Once a Jailbird
Page 24
‘Never heard of them. But how is it that we know them?’
‘You silly dopes!’ burst out Oeser in sudden triumph. ‘The girl is the girl on a twenty-mark note. The young man is on the ten-mark note. And the man with the beard is from the thousand-mark note; I just took off their caps and hoods, they’re all after pictures by Holbein—and no one spotted it!’
He dug his two open-mouthed companions in the ribs. ‘Oh, guys, fancy pulling all your legs like that . . . ’
‘You’re a piece of work, Oeser,’ said Maack sternly. ‘It isn’t your job to be pulling people’s legs. It’s your job to be writing addresses.’
‘But surely I know the girl at the machine,’ said Oeser mimicking Herr Bär’s high-pitched tones. And all three burst into roars of laughter.
VI
It was about ten o’clock in the morning.
In the Cito-Presto office stood the six typewriters, ready for work. Beside them lay piles of blue envelopes; and open drawers packed with blue, red, green and yellow index cards, from each of which a number of cards had been taken and lay ready to be transformed into addresses. At the six machines sat six men, their hands still resting idly on the table, or on their knees.
At a table in the corner sat Kufalt and Monte; before them lay heaps of prospectuses and the reply cards still neatly arranged in bundles, the folding-knives ready to hand.
An expectant silence reigned.
Maack got up, straightened his glasses, and began:
‘Gentlemen . . . ’
Then he stopped, and blushed slightly as he corrected himself:
‘Comrades!’
He looked at them all in turn, and they all returned his look.
‘Comrades,’ said Maack, and his voice freshened. ‘We are just going to begin to type what we have been typing every day for years—addresses. And yet today we are starting a new and hopeful task: we are working solely on our own account.’
He paused.
Then he went on: ‘If we are to carry out what we have undertaken, we must all keep hard at it. Every one of us can earn a lot this month. Comrades, save it up. No girls, no cinemas, no drinks, all through this month. And then perhaps we shall manage it.’
Again a pause . . .
Maack hesitated, smiled, and said: ‘We are on a sort of month’s probation, we’re being given another trial, and we’re going to try once more . . . ’
He stopped and smiled again. Then the smile slowly faded, he looked round him and said: ‘I think we might start work now.’
‘One moment, please,’ Jänsch called out; ‘I have a proposal to make.’
‘Yes?’
‘I propose that talking should be forbidden during working hours. Any man who talks to be fined ten pfennigs for a common fund.’
Maack looked inquiringly round him; ‘I think that’s a very sensible proposal. Is anyone against it?’
‘But . . . ’ said Monte.
‘You hold your tongue, Monte, there’s no need for you to talk,’ said Jänsch.
‘If I’m to work, I’m going to talk,’ said Monte defiantly.
‘Shut your mouth, I tell you,’ said Jänsch menacingly; ‘or . . . ’ and he raised his hands.
‘I rule that the proposal is accepted,’ said Maack. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said Deutschmann. ‘I propose that smoking should be forbidden under the same conditions.’
A gloomy silence, for nearly all of them were passionate smokers.
‘Smoking not only costs money,’ said Deutschmann persuasively, ‘it interferes with work; and the room isn’t big enough for eight men to fill it with smoke all day long.’
‘This is going to be a right little prison,’ said Oeser peevishly.
‘If I can’t smoke, I’m not going to get much fun out of this lark,’ observed Fasse.
‘But it’s quite a sensible suggestion,’ said Deutschmann.
‘I agree,’ said Maack. ‘After all, anyone who wants a cigarette can go out to the lavatory and have a smoke.’
‘But that wastes working time,’ objected Sager. ‘Much better smoke while we’re working.’
Reluctant silence.
‘Shall I put it to the vote?’ said Maack hesitatingly.
‘I’ve got another suggestion to make,’ said Kufalt eagerly. ‘Every two hours, or, if you like, every hour and a half, we can each smoke a cigarette. Maack will give the signal. Then we shall all enjoy it, and work all the quicker.’
