Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  Jänsch stood up behind his typewriter and raised one finger like a schoolboy: ‘I did, Herr Jauch.’

  He stood for a moment waiting, and watched Jauch working himself up for an outburst; then, just as Jauch was about to explode: ‘I said that this monkey cage stinks, Herr Jauch. It always does on a sweltering hot day like this, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Come with me!’ shrieked Jauch. ‘Come with me to my room and get your papers. You’re sacked, you ungrateful swine. Take your papers!’

  ‘And my money,’ said Jänsch imperturbably, and walked beside Jauch to his room.

  They were nearly through the door when someone else got up in another corner of the room, Deutschmann this time, and shouted: ‘Herr Jauch, I too think the monkey cage stinks.’

  Jauch stood dumbfounded; his lips moved but no words came. He thought for a moment, then raised his hand. ‘Come with us, Herr Deutschmann, you are both dismissed.’

  ‘Good,’ said Deutschmann; ‘that’s all right by me.’

  But before they could get into Jauch’s office, Sager got up and said in a polite and quiet voice: ‘May I have my Hamburg directory back, Herr Jauch? I must get on with my work.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ roared Jauch in reply to this polite inquiry.

  ‘In that case I am also of the opinion that this monkey cage stinks,’ said Sager, with the same smiling politeness. And added rather more quickly:

  ‘I would like to join the others, Herr Jauch, I will do so at once.’

  ‘This is mutiny!’ shouted Herr Jauch. ‘This is . . . ’

  ‘You have forgotten, Herr Jauch, mutinies only occur in prisons,’ said Maack coolly, also standing up. ‘We are not, I think, in prison here?’

  ‘Herr Maack, of course,’ said Jauch slowly, and his fury had now evaporated. His face was no longer red, it was sickly pale. He was still very agitated, but he had got a grip on himself. ‘May I, to save time, ask which of you considers that this—er—monkey cage stinks? Do speak freely, gentlemen.’

  Kufalt, Fasse and Oeser stood up.

  ‘And myself,’ said Maack.

  ‘Well, of course. Herr Fasse, Herr Oeser. And our friend Herr Kufalt. But I know all about it, gentlemen, though you may think I don’t. I know . . . ’

  The hearts of the conspirators stood still: if the brute really did know all about it, and managed to spoil their game . . .

  ‘It is a conspiracy, and our dear good humble friend Kufalt is at the bottom of it. I heard you at the ribbon box today making arrangements about a job, as you called it. I shall report it to the police, I shall . . . ’

  ‘I also consider that the monkey cage stinks,’ said a clear and ringing voice. Another had got up, a tall, slim, fair-haired pretty boy called Emil Monte . . .

  ‘You sit down, my lad, you don’t belong to us,’ shouted Jänsch, not thinking.

  ‘There is the proof,’ said Jauch gravely; ‘that it was a premeditated plan. Come into my room one by one and get your papers and your money. I shall discuss the matter with Herr Pastor Marcetus. You’ll soon see the result of this day’s work.’

  5

  The Cito-Presto Typing Agency

  I

  Here was glory!

  One of them cried: ‘Let’s go and get some grub first; I’m famished.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘And I.’

  The inner remonstrating voice, ‘Hot dinners on weekdays!’ died away unheeded, and all eight of them marched into a beer cellar. From the economical Maack, who ate sour lentils at thirty-five pfennigs, to the voracious Jänsch, who disposed of a goulash and a dish of pigs’ trotters, not to mention two beers (three marks sixty), all tastes and temperaments were represented.

  ‘I’ll stand you all a beer,’ shouted Monte, in his high falsetto. ‘Thank God I’m out of that monkey cage.’

  ‘Refused with thanks,’ growled Jänsch. ‘I pay for my own beer.’

  ‘You can drink in a month’s time,’ said Maack, ‘when the job’s done.’

  ‘Ugh!’ said Monte. ‘Don’t be so goody-goody. I’m so-o-o glad that all that damned envelope addressing is over. It made me puke. I did enough work in the clink.’

  The seven others sat, knife and fork in hand, looked at Emil Monte, and then seriously at each other.

  ‘Now then, what ideas have you guys got, eh? Out with it, I’m game for anything.’

  ‘But we aren’t,’ cried Fasse, and got a stern look from Jänsch.

