by Hans Fallada
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Kufalt. ‘If you’re there, it’ll be all right, Herr Petersen.’
‘I shan’t make any difference,’ gasped Petersen. ‘I’m only of use as a sort of label. Come on, Beerboom, stick at it. Only four minutes more.’
At the front door there was a violent dispute with Minna as to whether it was one minute past ten, or ten precisely. In any case, she promised to report them to Herr Seidenzopf.
X
In the morning—it was now Sunday—they had to go to church, for the House Regulations stipulated that every inmate had to attend the service of his denomination. Then Kufalt and Petersen played chess until lunch, while Beerboom pressed his trousers with a flat board over the back of a chair. When they went out in the afternoon he had two creases side by side, and he grew quite tearful over the way he always made a mess of everything.
The sight of the harbour cheered them up, and for a while they stumbled along the quays. Then they grew tired. Beerboom complained of hunger and thirst. They didn’t get enough to eat—such wretched portions—you got more in prison . . .
They found their way into the gardens by the Bismarck statue, and sat down under some trees. There was a mineral water stall nearby, and Beerboom drank lemonade and raspberryade, ate his supper of sandwiches, bemoaned his lot for a while and went to sleep.
The other two, tired and content, looked sleepily at the stream of passers-by, and now and again exchanged a few whispered remarks about Beerboom, who was clearly heading for trouble. ‘But Seidenzopf won’t listen, and Marcetus thinks he knows all about discharged prisoners’ welfare. It’s no use talking to him.’
And they went on watching the passing throng. From time to time they propped up Beerboom when he looked like slipping off the bench.
When he woke up it was already nearly six. He was furious with them for having let him sleep so long; at ten o’clock they would have to be back in the Home of Peace, that was the place to sleep, not here in the gardens.
Then he bought himself a sausage and potato salad, and finished up with a cream puff. After which he stood up and said: ‘Let’s go.’
The Reeperbahn and Kleine and Grosse Freiheit quarters would help them through an hour. But they had no money, and Petersen also explained that he could not be seen in public with them in such places, or he would lose his job. They might perhaps look in at a café-concert near the Central Station; but they must say nothing about it.
Finally they sat down in a half-empty café. It was the unlucky hour between seven and eight when the band takes a rest. Beerboom cursed and drank beer, Kufalt dreamed and drank a pot of coffee, Petersen’s quick eyes were busy among the girls. He drank tea.
As Kufalt was rolling a cigarette, Petersen whispered: ‘I don’t know if you can do that here. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind buying some. We might attract attention. I’ll let you off the fifty pfennigs of our bet.’
‘All right,’ said Kufalt, and got up. ‘I’ll go across to the station and get them. I won’t pay what they’ll charge for them here.’
And Kufalt went. He left his hat on its peg. It was just before eight. When he got outside he asked where the Town Hall Square was: round the corner, down the Mönckebergstrasse, barely five minutes away.
Kufalt ran.
There was the Town Hall Square; the clock was just striking eight. He looked round for the statue, and the horse’s tail. Not a sign of either.
He asked. ‘Yes, it used to be here; but it’s been moved. How long is it since you were here?’
Kufalt walked round the square; he walked across it and then back again. He kept on thinking he saw Batzke twenty metres away. Sometimes he caught up with the man, and then it was always someone else, sometimes the man disappeared; perhaps it had been Batzke. What’s more, he could not picture to himself what Batzke really looked like; he kept on visualizing a man in blue prison togs and slippers.
The clock on the town hall showed the quarter, and then the half hour. Kufalt persisted in his search. Batzke would come, he would surely come. He would not go back to the Home. That petty nauseating life, those fights over pfennigs, the quarrels with Seidenzopf, the torments at the typewriter, Beerboom, Petersen, Marcetus . . . was that freedom, for which he had waited five long years?
Freedom! Oh God! To do or not to do—just as he pleased . . .
It was after nine when he got back to the café. There was nothing for it, he must return to the Home. Well, he would endure it, he must wait just a little while longer . . . If Petersen dared say anything . . . ! But Petersen was dancing with great enthusiasm and had no notion how long Kufalt had been away. When he came back to the table he began to rave about a girl in blue, who surely must be a better class of girl.
