by Hans Fallada
Seidenzopf then appeared and called to Kufalt. The latter got up angrily. No doubt he had not polished the floors properly, he had been in too much of a hurry to get back to work.
But this time it was not the floors. ‘Herr Pastor Marcetus wishes to speak to you. Go inside.’
Kufalt knocked; a voice said: ‘Come in,’ and he went in.
Behind the desk, in the full light, sat a large, heavy man with fine white hair, ruddy face, fleshy nose, expressive mouth, clean shaven. Large white hands.
At the narrow end of the desk sat a lady with a shorthand pad, and near her stood a typewriter. In front of the desk a large chair was placed invitingly for the visitor, but Kufalt was not asked to sit down.
The pastor turned over some papers. Kufalt knew that parcel of papers, it had followed him; it was his file from the Central Prison.
The pastor took his time. Kufalt’s ‘Good morning’ he answered with a brief growl.
Then he turned up one page in the file and said, without looking up: ‘Your name is Willi—that is to say, Wilhelm Kufalt, bookkeeper by profession, sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for embezzlement and aggravated forgery . . . ’
‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.
‘You are a man of good family. How did you come to this? Women? Drink? Gambling?’
It was a cold, businesslike tone in which he spoke to Kufalt. Kufalt knew that tone. The man at the desk had not looked at him for an instant; he did not need to look at Kufalt the man, he had the Kufalt file.
He knew that tone, he knew its echo, and he quivered: it was the old world, he thought it had been swallowed up in those five long years, but it went on just the same. Was it to go on for ever?
People like Seidenzopf or Beerboom could speak to him as they pleased, but this character here, he surely knew better, and he ought not address him in such a way. He’s not allowed to.
Kufalt quivered, he felt his face grow pale and cold, but he replied in the same tone: ‘Must this be discussed in the presence of the lady?’
Pastor Marcetus looked up for the first time. It was a slow, indifferent gaze that lingered on Kufalt’s face.
‘Fräulein Matzke is my secretary. Everything goes through her hands. She knows everything.’
‘Is the lady an official?’
‘What do you mean? Are you here to ask questions? The lady is in my employment.’
‘I ask because I do not know whether private persons should be allowed to read my criminal records.’
‘Fräulein Matzke is completely reliable.’
‘All the same, I am not sure whether it is legal.’
‘As you see, your prison authorities sent me your papers.’
‘Yes, to you. Is the lady an ex-convict?’
The man behind the table started from his chair. ‘Young man . . . ’ he began.
‘Because if she were, I should not feel so uncomfortable.’
For a moment there was silence. Then the pastor said: ‘Very well, please wait outside, Fräulein Matzke.’
The woman disappeared; Kufalt stood with bent head in front of the desk.
‘Your prison chaplain’s report on you is not favourable.’
‘No,’ replied Kufalt. ‘That’s because I want to leave the Church.’
‘That has nothing to do with it.’
‘Perhaps it has.’
Pastor Marcetus returned to the attack. ‘And what Herr Seidenzopf tells me about your conduct and work does not sound very encouraging.’
‘There is nothing against me.’
‘You are continually making difficulties.’
‘Continually? I once protested against working for a whole day without pay.’
‘A man in your position should be humble.’
‘With humble people it is not hard to be humble.’
‘You are inefficient. Your handwriting is wretched.’
‘I am not a writer.’
‘And your typing leaves a great deal to be desired. You make a great many mistakes, and you get very little done.’
‘I need practice after so long in prison.’
‘That is a mere excuse. Typing is never forgotten, one drops into it again in a couple of hours.’
‘Not after five years in prison.’
‘Most prisoners are no good at their work. That is why they failed in life and took to bad ways.’
‘Perhaps the Herr Pastor would like to look at my testimonials.’
‘What for? I can see what you have done. You only find really firstclass work among men convicted for crimes of passion. A man sentenced for a crime against property was never any use. Good work will find a market anywhere.’
‘Yes, there are five million unemployed to prove that.’
