by Hans Fallada
IV
None of these tasks was easy, but Maack and Kufalt were agreed that theirs was the worst. To borrow, hire, or buy six typewriters for a hundred and eighty marks—that was going to be difficult.
They set their hopes on Herr Louis Grünspohm.
Louis Grünspohm advertised regularly in the Hamburg papers, inviting inspection of his enormous stock, comprising the most modern machines of every variety. Monthly instalments of ten marks upwards.
It turned out that Herr Grünspohm’s business was situated in a rather remote and dark alley of second-hand dealers; that Herr Grünspohm was a tall, pale man with a stubbly beard who controlled an array of typewriters of every sort and model, ever since typewriters were invented; but that a man had to produce at least a prime minister or a bank director as a referee before taking possession of a typewriter at a monthly instalment of ten marks.
Grünspohm surveyed both his customers with his quick, bleary, little black eyes, and said: ‘Here’s one that will do for you. A lovely machine! Ninety marks, two-thirds down, the rest on a bill at three months, with a good sound endorser.’
They both eyed the lovely machine; on the front of it was a sort of indicator-table set with letters; a needle tapped the desired letter and a cylinder began to rotate shakily against the paper, and lo and behold on the paper the letter appeared. Kufalt and Maack shrugged their shoulders.
‘A lovely little machine,’ urged Herr Grünspohm. ‘It writes like a dream, just like a dream.’ (And this was no lie.)
‘The fact is,’ said Maack, ‘we are starting a typing agency, we are quite a new firm, but we have very good contracts on hand, very good contracts indeed. But within the next three hours we need six machines, large, modern office machines, you understand. We’ll pay thirty marks on each machine, and the rest in monthly instalments of thirty . . . What do you say?’—turning to Kufalt—‘Forty marks, then.’
Kufalt nodded agreement, Herr Grünspohm shook his head thoughtfully: ‘From whom have you got these excellent contracts, may I ask?’
Kufalt and Maack exchanged a glance.
‘One of them,’ said Kufalt, ‘is from a textile firm. Emil Gnutzmann, Stieling’s successor.’
Grünspohm nodded appreciatively. ‘A first-class firm. A sound firm. Uses Adler machines, buys direct from the agent. I bought from them a couple of second-hand machines—Herr Bär’s a keen hand at a bargain!’
‘You may say so,’ laughed Kufalt. ‘I found him pretty tough. I had to sweat to get that contract!’
Herr Grünspohm seemed more cheerful and his gloom began to vanish. ‘And what is the amount of the contract, may I ask?’
‘It will bring us in about three thousand marks,’ said Maack with gravity.
Herr Grünspohm pondered. He paced up and down, and then, having made up his mind, he stopped in front of the pair.
‘As you are young and energetic, and look honest and respectable, I will make you an offer; tomorrow morning at ten I will deliver you six machines as good as new . . . ’
‘Not as good as new—new,’ said Maack.
‘As good as new,’ said Herr Grünspohm immovably. ‘Good reliable machines: Mercedes, Adler, Underwood, AEG . . . You will pay me three hundred marks down, and bring me a note from Herr Bär authorizing me to collect fifteen hundred marks off what will be due to you, a month from today . . . ’
‘Certainly not!’ shouted Kufalt. ‘What are we going to live on?’
‘Three hundred marks each for old machines! Are you out of your mind?’ protested Maack.
‘You are trying to do us down just because we’ve got the contract and have no machines.’
‘Well,’ said Grünspohm, ‘it’s an offer. I doubt if anyone else in Hamburg would make you such an offer.’
‘No,’ sneered Kufalt. ‘No one would dare.’
‘Well, think it over, gentlemen,’ said Grünspohm. ‘A nice little note from the firm of Gnutzmann signed by Herr Bär, and I’ll . . . ’—he shook himself—‘as a favour to you, I’ll say two hundred down.’
‘Don’t you wish you’ll get it,’ said Kufalt.
And Maack, with sudden politeness: ‘Good day then, Herr Grünspohm. We will consider your offer.’
‘Maack . . . !’ said Kufalt.
‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Grünspohm, as he escorted them to the door, ‘you will come back, I am sure. And I will give you really good machines . . . ’
They sat on a bench and smoked.