‘Good idea! That sounds all right,’ said one of them approvingly.
‘That’s sensible.’
‘Every hour would be better.’
‘Every half-hour!’
‘Why not every ten minutes, you fathead.’
‘Well, I think—every hour and a half,’ said Maack. ‘Anyone against, hold up his hand. No one. Deutschmann’s and Kufalt’s proposal is accepted. Any other proposals?’
A moment’s silence, then Jänsch said: ‘I propose that we should start work now. It’s twenty past ten already.’
‘Right,’ said Maack emphatically. ‘To work, friends, to work.’
And in an instant the room was filled with the sharp metallic rattle of the machines, bells tinkled, carriages clashed back, envelope after envelope—the work began to fly.
Kufalt folded and folded. ‘German Products of the Highest Quality, from Emil Gnutzmann & Co., Successors to Stieling. Textile Distributors,’ he read on the prospectus.
He wondered whether he would ever manage to read the contents—Monte folded pretty well, at least as quickly as he did himself; however, it was bound to take a bit of time to get the knack of it. How well he had managed all this; it was really his own achievement, both the contract and the hire of the machines. Well, at worst he would return them at the end of the month . . .
Monte leaned towards him and whispered: ‘Doesn’t half throw his weight about—Maack; fancy all that talk about a mucky job like this.’
‘Maack,’ said Kufalt loudly; ‘Monte wants to give you ten pfennigs for whispering . . . ’
Monte was about to protest, but Jänsch said: ‘Hold your tongue, pie-face.’
Whereupon Maack said: ‘Jänsch, a groschen from you, please.’
Laughter. On and on. The first few hundred were finished. Kufalt collected them, noted each man’s share (they each worked on their own account), and the process of putting the folded prospectuses into the envelopes began. At first there was only a small heap in the corner of the room, then it grew and grew and spread, and rose into a pile.
‘Ten minutes to twelve,’ said Maack. ‘Cigarette break.’
And then once again typewriters rattled, prospectuses were folded and inserted. Outside the sky was blue. And the sun shone . . . They were sitting in a large attic room, which grew hotter and hotter. Without a word Maack opened the window, and later on Deutschmann left the door ajar. Jänsch was the first to take off his jacket, then the others did so too. Jänsch was the first to take off his collar and tie, then the others did so too. Jänsch was the first to slip out of his shirt, and type bare above the waist, to roars of laughter; then the others did so too.
Typewriters rattled, prospectuses were folded and inserted.
‘Twenty past one,’ said Maack. ‘Half-hour midday break. Break for talking.’
They were all in high excitement; they reckoned up how much they had done, and how late they would have to work, to get ten thousand done that day.
‘It will be twelve o’clock at least,’ said Maack gloomily.
‘Nonsense,’ replied Jänsch. ‘We have only to get properly into the swing. Not later than eleven.’
‘This is quite a sight,’ laughed Deutschmann. ‘Jauch ought to see us sitting here half naked!’
‘It’s good for work.’
‘Quite a sight for little pretty boy,’ shouted Fasse. ‘I won’t have you say that,’ screamed Monte. ‘To work!’ cried Maack. ‘No more talking.’
At twenty past nine Kufalt announced
with much solemnity, ‘Ten thousand, friends, the first ten thousand.’
‘Hurrah!’
‘All hail!’
And Monte squeaked: ‘Kufalt owes a groschen.’
‘So I do,’ said Kufalt; ‘and I’ll pay it.’ And he added, with outstretched fingers: ‘Guys, this is great.’
‘Tomorrow morning at eight,’ cried Maack.
‘All right,’ shouted Sager.
‘Good evening, friends.’
‘Absolutely OK.’
VII
‘You’re becoming quite a playboy, Herr Kufalt!’ said Liese.
She was standing on the dark landing; it was ten o’clock in the evening, and he divined rather than saw her face. But he could hear the mockery in her voice.
‘Yes,’ he said shortly, and went into his room.
‘I suppose you’re still angry with me,’ she laughed, and followed him.
