Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  So he warmed to his tale and felt quite at ease to be sitting there and telling it. But suddenly he came to a halt, as though he had run dry, and he looked at the investigating magistrate with a helpless and expectant expression.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the latter, contemplating the cone of ash at the end of his cigar. ‘Well, that’s one way of telling the story. But Herr Marcetus and his friends don’t tell it quite like that.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Kufalt contemptuously, suddenly feeling very superior. ‘They’re just mad because we snaffled their job.’

  ‘We will not suggest,’ said the magistrate sternly, ‘that these gentlemen deliberately deposed falsely about you because you were their competitors. We will refrain from that, if you please.’

  And the magistrate looked coldly at Kufalt.

  Kufalt suddenly felt small again. What a fool he had been; the investigating magistrate and the pastor were both university men. And university men start by believing the best of each other. Especially when confronted by an insignificant ex-convict.

  ‘Now listen to me, Herr Kufalt,’ said the large man. ‘You know all about this kind of thing. You have been long enough in prison to know how easily a man gets into trouble.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt, with conviction.

  ‘And you know equally well that a man like you must be doubly careful. Doubly? A hundredfold!’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘Now even if I assume that everything you have told me is true—you must admit you have been excessively thoughtless? You pledged yourself for the money, you alone, on your own signature, for all six machines—and you had not nearly the means, nor any prospects even, to guarantee such a sum.’

  ‘But we agreed that an equal deduction should be made from the earnings of all the others.’

  ‘Ah! And now that your agency has collapsed and there is nothing more coming in from which deductions can be made, how are you going to pay?’

  Kufalt writhed. ‘If the Herr Pastor is so mean and makes it impossible for us to work . . . ’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the investigating magistrate sternly. ‘Use your common sense. What is that to the dealers? You have to pay 180 marks a month for twelve months, how are you going to do it?’

  Kufalt had an inspiration. ‘I’ll simply give the machines back. It is in the agreement that I am to give the machines back, if I don’t pay punctually.’

  The magistrate leaned forward. ‘And suppose the machines are gone? You understand me, suppose they have been stolen?’

  ‘But our machines won’t be stolen,’ said Kufalt incredulously.

  ‘Last night,’ said the magistrate significantly; ‘last night there was a burglary at your attic. The thieves took four machines . . . ’

  Kufalt crouched on his chair, his brain working frantically. ‘The bastards, it can only be one of us—who can it have been? Fasse? Oeser? Monte? Oh God, or perhaps the assistant typing room manager, Sager? And these people of course think I’m in it. The game’s up . . . the game’s up . . . !’

  He looked wildly at the magistrate.

  ‘And what are you going to do now, Herr Kufalt?’

  ‘I . . . ’ said Kufalt, straightening himself. ‘I will go back to prison. It’s no use, I see that quite clearly, I will go back . . . What do I care, it doesn’t matter to me . . . ’

  The investigating magistrate looked at him sharply: ‘And why did you tell Gnutzmann & Co. that your name was Meierbeer, Herr Kufalt? A man doesn’t give a false name if his business is above board.’

  ‘So that the Presto people wouldn’t know I had the contract,’ said Kufalt, and got up. ‘But there’s no point in all this, sir. Let me go back to my cell. I always have bad luck.’

  ‘Bad luck, indeed,’ snapped the magistrate. ‘You have a great deal more luck than you deserve. A man in a position like yours shouldn’t get himself into such a mess. You’re stupid and reckless. You’ll do no good if you carry on like this. Always discontented, always whining, always after what you haven’t got. You had quite a good, safe job at the typing agency, and after all it wasn’t so bad, even if they did bully you . . . But of course, you wanted adventure, you wanted to make a lot of money . . . ’ He was very contemptuous. ‘A silly young fool like you—!’

  Kufalt stood before him, an uneasy feeling in his mind: this was a proper dressing-down, certainly, but he had an idea that behind all this there was something different, something of goodwill . . .

  ‘Couldn’t you have made yourself a little more pleasant to Superintendent Specht?’ asked the magistrate. ‘He told me that when he questioned you, you behaved just like a hardened old criminal.’

  ‘Herr Specht treated me just as a police officer does treat a real criminal. Not like you’ve treated me, sir,’ said Kufalt artfully.

  ‘Nonsense! It was Specht who saved you, and Specht alone. Yesterday evening he was looking for those purchase agreements, and as he couldn’t find them in your lodging, he went along to that attic of yours in the night, and there he found them, but not till later. He found something else first—what do you think it was?’

  ‘The burglars . . . ’

  ‘And who do you think the burglars were?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ stammered Kufalt.

  ‘You know perfectly well. Now just show me if you’ve got an idea who are your friends and who are your enemies . . . ’

  ‘I . . . ’ began Kufalt, and stopped.

  ‘Out with it,’ said the investigating magistrate.