‘I don’t understand you, Maack,’ said Kufalt. ‘If we deduct twelve hundred marks, then, reckoning in the three hundred and twenty marks that we have put aside for expenses, only about thirteen hundred marks are left; and that comes to—per head?’
He calculated.
‘A hundred and sixty marks, and one typewriter, paid for,’ said Maack. ‘Not so bad, when you’ve got your own machine.’
‘But we are eight, and there are only six machines,’ objected Kufalt.
‘Oh, Monte can go and put his head in a bag; why does he foist himself on us?’
‘What about me?’
‘We’ll pay you your share in money.’
‘I’ll have to wait a while for that; I suppose I can put my head in a bag too,’ said Kufalt bitterly.
For a time there was silence.
‘And I won’t go to Bär with a note like that,’ said Kufalt suddenly. ‘He’d simply kick me into the street when he finds out I’ve agreed the contract and we haven’t even got machines. I shan’t go. I won’t do it!’
‘Well, you needn’t,’ said Maack slowly. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I say—you needn’t.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘Oeser can fix the note for us.’
A long, long silence. They avoided each other’s eyes.
There they sat on their bench; they were neatly dressed and looked presentable young men on that fine summer afternoon. They were smoking decent cigarettes; men of brains and efficiency, capable men; outwardly no one could see anything wrong.
‘Oeser . . . ’ Maack said.
But no, they are men with a handicap, blighted men; in them lies the feeling—it was born of a crime, it was fostered in prison and came to fruition on release—that they can never achieve anything in the normal way, that they will never, ever return to the peaceful life of the ordinary citizen. They live on the edge of existence; they shrink at every casual word, at the sight of any sort of policeman; letters, prison companions, a word let slip in sleep, the official at the Welfare Office—all may bring ruin on them: but the worst menace of all is their own selves. They have lost faith and belief in themselves, everything they do inevitably fails; once a jailbird, always a jailbird.
‘Oeser,’ Maack had said.
And he added hurriedly: ‘Please understand, we aren’t going to do old Grünspohm down. He’ll get his money at the end of the month, but from us. It’s all the same to him where he gets his money from. Or we’ll give him the machines back. A month’s a good while, we can look around a bit.’
‘But why?’ asked Kufalt. ‘We can have another try in other shops.’
‘No,’ said Maack obstinately; ‘this is the best way to fix it. We will know where we are, and we can do as we like.’
‘That’s what you say,’ said Kufalt. ‘Look, Maack, you said you weren’t going crooked, and the moment we get a job, off you start again. I don’t understand you.’
Maack lit a cigarette. He blinked slightly, but he said quite quietly, ‘Well, I’m not going crooked, you fool. I just want to see how things are at the end of the month.’
‘I’ll tell you what you’re after,’ shouted Kufalt in sudden inspiration. ‘You’re going to sell the machines and bolt with the money.’
Maack was not in the least offended. He jerked his spectacles into place, spat out a little tobacco and said: ‘And I’ll tell you something about yourself; you’ve got a girl here, and that’s why you have no guts.’
‘Well, and what about your Lieschen
?’ asked Kufalt excitedly, thinking of the pretty creature with the bright cherry eyes and corkscrew curls.
‘Oh, women!’ said Maack. ‘There are women everywhere.’
He fell silent and then added: ‘Mine’s going to have a baby, by the way.’
Kufalt, shocked by the news, said nothing. This was bad luck for Maack, as little Lieschen would lose her job—and how would they manage with three of them? But—and he began to think more and more rapidly—why had Maack given up his job at the typing agency just at this very moment; it was at least safe, as he was such an excellent typist?
And suddenly an idea shot through his brain, and he said excitedly: ‘Oh Maack! I know all about it now. You were going to pinch all the money. I don’t yet know how; that’s what you meant to do, and then clear off with it.’
‘I’d have left you a bit,’ said Maack with a grin.
‘And why are you telling me this?’ asked Kufalt, bewildered.