He switched on the light, put his briefcase down on a chair, and took off his jacket.
‘I am tired, Fräulein Behn,’ he said. ‘I want to go to sleep at once.’
He ventured no more than a fleeting glance at her as she stood in the doorway. She had certainly been in bed; she was wearing a bright white and yellow bath robe, her legs were bare and on her feet were little blue slippers.
‘Men,’ she said, ‘are funny. They think when they’ve slept with a girl once they can sleep with her whenever they like.’
He flushed. He felt it again; a sort of glowing cloud wafted from her to him. But he would not. What had Maack said? A month without girls. A month’s probation. And of course she would come on the very first day of that month. Tormentress!
‘I don’t think anything at all,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m tired. I have worked hard all day, I want to go to sleep—alone.’ He hesitated, and stopped; then the red wave swept over him again, and he looked at her: ‘Besides, you didn’t sleep with me, you slept with Beerboom.’
‘Why don’t you get undressed?’ she said. ‘You needn’t mind me.’
‘No,’ he said; and sat down in a chair by the window, so that she was no longer in view.
Silence. Not a sound.
Outside, the rails of the overhead railway glittered, the lights flashed red, then green, the shutter of an advance signal clicked down and an express swung gracefully past, its couplings clanking and all its windows lit. It was night, a velvet night of summer, there were the trees below, so richly green; the sap of life surged up and came to fullness and burst forth, as though there were never any cold, decay, or death—wasn’t there a song: ‘This is the night of love’ . . . ?
No, no, no, no, she was the evil thing. She was the tormentress. Never two days the same. No hand could hold her . . .
He heard a faint rustle once or twice—she must have come farther into the room; wasn’t that the click of a closing latch? Perhaps she was standing behind him, perhaps she was reaching out a hand towards his hair, to bend his head back for a kiss, perhaps she was coming to him; where was she?
This night, through which the trains kept speeding past, was very still. The world seemed to hold its breath, in a sort of vast expectation. Poor, wayward, feeble heart—was this a new life? Why had she gone into the Hammer Park that night, and sat on the same bench as he, beside another man?
But he had not gone to her. He had taken a room from someone quite different. And then, in frantic haste, from someone else. And there she was—was that chance? And could you ever escape a chance that laid its snares so well? Was all defence in vain?
Silence; and a quiet cell. Work quota, extra food, a pot of dripping fried for him by the tailor, two books a week. He could go out onto the Mönckebergstrasse, for instance, where there was always a policeman, smash a shop window, grab something—a handbag, a camera, or whatever it might be—and land himself in jail; then peace would descend once more; no problems, no cares and no more struggles.
Wasn’t that her voice calling—‘Come’?
No, he would not. Not yet; perhaps never again.
Other people did not have this resource, they did not realize that there was a way out. They turned on the gas tap, hanged themselves with a clothes line or swallowed poison and passed out, with swollen bellies, distorted eyes, foul with their own excrement; he could simply go and steal something, and find himself in peace, in eternal patience, where all winds were stilled, on the other, sheltered, side of life.
Maack knew about this, Monte knew about it, so did Jänsch, Oeser, Deutschmann, Fasse—every one of them. The rest would never understand. They could not realize why convicts were like that, that the prison air had changed them, that something in their blood had decomposed, and altered their brains. All this life outside was something to which they could withdraw consent; and any instant they might do so.
He might kill Liese, or her mother. For others, such a thing was unthinkable and monstrous; for him it was perfectly in order. For five years he had lived with such people, with pimps and murderers and thieves—he knew it was quite possible to do, it was no more difficult than a thousand other things in life, it was certainly easier than hanging yourself.