The dialogue quickened as it continued. The fleshy pastor’s genial air had vanished; he had flushed dark red. Kufalt’s face was pale, it quivered and twitched.
After a pause to take breath the pastor said angrily: ‘I am just wondering whether I had not better hand you over to the police at once . . . ’
‘Do, by all means,’ said Kufalt in a fury. ‘This is what is called Welfare Work for Discharged Prisoners.’
But something within him warned: there was some purpose in all this talk. He pondered; there was nothing against him. But—the man was no fool.
‘In the six hours,’ the pastor went on, ‘between your discharge and your admission here you have already been guilty of dishonesty.’
‘Do you mean I’ve stolen something? Well, the Herr Pastor would not tell a lie. Clergymen don’t tell lies. But I must have been asleep when I did it.’
‘You came in here,’ said the pastor, fixing his eyes on Kufalt’s face, ‘with a hundred marks more than were issued to you at the Central Prison.’
Thirteen possibilities whirled in Kufalt’s brain, and twelve he rejected, but meanwhile he heard himself say: ‘Right. And of course I stole it. The only question is, from whom?’
‘You refuse to tell me where this money came from?’
‘Why should I? Since the Herr Pastor knows I stole it.’
‘Then I shall call the police.’ And he reached towards the telephone, but did not pick up the receiver, as Kufalt noted with sat isfaction.
‘Telephone, by all means, Herr Pastor,’ said Kufalt. ‘I don’t mind. Your colleague in the Central Prison will be glad to tell you about the registered letter from my brother-in-law that was lost. He or the chief warder lost that letter between them. And he’ll have to admit it if there’s an inquiry.’
‘What is all this?’
‘Just a thing or two that happened, Herr Pastor. Not everything gets into those papers. Look, you tell them to have a look at the window bars in my cell, they’ll find the letter tied to one of them.’
‘I thought the letter was lost.’
‘And when your colleague censors letters he should look inside the lining of the envelope. That’s where the money was. My sister slipped it in; secretly.’
‘What on earth is all this?’ said the pastor irritably. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Everything turns up again sometime,’ observed Kufalt composedly. ‘Though there’s a good many would like to have stolen that money.’
‘I don’t understand a word. You don’t suggest Herr Pastor Zumpe found it in the envelope? The whole affair is quite beyond me.’
‘Call the police, and you’ll soon find out. Or, why not write to Chaplain Zumpe? He’ll tell you Kufalt is a most objectionable man, but this time he’s coughed it up.’
‘Coughed it up?’
‘Told the truth, that means.’
‘Very well, I’ll write, and you’d better watch out if every word isn’t true! I shall communicate with the police at once.’
‘And I’ll get another stretch for sure, Herr Pastor.’
The pastor shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘Well, behave yourself in the meantime.’
Kufalt leaned over the desk. Now he was really angry, and no longer afraid.
<
br /> He hissed into the face of the astonished clergyman: ‘Next time you talk to an old lag, say good morning to him. Then, don’t ask him in the presence of a pretty girl, if it was trouble over women that got him into jail. Then, offer him a chair. And don’t vomit at him. We’re used to being vomited at, Herr Pastor, it just cheers us up and makes us keen, it’s the salt in our soup, Herr Pastor. Next time try the other key, minor not major, try a little kindness and goodwill. Good morning, Herr Pastor . . . ’
‘Stop!’ roared the pastor. ‘You can . . . ’
‘Leave the Home at once?’ suggested Kufalt. ‘Oh, get back to your work. You’re none of you worth . . . ’
‘Of course we’re none of us worth the pastor’s trouble. Good morning, Herr Pastor.’
‘Out with you. Tell Fräulein Matzke to come in.’
‘Good morning, Herr Pastor.’
‘Oh, all right, good morning.’
IX
That evening, Saturday evening, Petersen said suddenly at supper: ‘I’m going for a bit of a walk. Does anyone feel like . . . ?’
They had reached the stage when they first looked apprehensively at Seidenzopf, but he said genially: ‘By all means. Such a delightful evening.’