  It was already clear that there were two who would compete for leadership. Maack replied for Jänsch: ‘What ideas we’ve got, Monte? Address-writing!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jänsch quickly, making his view known; ‘and such address-writing as hasn’t come your way yet. Fifteen hours a day, and if that don’t suit you, a whack on the arse.’

  He raised his great spade-like hand and held it threateningly under Monte’s nose.

  ‘I doubt whether we should take Monte at all,’ said Maack in a quick, level voice. ‘He’s not one of us.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ said handsome, fair-haired Monte, quite overwhelmed, ‘you’re going to do real work, are you? Then what a fool I’ve been!’

  ‘We must discuss all that,’ said Jänsch. ‘I’ve finished. Waiter—bill!’

  ‘Waiter—all the bills!’

  ‘We’ll go to your place, Kufalt, it’s the most handy.’

  II

  Here was glory!

  To begin with, by a majority of two votes, calm Maack was elected manager of the typing agency.

  ‘I gratefully accept your choice,’ said Maack in a quick, firm tone, with a little jerk at the spectacles on the bridge of his nose; ‘and I shall always do my best to promote your interests. Now you lot have all got to toe the line,’ he said more rapidly, as he caught a jealous growl from Jänsch. ‘I shall give as few orders as possible, but those I do give must be obeyed without question. Anyone who objects . . . ’

  ‘Whack on the arse,’ growled Jänsch. ‘Yes, Jänsch, something of the kind was in my mind,’ said Maack with a smile. ‘And now about Monte. I have thought over the case again. I am now of a different opinion . . . ’

  ‘So am I,’ growled Jänsch. ‘You are against keeping him?’

  ‘Yes, I’m against keeping him.’

  ‘I am,’ said Maack, ‘of a different opinion. We have to deliver three hundred thousand addresses in one month. Two men must be continually folding the prospectuses and putting them into envelopes. That leaves, including Monte, six men for typing. Six times ten is sixty, six times six is thirty-six, nine thousand six hundred . . . ’

  ‘What sort of bloody sum is this?’

  ‘Even if Monte stays, each man will have to type from sixteen hundred to seventeen hundred addresses per day.’

  ‘Blimey!’

  ‘That’s a bit stiff!’

  ‘I can do two thousand,’ said Jänsch.

  ‘So can I,’ said Maack. ‘And I’m sure Deutschmann can too. But there are several that can’t. So I propose we should put Monte on to folding, and sticking into the envelopes, with Kufalt to help. Otherwise we shan’t manage it.’

  Hostile silence. One said angrily: ‘And what’s he to be paid?’

  ‘But I don’t want to come in with you,’ Monte butted in. ‘It wasn’t for this sort of job that . . . ’

  Jänsch stood up and marched across the room to Monte. He took him by the shoulders, held his arms against his body, and shook him. ‘You little pansy,’ he said; ‘you little pansy.’

  ‘That will do, Jänsch,’ said Maack. ‘So now you know, Monte. In one month you can do what you like. Until then . . . ’

  ‘See,’ said Jänsch. He picked up Monte and set him down with a thud on the nearest chair.

  Monte produced a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, rubbed his arm, looked from one to the other with a sort of camp indignation, and suddenly began to giggle like a girl . . .

  ‘What a fine strong man,’ he giggled.

  ‘Before we come to a divisio
n of work,’ said Maack, ‘we must find out what money we have available as working capital. We must buy six typewriters on the instalment system—say thirty marks each for the first payment; hire a room—thirty marks; tables and chairs—sixty marks . . . ’

  ‘But we can get these things’—with a movement of the hand—‘like that.’

  ‘Tables and chairs, sixty marks . . . And that will be all. A hundred and eighty the machines, thirty the rent; grand total—two hundred and seventy . . . How much can each of you put down?’

  Silence.

  The silence deepened. Each man was staring fixedly into space.

  ‘There are eight of us,’ said Maack. ‘That makes forty marks each. Anyone got that much?’

  Silence . . . silence.

  ‘Well, I’ll put down forty marks,’ said Maack. ‘What about you, Kufalt?’

  ‘But I got the contract,’ said Kufalt dismally. He was afraid that if he produced forty marks on the spot, and the others saw he still had three hundred and forty marks in his wallet, he would have to pay the whole amount.

  ‘And you, Jänsch?’