‘Because I’m sick of it all,’ burst out Maack, usually so quiet and self-controlled. ‘Because I’m fed up to here. All my life outside has been just hell. Look, Kufalt, I pretend I’m no end of a crook, but I only did three months, even less than Patzig—and that’s four years ago, and I work like a horse, and don’t spend a penny—and I never get any farther, never. Just one problem after another, and that brute Jauch, and that old hypocrite Marcetus—they all trample on you; twice I’ve had a job, and I thought I’d got back to a respectable life. But then someone found out, and it all started again—the odd looks and sneering talk; and then someone said he’d lost his rubber, it must be Maack that had it; and somebody else’s money was missing out of his overcoat pocket—Maack, of course, Maack, only Maack . . . ’
He had stood up and was almost shouting. Passers-by stopped and stared; Kufalt pulled him back onto the bench and tried to calm him down.
Maack took off his spectacles and wiped his forehead.
‘And then the boss sent for me and said: “You see for yourself it’s no good. I’m not going to say anything against you, but you see for yourself, don’t you?” And now my girl’s going to have a baby, and she says she won’t have it taken away, she’s even pleased, the silly fool, because it’s mine—mine!’
Maack swallowed; Kufalt said nothing.
‘And yesterday morning, when I was going to get that job in the export company, I was as pleased as Punch and I thought, it’ll be all right now, I can slip away somewhere with Lieschen and we can have a baby just like other people . . . ’
He swallowed again; and then he added: ‘And when it was all off with the job, for only bum-suckers get on, I thought, nothing mattered, I’d just collect a bit of money, I didn’t care how, and hand over a bit to Lieschen so that she’d get something out of it when I went back to jail.’
He sat huddled on a bench in the park, the sun shining through the trees of the zoo.
‘I’ll tell you what, Peter,’ said Kufalt, ‘let’s look up the typewriter firms in the commercial telephone directory. I’ll go and talk to them myself, and you’ll see; at seven o’clock I’ll have those machines . . . ’
Maack shook his head.
‘I will,’ protested Kufalt eagerly. He smiled.
‘I don’t imagine it’s so difficult. We made the mistake of trying to get all six at once. We’ll soon have that typing agency fixed up, and we’ll get more contracts, and you’ll be a proper manager on a salary, and glare at us all just like Jauch. And Lieschen shall have her baby—you’ll see.’
V
It was a radiant summer morning, about nine o’clock, when the whole Cito-Presto Agency descended on the firm of Gnutzmann. Fasse and Monte were pulling a handcart lent them by their new landlord, while Oeser was pushing it from behind.
On the pavement, in front of the cart, walked Maack and Kufalt. Jänsch, who directed the handling of the cart in traffic, walked a little in front of Sager and Deutschmann.
As they marched along scarcely a word was spoken, except that Jänsch called out from time to time, ‘Put out your right arm when you’re going to turn a corner to the right, Monte, my lad.’ It was a relaxed enough journey, but they were all conscious of the significance of the hour.
‘Smart lot, eh?’ said Deutschmann.
And Sager, crafty fox, always just a little too polite—in huge delight at the cavalcade—replied, ‘I don’t think!’
They drew up in front of the textile house, and Manager Maack rapped out his orders.
‘Fasse, Monte, each of you to a street corner. If you catch sight of Jauch or any of the Presto people, whistle as agreed, and take cover.’
‘Sager, you wait in the entrance hall; if you hear the whistle, run upstairs and warn us.’
‘Jänsch, Deutschmann and Oeser, come with us to carry down the envelopes and the address lists.’
‘Kufalt, you will introduce me to Herr Bär, and we will hand him our letter of confirmation.’
‘Do let me be there,’ begged Oeser, ‘just to see, Maack.’
‘Right,’ said Maack, ‘come on!’
The young woman in the reception room knew all about them already. ‘There are the envelopes; a hundred thousand to begin with. The addresses are on index cards in these drawers—mind you keep them in good order!’
‘Of course, Fräulein,’ said Jänsch. ‘We are very careful people.’
‘Mind how you carry them down,’ said Maack.
‘Card index addresses—they’re really good for typing out,’ said Deutschmann.
‘May we have a word with Herr Bär, Fräulein?’ said Kufalt.
‘One moment, I’ll go and see,’ and she vanished.
‘Take me with you,’ implored Oeser.
‘If I can,’ said Maack.
‘Will you come in, please?’ said the young woman, returning.
Kufalt was in front, Maack behind, and Oeser squeezed in after them.