Beerboom drank a second glass of beer and discussed the question whether he should apply to Seidenzopf for more money the next day. On the one hand . . . on the other . . .
Ten minutes after half past nine. ‘Now we really must go, or we shan’t make it.’
When they got outside Petersen said anxiously: ‘We must take a tram.’
And Beerboom: ‘You’ll have to pay. It’s because of your silly dancing . . . ’
In the carriage Beerboom suddenly turned yellow and white: ‘I feel so ill.’
He staggered to the platform, and was promptly sick.
The conductor was furious. ‘Now then, you can’t do that here. Get off at once!’
Petersen was in despair. ‘Look, we shall have to take a taxi. Herr Beerboom, pull yourself together a bit, don’t mess up the taxi.’
Beerboom gurgled.
And when they were in the taxi, in hurried gasps—‘A handkerchief, quick—quick—your handkerchief. Oh, be quick! There! Wipe it up!’
And with a sudden burst of tears: ‘What can be the matter with me! I haven’t drunk anything! I used to be able to take any amount. Oh God, oh God, see what the bloody swine have made of me . . . can’t even have a bit of fun now . . . ’
They got back at two minutes past ten. Father Seidenzopf opened the door with a sepulchral countenance, ignored their greeting, and looked sharply at Beerboom.
‘Herr Petersen, will you please come to my room. After you have seen your charges up to bed. I wish to speak to you.’
XI
Two weeks, three weeks passed; Kufalt sat in the typing room and typed. He did not get on as quickly as he had expected, and he never reached a thousand addresses. Sometimes it was the fault of the address list, and sometimes the fault was his own.
He woke up in a mood of gloom. Then every sound irritated him; Beerboom’s incessant muttering and whimpering at his back nearly drove him crazy. He sat at his typewriter, but he did not type, he wondered whether he would get up and give Beerboom one in the jaw. It became an obsession; he just sat and listened out for Beerboom! Should he? And yet he had to go on typing.
But it seemed so purposeless to go on frantically tapping out addresses, only to reduce his reserve by five or ten marks at every weekly reckoning with Seidenzopf. Would it go on like this for ever? There were people who had been coming to the typing room for years.
Mergenthal, who was in charge of the typing room, was not a bad man. He often lent a hand when work was urgent. Then he gave away his addresses, mostly to Beerboom, but Kufalt got a hundred once. And he did not mind a little talking provided Seidenzopf was nowhere about. On those occasions Mergenthal went outside. Perhaps he listened, but he did not repeat what he heard.
‘How much have you done?’ Maack asked Kufalt. ‘Four hundred. No, not quite. Three hundred and eighty. Oh God, how I loathe the job! And I do less every day, not more.’
‘Yes,’ said Maack, and nodded; he had a keen, pale face. ‘Yes. That’s what mostly happens at the start. It gets worse and worse.’
‘Are you . . . ?’ asked Kufalt, and stopped. ‘Yes,’ nodded Maack with a smile. ‘So are most of us here. There may be one or two that are just out of a job. No one knows.’
‘Has Mergenthal been in prison
too?’ whispered Kufalt. ‘Mergenthal?’ Maack appeared to reflect. But perhaps he merely did not like the question. ‘I don’t know for certain.’
And he went on typing.
Beerboom had another outburst. The evening before, he had delivered some addresses on the handcart, and heard what the firm paid per thousand. ‘Twelve marks. Twelve marks! And they give us five or six. Criminals, robbers, exploiters . . . ’
But the door opened and Mergenthal reappeared. ‘Beerboom, get on with your work. You must not talk. You know if Frau Seidenzopf or Fräulein Minna hears you . . . ’
‘Fräulein Minna!’ sneered Beerboom. ‘Did you ever! Fräulein Minna! That bitch of a skivvy! We have to crawl, and scribble all day so that the women can soak up the rest. They get twelve marks and give us six—well, if that’s justice!’