  ‘My money goes on food, as soon as I get it,’ said Jänsch sullenly. ‘Anyhow you’re the manager, Maack.’

  ‘And you, Fasse? Deutschmann? Sager? Oeser? Monte?’

  ‘You expect me to give you money?’ yelled Monte. ‘After being treated like this?’

  Long and gloomy silence.

  ‘It’s up to you—you’re the manager,’ said Jänsch once more.

  ‘Kufalt got us into this, anyway,’ said Oeser angrily.

  ‘Bloody fools we’ve been. Seventeen hundred addresses a day indeed!’

  ‘Shit!’ shouted Sager, and banged on the table.

  ‘Shit!’ shouted Fasse likewise.

  And suddenly they all shouted ‘Shit!’ They were like wild men, they hammered on the table and fell into a paroxysm of despair; that dear old typing room they had so lightly given up!

  ‘One moment,’ said Maack; and they gradually subsided.

  Maack—who really was a compelling figure, with pale, composed face and neat gold spectacles—said: ‘Supposing we can find the money . . . ’

  ‘Balls!’

  ‘Excuse me! I am convinced that you all have money—except perhaps Monte.’

  ‘No, I’ve got none,’ said Monte. ‘If I’m to come in I must have an advance.’

  ‘Very well then; supposing the money can be collected, and we start work tomorrow, the firm will pay us on the day after tomorrow ninety-three marks fifty for the first ten thousand, and a further ninety-three marks fifty every day for work done . . . ’

  ‘Yes—if!’

  ‘I now propose that for the present we should pay a weekly wage of twenty-five marks only to each man, until the contributors have got back their deposits. And every contributor shall take fifteen marks from the earnings for every ten marks advanced, as compensation for his risk.’

  Deep breaths and silence.

  ‘If this proposal of mine is accepted,’ said Maack briskly, ‘I am prepared to put up a hundred marks.’ A moment’s silence—and Maack added, in an absent voice: ‘I shall then get back a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘A hundred marks, eh?’ growled Jänsch. ‘And why should you put up a hundred marks? I’ll subscribe a hundred marks too.’

  ‘So will I!’

  ‘And I!’

  ‘We don’t want as much as that.’

  ‘A hundred and fifty here!’ shouted Kufalt.

  ‘And I haven’t got more than forty marks,’ wailed Monte. ‘Why should I be the one to make so little?’

  Roars of laughter.

  ‘Look! The pretty boy has twigged it too!’

  ‘Wants payment before, the little pet! No, after, my sweety.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Maack, ‘the money question is settled in the sense that each of us pays forty marks . . . ’

  ‘But we get back sixty!’

  ‘Of course . . . So will everyone please go home as quickly as possible and fetch the money? There’s a lot to do today.’

  They all hurried out.

  ‘Monte my lad, if you don’t come back—we’ll find you!’

  ‘I’ll come all right,’ said Monte; ‘if I’m to get sixty marks for forty!’

  Kufalt and Maack stayed behind. Maack ruled a sheet of paper, wrote the names of the eight men in a column, with his own on top, and against each the figure 40. Then he took two twenty-mark notes out of a battered red wallet, laid them carefully in front of him, and wrote his own receipt: ‘Received, Peter Maack.’

  Then he took Kufalt’s forty, wrote the receipt, smiled at Kufalt, and said: ‘You aren’t very bright, you lot! You think you will make twenty marks each and you don’t realize it’s all going to be equally deducted from what you earn.’

  ‘Wow!’ gasped Kufalt. ‘And you knew that all the time. Suppose the others find out!’

  ‘I’ve only told you,’ said Maack. ‘I hope it won’t occur to any of them before they’ve brought along the stuff.’

  III

  And then the hour of glory really came.

  It seemed that all of them—apart from Oeser, whose clothes were always dirty, and Monte, who was always dressed to look like what he was—had grasped the dignity and gravity of the hour; they had not merely brought the money, they had changed their clothes. Even the uncouth Jänsch looked almost smart, and he had shaved; and Deutschmann, in spite of the burning summer afternoon, came in a morning suit and a stiff black felt hat.

  They stood round him and struck up a students’ song: ‘The bowler!’

  ‘And the pork pie!’

  ‘Oh, your sweet little, stiff little black one’ (of course from Monte). ‘With your trilby, you naughty boy.’

