would do the same myself, Emil.’
VIII
In the afternoon Kufalt was suddenly seized by an urgent impulse to work. He had really meant only to clean his cell, but then he noticed that his net was about two thousand knots short, and if he stuck to it he could finish the job and draw another eighteen pfennigs on discharge.
So he started knotting as if the Devil were after him. But it turned out a bit crooked, and a herring net always looks awful if the knots are not even. But the main thing was the eighteen pfennigs, and if the orderly stretched the net as he should do, it was plenty good enough for any old trawler.
Then, when he had finished the net, he sat on the floor and scoured it. That is a job that you need to get the hang of—just a touch of turpentine and graphite, or the floor won’t take a polish, however much it is brushed. And then he made patterns, as was the fad at the moment in the Central Prison: you cut a stencil out of a bit of cardboard and then brushed the floor through the stencil against the grain, and so you made bright patterns on the floor, some light and some dark, of flowers and stars and little galloping beasts. There was no compulsion to do it, but it was amusing and pleased the eye of Chief Warder Rusch, who warmed to such artists.
When he had finished this, he went on to polish the metal. The most difficult bit was the underside of the bucket lid, which comes into direct contact with the urine and excrement and is always covered with a whitish slimy film. Well, he knew how to do it. The best thing was to attack it first with the hardest burnt brick you could get hold of, then . . .
At first he had been upset by the stench that rose from the open bucket, but now he never noticed it. The bucket stank, nothing could be done, and it would stink for some time, for the cells were small and badly aired.
Then you took a little polish . . .
But that moment the door of his cell opened, and the nets instructor came in with the orderly. It was no longer Rosenthal, but a new face.
‘Well, Instructor,’ grinned Kufalt, and went on busily with his polishing. ‘So we’ve got another orderly, eh? Quick as baking biscuits.’
The man did not reply, but said to his assistant: ‘There you are, take the net and the yarn and the iron rod and—where have you put your knife, Kufalt?’
‘It’s in the cupboard by the Bible. No, on the window ledge. I’ve finished the unit, Instructor.’
‘Eh? Please put the lid on the bucket. It stinks like the plague in here.’
‘Your shop smells like violets, I suppose. The last unit, of course. And mind you see I get the doings.’
‘You’ve done sixteen since the first of the month. Put the lid on that bucket at once.’
‘Can’t, I’m polishing it. Hey, you lout behind there, pick up the net, please, and don’t scratch my floor. Can’t you see I’ve just polished it?’
The prisoner, a ‘colleger’, as Kufalt had seen at once, said: ‘Don’t you speak to me like that, I won’t have it. And put the lid on your bucket, didn’t you hear? There’s a filthy stink in here.’
‘I won’t talk to you, boy, I’m sure you’re in for pinching your old aunt’s savings. What do you mean, sixteen, Instructor? There’s seventeen now, and I’ll be paid for them tomorrow, or there’ll be a row.’
‘Now, Kufalt, don’t get cheeky,’ he almost begged; ‘or I shall have to call the chief warder.’
But Kufalt had lost his temper and said: ‘Then call him, I’ve got something I’d like to tell him. Don’t stare like that, take the net, you dope, and get out of my cell! So you want to do me out of a unit, do you?’
The nets instructor was in despair: ‘Look, Kufalt, you’re crazy. The work inspector asked early this morning for the work lists of the prisoners due for discharge. I can’t alter anything now, Kufalt. Do be sensible.’
�
��Then you should have told me,’ roared Kufalt.
‘You were with the doctor.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Do you think I’m going to give you four thousand five hundred knots? Bring that net back, I’ll unpick it again!’
‘Kufalt!’ begged the instructor. ‘Do be sensible. It’ll take you six or eight hours to undo all those knots.’
‘I don’t care,’ shouted Kufalt. ‘It’s victimization. You’re trying to get back at me by not paying for the job. I know you well. Give me that net, or I’ll chuck the bucket and all the muck inside it . . . ’
‘What’s all this!’ said a voice from the door, and the master of the Central Prison, Chief Warder Rusch, thrust his large person into the cell. ‘Chuck the bucket, would you? And all the muck, hey? Well, you’ll clear up the mess yourself, mind!’
‘And the man was due for discharge the day after tomorrow,’ said the instructor, with a sudden return of confidence.
‘That’s not your business,’ broke in Kufalt once more. ‘You’ve no right to say that! You’re not an official here. I’ll report you to the governor. You’ve always tried to do me down since the very start. I haven’t forgotten how you always gave me the worst yarn and always said my knots weren’t tight enough. And I pulled until I sprained my thumb, and you just laughed and said: “Not tight enough!”’
‘Why are you shouting like this, Kufalt?’ asked the chief warder. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I’m not ill at all, but I’ve done seventeen units, and the instructor says he’ll only allow sixteen. Is that just? I thought we were treated justly here!’
‘If the man has done seventeen, then he must be paid for seventeen,’ observed Rusch.
‘But the work inspector . . . ’
‘What! But, but—? Has he done seventeen?’
‘Yes, but . . . ’
‘What! But, but—? Then he’s to be paid for seventeen. Got that?’
‘But I’ve already sent in the lists.’
‘Then just say you’ve made a mistake.’
Kufalt grinned and broke in: ‘It’s just because he thinks I shopped him over Rosenthal. That’s why I’m to be done out of a unit, and that’s why I’m so mad.’