‘Herr Beerboom, you must be quiet. I must not listen to you, I shall have to report you to Herr Seidenzopf . . . ’
Finally Beerboom calmed down and Mergenthal did not report him. But Minna had been eavesdropping again, and Seidenzopf learnt of it from her.
‘I shall hand you over to the police, Beerboom. Your probation will be cancelled. Either or. That is my last word.’
And next day he was arraigned before the pastor. Beerboom was reduced to a pulp; his whining protests were thundered down. He was henceforward to be kept strictly to his task.
That day his total output was sixty-eight addresses.
Kufalt too was again summoned before Pastor Marcetus. ‘I understand you are still here?’
‘I suppose Herr Pastor Zumpe wrote about the money?’
‘Pastor Zumpe?’ A negative wave of the hand. ‘I did not follow up the matter. You wrote to your brother-in-law?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your brother-in-law wants to know whether we are satisfied with you.’
‘And are you?’
‘You often come back late.’
‘Always in Herr Petersen’s charge.’
The pastor pondered. ‘Is your brother-in-law a man of means?’
‘He has a factory.’
‘Ah; a factory. You asked that all your effects should be sent here. That is of course impossible, we would be responsible if anything went astray.’
‘Is that what’s annoying you?’
The pastor did in fact look very annoyed. But he expressed himself in more general terms. ‘I don’t understand the attitude of the young people of today. And yet we are of some service to you.’
‘So you’ll say you’re satisfied with me?’
‘Your work is quite insufficient.’
‘Let me leave this place, Herr Pastor, and come to the typing room every day like the others.’
The pastor shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Too soon. Much too soon. The transition must come gradually.’
‘It says in the House Regulations that not more than four weeks are to be spent in the Home.’
‘In general, it says, in general.’
‘Am I a special case?’
‘What are you going to live on outside?’
‘On my pay from here.’
‘But you don’t earn four marks a day. No, no, you have something else in mind.’
‘What else?’
But the pastor would have no more of it. He was tired or irritated, or possibly bored. ‘It is for me to ask questions, Herr Kufalt. No, I shall write to your brother-in-law that you had better stay with us for the present. In July, perhaps. No, you must go now. And—good morning.’
XII
One Friday at supper Seidenzopf announced in a genial tone: ‘Herr Petersen, on Sunday I want my young friends to observe the beauties of nature round the walls of Hamburg. I propose to give you leave off for the whole day. You can set out early in the morning, and, as an exception, you need not be back in the evening until eleven or even twelve o’clock. What do you say to that, my friends?’
And like a shot Petersen replied: ‘I would propose an excursion to Blankenese, Herr Seidenzopf. Perhaps we might even swim. And then perhaps a theatre in the evening.’
‘Very nice. Excellent,’ said Herr Seidenzopf. ‘And I will present each of our young friends with five marks out of the Home funds, not to be deducted from pay or reserve.’
‘Hooray!’ said Beerboom.
‘And you, my dear Kufalt, why are you so silent?’
‘It’ll be very nice, of course. But if we’re out for the whole day, what with fares and the theatre, five marks won’t be much.’
‘I’m sure it can be managed. You will take bread and butter with you, plenty of bread and butter.’
‘Five marks are no good,’ began Beerboom too. ‘You must give us at least another five, Herr Seidenzopf.’
The usual quarrel started. Kufalt pondered.
‘Watch out, pal,’ said Maack next day. ‘I don’t like the look of this. There’s a jubilee celebration at the Home tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Kufalt, and pondered still more deeply.
On Sunday morning the three sat on the shelving beach above the Elbe and contemplated the river, the ships and the countryside. It was oppressively hot, the motor cars sped by in thick clouds of dust and crowds of holidaymakers plodded along every road, sweating and complaining of the heat.
‘This is a filthy place,’ growled Kufalt. ‘It all stinks of sweat and petrol. Let’s move on.’
‘Where to?’ protested Petersen. ‘It will be just the same everywhere today.’
‘Oh, we’ll find somewhere.’
What they found at last was a large overgrown garden.
‘Stop, this’ll do,’ cried Kufalt. ‘We can crawl through the fence. It’s sure to be cool and quiet inside.’