And Frau Seidenzopf: ‘But the house will be shut at ten punctually, and won’t be opened for anyone.’
‘Then we’ll compare our watches,’ said Petersen. ‘It’s twenty minutes past seven . . . ’
And Beerboom: ‘I’ll only go if Herr Seidenzopf gives me some money. I won’t go onto the street without it, you can’t go anywhere with your pockets empty.’
‘I’ll soon settle up with these gentlemen, Herr Petersen.’
But their business was not so quickly settled. Kufalt stood at the corridor window and looked down into the twilit garden, while two voices across in the office rose and fell in conflict. The bushes melted into the dark background of the garden walls, the topmost branches of the trees were still tipped with sunlight. From within came Beerboom’s pitiful imploring tones and Seidenzopf ‘s booming bass. At last the door opened and Seidenzopf shouted: ‘Get out of here, I’m sick of you! Not another penny. Come in, my dear Kufalt.’
Kufalt came in.
‘Three working days to your credit. For cleaning the machine on Thursday—well, let us say fifty pfennigs . . . ’
‘We agreed on a mark.’
A steady look in response. ‘Very well, one mark. Friday and Saturday, seven hundred addresses a day—very little, Herr Kufalt, and not at all well typed—six marks a thousand, that makes eight marks forty; total, nine marks forty. Five days’ board and lodging at two marks fifty makes twelve marks fifty, so you owe us three marks fifty, which will be deducted from your deposit. All correct?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Kufalt, drawing a deep breath. ‘There’s more to it than that. How do you make out it’s five days’ board?’
‘The day of arrival counts as a whole day.’
‘But I only had supper.’
‘That doesn’t matter; those are our regulations and you signed them.’
‘And the fifth day?’
‘Is tomorrow, Sunday.’
‘Do I have to pay in advance? Is that one of your regulations?’
‘Then it won’t come onto your next account. It’s to your advantage.’
‘So I don’t earn as much as I spend here?’
‘That will come in time, my young friend, it will all come in time.’
‘It isn’t possible to do much more typing than that.’
‘Oh yes it is. Wait till you’ve been at it for six months.’
‘I want some money for next week, by the way.’
Seidenzopf’s brow clouded. ‘It was only on Wednesday that I gave you three marks. How much more do you want?’
‘Ten marks.’
‘Certainly not. Pastor Marcetus would never allow it. Ten marks pocket money a week! That would be just an encouragement to extravagance.’
‘Look, Herr Seidenzopf,’ said Kufalt darkly. ‘It’s my money I’m asking for. How I loathe this place. You told me on Wednesday that I could have money at any time. And I’m sure you speak the truth, Herr Seidenzopf.’
‘But what do you want the money for? Give me some sort of reason.’
‘In the first place, stamps.’
‘Stamps? What do you want stamps for? Your relations won’t have anything to do with you—to whom do you propose to write?’
‘I want to apply for jobs.’
‘That’s just money thrown away. Who’s going to take you? Much better to wait until we know you and can recommend you. What else do you want money for?’
‘I must have my laundry washed.’
‘Ten marks for that? And what do you want washed? A shirt and a collar. You can perfectly well wear your underclothes for a fortnight, I don’t change mine any more often. That will come to eighty pfennigs. What else do you want the money for?’
The voices grew louder and then sank again. After a quarter of an hour Kufalt was beaten, though twice he exploded and banged his fist on the table. He left the office with the sum of five marks.
‘You’ll soon be through with your savings if you go on like this, my dear Kufalt,’ Seidenzopf called after him.
A luminous haze of twilight hung over the city. The soft radiance of the rows of street lamps glittered against the deep blue of the night sky. The streets were full of strolling people. They talked, in voices loud or soft; and now and again a girl laughed.
At Kufalt’s side Petersen and Beerboom were engaged in eager conversation. Beerboom was full of bitterness and gall; he was nine marks thirty worse off. Petersen was trying to soothe him.