  Deutschmann endured this noisy admiration with smiling composure. Maack, as a token of appreciation, said: ‘You, Deutschmann, go with Fasse and rent an office. As near the firm as possible—what’s the name of it, did you say?’

  ‘Emil Gnutzmann, Stieling’s successor,’ interjected Kufalt.

  ‘Right. One room will be enough. An attic will do. Must be a good light. Not more than thirty marks . . . ’

  ‘You leave it to me.’

  ‘Not more than thirty marks at the outside! Here’s your money; sign the receipt; and mind you get one from the landlord . . . ’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Deutschmann. ‘I’ll see to it. What about lamps?’

  ‘Wait a bit. You, Herr Jänsch . . . ’

  ‘Look, drop the Herr! When we’ve all pooled our money, we don’t need to call each other Herr.’

  ‘Thank you, Jänsch,’ said Maack politely. ‘Well then, will you go with Sager and Monte and see to the furniture? You may be able to hire some; if not, buy some plain trestles, so that we can nail boards across them. And three to four second-hand oil lamps. Here’s the money; sign the receipt. And please bring back the bills.’

  ‘OK. No need for all this backchat.’

  ‘I’ll go with Kufalt and see about the machines. At half past seven we’ll meet here again at Kufalt’s and report.’ And he added, with an air of serious concern, ‘But now, lads, we must get everything in order at once; tomorrow, without fail, we must sit down and start typing.’

  ‘You look after the machines, I’ll get the furniture.’

  ‘And I’ll rent the office.’

  ‘And what am I to do?’ asked Oeser.

  ‘You?’ said Maack with a sort of embarrassed gravity: ‘I’ve got a special job for you . . . ’

  ‘Well, cough it up then. It’s the dirtiest job of the lot, that’s quite clear.’

  ‘Oh no it isn’t. But I don’t know whether you’ll like it. Now I want to ask you something—I was told—er . . . ’

  ‘Out with it, Maack,’ said Jänsch.

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Oeser. ‘I’m not going to blow up yet.’

  ‘Well then, Oeser, I’ve been told,’ Maack began again, ‘but of course it may have been just gossi
p . . . ’

  ‘Oh get on or I’ll blow up,’ said Jänsch.

  ‘Counterfeiting, wasn’t it?’ said Maack.

  Oeser was a tall, lanky man in his middle thirties with an angular, sharp face, foxy red hair and long, curiously gnarled hands.

  ‘Drone on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening . . . ’

  ‘Tomorrow, as you know, Kufalt has to produce a statement of the agreement between our firm and theirs. Well, we haven’t any headed paper, and can’t get any so soon, and anyhow we don’t yet know what our address is going to be. Now I wonder if you could fix up a few sheets of paper, by hand, of course, so that they will look exactly as if they had been printed. Did you notice the Presto paper?’

  ‘Go on, I’ll sock you one in the jaw when the time comes.’ But Oeser grinned.

  So Maack continued, more eagerly: ‘We must have headed paper, otherwise it will make such a bad impression. And the stuff ought to look specially neat, and a bit modern; a girl, perhaps, sitting at a typewriter: Cito-Presto Typing Agency—the Most Up-to-date Firm on the Continent; Quick—Cheap—Accurate; and perhaps a flash of lightning running through it all, to signify how quick we work. But it must look absolutely as though it were printed . . . ’

  ‘Arsehole!’ roared Oeser, but with enthusiasm. ‘You foolish dog. I’ve made twenty-mark notes, with the watermarks, that no one can imitate; but I imitated them, and no one noticed, and the Reichsbank took them—and do you suppose I can’t make a few sheets of poxy notepaper?! Don’t think much of the lightning idea, though. You clear out all of you, and leave me alone, and this evening at half past seven I’ll deliver the goods. Hand over five marks, I’ll sign for them and give you the bills later . . . Now you all clear out, don’t gawp so, this is a job for an expert. I’d always thought—don’t look at me like that! I’d never get a decent job to do, I always seem to stink of the clink . . . now then, out you go, and leave the worker to his work . . . Get out!’

  ‘The bloke’s quite above himself!’

  ‘Well, make a good job of it, Oeser!’

  ‘Don’t put any twenty-mark notes on the firm’s paper!’

  And they departed laughing.