‘But we aren’t allowed inside,’ said Petersen. ‘Of course we aren’t,’ laughed Kufalt. ‘If you don’t want to come, you wait outside till we get back. You’ll come, Beerboom?’
Beerboom was willing, and Kufalt was already crawling through the wire fence. Beerboom followed, but got caught on the spikes of the wire.
‘Hurry up, man,’ urged Kufalt; ‘there are people coming.’ Petersen, frantic with apprehension, pulled the wire away with a jerk, there was a tearing sound, Beerboom groaned, Petersen crawled after him—and they all three plunged into the bushes.
‘I’m sure my trousers are split,’ wailed Beerboom. ‘It’s the sort of thing that always happens to me.’
‘They can be mended all right,’ Kufalt comforted him. ‘Besides it’s on the inside of the leg where no one can see, and it’ll keep you nice and cool in this heat.’
‘And who’s going to pay for it? Oh God, oh God, if only Minna would do a bit of sewing for us! When I was in prison I always wanted to be put in the tailor’s shop.’
‘We really shouldn’t have crawled through that hedge, Kufalt. If Pastor Marcetus hears of it . . . ’
‘Of course we shouldn’t. Look there . . . ’
They stood behind some outlying bushes and peered into a large orchard, where an old man in a yellow straw hat was walking from beehive to beehive, smoking an enormous pipe. Masses of cottage-garden flowers were in bloom.
‘Isn’t it lovely and quiet and cool? This is the place; we’ll stop here and have a bit of a snooze. God, how lovely and quiet it is!’
They settled themselves; Petersen laid his head on his arm, Kufalt squatted down and waited, looking at Beerboom, who had taken off his trousers and was whimpering softly to himself. However, Beerboom made a cushion of his trousers, laid his head on it and went to sleep.
It was quite still, not a breath of wind in the branches of the trees. The air seemed to be humming with the heat, and the buzzing of the bees in the bee-garden rose and fell.
Kufalt sat up cautiously and looked at his sleeping companions. He stood up quietly and looked again, holding his breath. Then he slipped across the grass, ran towards the hedge, and as he crawled through the gap by which they had entered, he came out right into a throng of day trippers.
They sto
pped and eyed him with suspicion. ‘Bah!’ said he contemptuously, and dashed in wild leaps down the steep slope to the steamer quay.
The next steamer left for Hamburg in a quarter of an hour. The main thing was that they should not miss him before that time. He drew a deep breath of relief when the boat put off from the bridge.
Three hours later Kufalt turned up hot and breathless in the Apfelstrasse. When he caught sight of the Home of Peace, he gave a soft and thoughtful whistle. The Hamburg and the German flags were waving from the flagstaff. Garlands had been hung above the door, in front of which were two great motor coaches.
‘The swine,’ he muttered; ‘the dirty swine. They just wanted us out of the way.’
The door was open, and along the path and up the steps that he had so often scrubbed a handsome red runner had been laid. On the right, in the office, could be heard the murmur of many voices.
He slipped softly upstairs, and opened the bedroom door. He stopped and gasped.
The windows, usually so forbiddingly bare, were hung with bright, inviting muslin curtains; and on the sill stood flowerpots with blossoming plants. Here too was a red runner on the floor. The table was covered with a cloth, a nice bright cheerful cloth. And there were pictures on the walls—pretty lithographs, big and small. And the beds . . .
‘Oh God, the beds . . . ’ whispered Kufalt, quite overcome.
The beds, one and all, were white and spotless, not a sign of the blue-checked prison cotton; fine white linen sheets.
‘Well I never!’ said Kufalt.
The murmur came nearer and began to mount the stairs.
Kufalt went through the door into his own room. He looked about him for a way of escape, but there was none; he would run right into the arms of the approaching visitors.
Near the table he noticed two comfortable chairs, which had apparently grown out of the linoleum since the morning. But he did not dare sit on them; he wandered helplessly up and down this model bedchamber. Then, when the door of the adjacent room (where Beerboom slept) opened, he sat down resolutely on his own bed.
In the next room, footsteps and a murmur of talk.