Kufalt sauntered along beside them. Among the trees in front of the cafés there were people sitting, eating and drinking. Bands were playing, spoons tinkled in saucers. The two others wondered whether they should go and sit in a café. But they could not afford it. Better go to the Hammer Park, where a band could be heard for nothing.
Beerboom was now intent on proving to Petersen that his life was completely ruined, and that it would be just as well to put an end to it at once; while Petersen tried to demonstrate the contrary.
A dark mass rose up before them, the air grew cool and moist—trees, tall trees: the Hammer Park.
They walked along the dimly lit paths, populous with strolling couples. Then they found themselves in the centre of the park, near a brightly lit café. A band was playing in a shell-shaped pavilion, there was an array of crowded tables. Those who did not eat or drink were excluded by a rope barrier.
The three stood for a while among the throng and listened. They could not be prevented from listening, though this would have been done if possible. The onlookers were a cheerful crowd, girls hung about in little groups, young men came up and teased and chased them amid much giggling and merriment. Kufalt was almost knocked over by a bevy of young people.
He longed to get back to the darker paths, but the others wanted to stay. So he pointed to a path and said: ‘I’ll sit down somewhere over there. Come and fetch me later on.’
He found a bench in the darkness, on which only one couple were sitting. He dropped onto one end of it, rolled a cigarette, leaned back comfortably and gazed into vacancy.
From time to time the night breeze stirred the branches; there was a faint rustle far away which, as it approached, dissolved into a thousand tiny sounds that passed and were lost again in a distant rustle.
The man and the woman on the bench were talking. Kufalt listened vaguely. There was talk of a garden, of an old mother, who was growing more and more trying . . . They were not lovers, Kufalt thought. He wished he had a girl with whom he could sit and talk. But what could he say to her?
Many people passed him by, some of them hand in hand. Not even in prison had Kufalt realized how utterly isolated he now was. He was excluded from all such life as this—would he ever get back to it? Of all that had happened to him in those last five years, he would never b
e able to speak.
The girl got up and walked up and down. ‘It’s chilly. I feel so shivery,’ she said. The man did not reply. She used the sibilant Hamburg ‘s’—just then she came into the light of the lamp, a charming, lissom creature, with oval face and fair hair. She slipped again into shadow.
‘Let’s go,’ said the girl.
The man got up.
Petersen and Beerboom appeared. ‘We’ll go this way,’ said Kufalt, and followed the pair. ‘Was the music nice?’
The others talked; Kufalt kept his eye on his couple. ‘No, we’ll go that way. I’ve got a wonderful sense of direction. I’ll take you straight home.’
‘But we’re going in the wrong direction!’
‘No we’re not. We’ll turn off in a minute. Will you bet I’m taking you the right way?’
‘How much?’
‘Ten cigarettes.’
‘Right. You’re a witness, Beerboom.’
It was not altogether easy to follow the couple without attracting their attention. Kufalt kept on the other side of the street and from time to time made remarks that were intended to prove his active sense of direction. ‘No, we’d better turn the corner here. Now straight on again—no, better turn to the left.’
And Beerboom was much impressed.
Beyond a railway viaduct the pair suddenly dived down a street to the left, and by the time Kufalt had managed to induce his companions to take this most improbable turning, they had disappeared into the entrance to some house.
Kufalt stopped, and drew a deep breath. ‘Well, now I’m lost. Where on earth are we? What’s this street called?’
‘You’re good,’ said Petersen. ‘Hey, you’re going right at last . . . This is the Marienthaler Strasse, and we’ll be at the Home in a quarter of an hour.’
And after a glance at his watch, he added: ‘Oh Lord, we’ve only got nine minutes. We’ll have to leg it!’
‘It can’t be as bad as all that,’ said Kufalt, running. ‘They’ll wait five minutes for us.’
‘They chuck a man out if he’s three minutes late. They won’t let him in that night, and next morning he’ll have to fetch his stuff and clear out.’
‘And we can’t afford to get a bed from a girl,’ panted Beerboom. ‘Oh God, I’m done in, do let’s walk for a bit.’