‘May I introduce our manager, Herr Bär? Herr Maack, Herr Bär . . . ’ Hoarse whispers from the rear. ‘Oh, yes, Herr Oeser, one of our assistants . . . ’
‘May I hand you our confirmation of the contract you have been good enough to give us?’ said Maack, and took out of a wallet a spotlessly white envelope, which he handed to Herr Bär across the desk.
Bär took it nonchalantly, held it in his hand, and said:
‘Nobody seems to have heard of your typing agency, Herr Meierbeer.’
‘We are quite a new firm,’ said Maack.
‘In six months all Hamburg will know our agency,’ announced Kufalt proudly.
‘Indeed,’ said Herr Bär dryly, and unfolded the letter.
Oeser said nothing at all, but with burning eyes—eyes that almost dropped out of his head, they bulged so much—he watched Herr Bär and the sheet of paper in his hand.
But Herr Bär had not yet looked at it. He said with a smile: ‘I know all about you young fellows.’
The hearts of the three stopped beating; at last Kufalt pulled himself together and said, in a strange hoarse voice:
‘How so—Herr Bär?’
And Herr Bär said pleasantly, ‘Come, you must forgive me, I see you are quite upset. But I have twigged in the meantime that you are unemployed men, who have somehow got wind of our contract, and that, incidentally, I could have got you at eight marks a thousand.’
Three hearts beat again.
‘Well,’ said Herr Bär in conclusion; ‘that’s no business of mine. The main thing is that the work should be done without the slightest cause for complaint. May I assume that it will?’
‘Certainly, Herr Bär,’ said three happy voices.
‘And that I shan’t have any trouble with the Unemployment Office over fraudulent benefits and illegal stamping?’ said Herr Bär, turning to the letter.
‘Out of the question, Herr Bär,’ said Maack. ‘None of us are drawing anything.’
‘Very attractive indeed,’ said Herr Bär, looking at the letter. ‘Really charming!’
Oeser blushed dark red with g
ratification.
No, he had not put in the flash of lightning, which he said suggested a firm of lightning conductor manufacturers. The heading ‘Cito-Presto Typewriting Agency’ was handsomely printed at the top; beneath it, in smaller lettering, ‘Every kind of office work undertaken’; under that, in rather larger lettering again, ‘Cheap—Quick—Accurate—Discreet’; and then the place and date, in the usual manner; but down the entire left-hand margin there were designs—on top, a girl at a typewriter, who has typed a letter and is handing it to a young man standing a little lower down the page. And he, with his other hand, is handing a packet of letters to a tall, broad, bearded man, who—a little lower still—is standing behind a sort of packing table.
‘Very attractive,’ said Herr Bär again. ‘I shall keep this letter when it has been dealt with.’ He could not put it down, and mused: ‘But surely I know the lady, the girl at the machine. And the young man too—and the man with the beard! Tell me, where did you get them from?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Maack. ‘Some man did the design for us.’
‘Odd,’ said Herr Bär; he put down the letter, and pushed a bell. ‘I shall find out somehow. I’m certain I’ve seen them.’
And when the young woman came in: ‘Write a confirmatory letter to the Cito-Presto Typing Agency, here is the format for it. Now careful, please; a nice neat letter . . . “With reference to your communication of the 1th inst., we beg to confirm etc. Yours faithfully.” Very well; thank you, gentlemen, I hope it will be a satisfactory transaction.’
The procession with the handcart made its way back to the CitoPresto Agency; a hundred thousand envelopes and prospectuses, index cards for three hundred thousand addresses, and eight happy men.
‘Oeser, come here a minute,’ Kufalt called out suddenly.
Oeser came. ‘Well?’
‘Look, Oeser, Maack and I have been racking our brains, we know those people on your notepaper, and we just can’t think who they are. Who’s the girl, anyway?’
Oeser, again beaming with pride, merely answered, ‘Elizabeth Holbein, née Schmidt, of Basle.’
‘What?’ said the others slowly, bewildered at first. ‘Wasn’t she a beauty queen?’
‘Let me explain,’ said Oeser innocently. ‘And the young man is Dietrich Born, merchant, and the man with the beard is Hermann Hillebrandt Wedigh, of Cologne.’