They were so odd, these people outside; somehow they could not understand the things that every convict knew. A warped and useless citizen, a menace, an enemy to society—no doubt. Here he sat, Willi Kufalt, a man of about thirty, but as determined as any adolescent of fourteen to run away from any difficulty. Was he really like that? No, he had become so, he had been made so. And thus they had finished him off. There was an old expression from prison life that was still used of a man when his brain was weakening under the strain; he was said to be ‘spinning’. Probably at one time they actually used to spin in prison, and it would have been a normal enough occupation except when undertaken in prison air. There it ate into a man’s mind. In Kufalt’s case one should substitute ‘net-making’. For five years he had made nets. Now he was ‘net-making’. And it would go on all his life. All—his—life.
Wasn’t that her voice whispering: ‘Oh do come now’? Ah well, he would come, or perhaps he would not come; of course he would come. He did what lay to hand, what was expected of him; he would always do what he was told. So much had been taught him, and it stuck: ‘Go out of that door . . . Write your letter today . . . ’
Ah well . . .
But for the time being he was sitting here comfortably, looking out of the window. Let her wait; he too had had to wait, first for five years, and then three or four weeks for the young woman who was now visiting his bed.
Smoke and hair and flesh.
Good. Smoke and hair and flesh.
All this scheme of setting up a typing agency of their own was absurd; he had got round Maack, he could make a sudden effort, such as persuading six typewriter dealers in succession to sell a typewriter by instalments on the sole security of the same police registration card—but he could not deceive himself. It had got him. He spelt doktor with a ‘c’, he just needed a nice ordinary girl, and here he was running after a girl-woman like Liese . . .
‘Hi!—Liese,’ he said.
No answer.
No doubt—as before—she had crept into his bed, perhaps she was already asleep. Ah, that soft curved neck of hers, the vertebrae barely showing beneath the skin . . .
‘Liese—dearest Liese . . . ’
He looked round.
Of course the bed was empty, the room was empty, the door had been shut from outside.
And he had known it, he had of course known it all the time, he had been purposely deluding himself. Wasn’t it really just as well that she had gone? Desire is better than fulfilment—a lesson from prison; to covet a woman is better than to possess her—lesson from prison; fulfilment in the mind is better than fulfilment in the flesh—ditto from prison.
For a moment he stood irresolute in the centre of the room; then he began slowly to undress. He laid his underclothes neatly on a chair, hung his coat and waistcoat on a hanger, and put his trousers in a press. He washed his face a
nd hands, and cleaned his teeth . . .
. . . And he took blankets and pillow from his bed, slipped barefoot across the landing to the door of her room, and there deposited his bedclothes; once more he went back to his room to turn out the light. Then he settled himself outside her door, wrapped in his blankets.
It was already dark in her room, not a glimmer of light could be seen through the cracks in the door; she was surely asleep, not a sound from within.
There he lay, he did not sleep, his brain and heart thrilled within him: ‘Here I lie, please don’t come for me. It’s so lovely to lie outside your door and be despised . . . ’
And at last he too went to sleep . . .
He was awakened by her eyes upon him. She was kneeling at his side, she had slipped an arm under his neck and laid his head against her breast.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘my dear—is it so hard?’
‘It’s lovely,’ he whispered, still half in dream and sleep. ‘It’s so lovely.’
‘But it’s so late, my dear,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll have to get up soon. And I must go to the office straight away. But this evening, won’t we—this evening?’
‘Leave it like this, Liese, and don’t torment me.’
‘It’ll be lovely,’ she whispered again. ‘I’ll make it so lovely for you. You’ll be back early, won’t you? I’ll wait for you.’
‘Oh, leave it like this . . . ’
‘You’ll be back early? Quite early?’
Oh, the fragrance of her bosom!
‘I’ll see . . . I’ll try to manage . . . as early as I can . . . ’
‘Oh, my darling!’
VIII
‘Seems all right,’ said Herr Bär; ‘quite all right.’
He was sampling the first ten thousand, taking out an envelope here and there from the packets and surveying it. ‘If you keep on like this, we shan’t quarrel.’
Kufalt bowed and said: ‘We’ll do better than that, when we’ve got into our stride.’
‘All right, Herr Meierbeer,’ said Herr Bär once more, with a friendly glance at Kufalt. ‘Then good morning.’