  ‘Fasse,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Oeser,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Monte,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Sager,’ said Kufalt more eagerly.

  ‘Maack,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘Jänsch,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘There; so now you know. It was lucky for you that Specht chanced upon it all. And it was lucky for you that the agreements had been kept in your office, and that Maack had carefully drawn up a sort of table showing the payments to be made by each of you . . . He seems to have changed his mind afterwards . . . your friend’s a rogue, Kufalt, a pitiable rogue.’

  ‘His girl’s expecting a baby,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the magistrate, and this time he was really angry. ‘This whole business was a piece of flat, futile idiocy on your part. Either you want to get straight again, or you don’t, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said the magistrate. ‘The typewriters will be returned to their owners by the police, and then the prosecutions will be withdrawn. You will have to wait until that has been done. But I think we can let you out this evening or tomorrow morning.’

  6

  On His Own

  I

  A young man was walking along the Mönckebergstrasse. With a large cardboard box under each arm, he pushed his way hurriedly through the throng that, on this lovely autumn afternoon, were strolling, stopping, staring into shop windows, walking into shops and out again. He hurried with bent head past them all.

  At the Karstadt store he caught a sidelong glimpse of a great window display of brilliant dresses, the silky sheen of women; a vision of bright-coloured loveliness.

  The young man quickened his step, looked straight in front of him. Three blocks farther on stood the big office building that was his destination. He mumbled to the porter: ‘China-Export,’ spurned the lift and escalator, and ran up the staircase.

  The showroom, full of glass, fabrics, Buddhas and porcelain, was still very quiet at that hour of the morning. A single apprentice, a small, undersized urchin with prominent ears so raw and red that they looked as if his boss had just been pulling them, was flicking a feather duster about.

  ‘Yes?’ said the apprentice.

  ‘Herr Brammer,’ said Kufalt. And: ‘Thanks, I know the way.’

  He walked through two offices, where girls were sitting at typewriters, and entered a third. There Herr Brammer had his domain, behind a long, rattli
ng, tinkling bookkeeping machine, and surrounded by all manner of brightly coloured cards and invoices.

  ‘The last two thousand, Herr Brammer,’ said Kufalt.

  Herr Brammer was himself quite a young man, with a fresh face, fair hair and the rather short Hamburg upper lip.

  Herr Brammer pressed on a couple of keys, the carriage slid back with a rattle and a ring, and spat out a card. Herr Brammer read it with a wrinkled brow and said: ‘Will you put them down?’

  Kufalt did so.

  ‘The total is quite correct?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Right,’ said Herr Brammer; he put the card on his table, fished about somewhere in the background for a receipt form, filled it in, handed it to Kufalt along with a pencil; and Kufalt found a ten-mark note in his hand.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Herr Brammer with emphasis. He looked down at his machine, then at Kufalt, and said with a polite smile: ‘Good morning, then, Herr Kufalt.’

  ‘Good morning, Herr Brammer,’ said Kufalt with equal politeness. But he did not turn to go, though this was plainly expected of him; he said hesitatingly: ‘There won’t be anything more?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Herr Brammer.

  ‘No—no,’ said Kufalt hastily.

  ‘The boss doesn’t intend to send out any more catalogues at present, you understand; in such bad times—’

  ‘I understand,’ said Kufalt. He had noticed the cashbox in the background; there seemed to be quite a lot of money in it, an improbable amount of money, not for immediate expenses, but just for any emergency that might arise.

  ‘Yes . . . ’ said Herr Brammer, observing Kufalt with close attention.

  Under his gaze Kufalt slowly flushed. He noticed himself getting redder and redder, and said awkwardly: ‘You couldn’t perhaps recommend me to another firm?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Herr Brammer. ‘Only . . . You know . . . ’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt hastily, ‘of course.’

  He tried to free himself from Brammer’s steady gaze, and get another glance at the cashbox. It was such a pleasant sight; but no, the other’s eyes held his fast.

  Moreover, Herr Brammer seemed to have grown annoyed about something: ‘Besides, Herr Kufalt, you are too expensive. Five marks for a thousand addresses! Every other day we have a man in who will do them for four, or three. I can’t answer for it to the boss.’

  ‘No,’ said Kufalt suddenly. He had not had another look at the cashbox, and he knew he would never see it again. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t do it cheaper than that, Herr Brammer.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the other. ‘Then good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ replied Kufalt, and left.

  II

  The shortest way from the Mönckebergstrasse to the Raboisen takes barely five minutes. But Kufalt did not take the shortest way. He had typed for two days, and half the nights as well, hardly looking up from his machine. Now he had all the time that God had made; he was again without work, and could stroll along in peace. But though he had no work he had money, ten marks just received, and one mark twenty cash in hand; eleven marks twenty in all. A nice little sum. A substantial barrier between himself and the void. He would, however, have to pay his tiresome old landlady at least three marks on account, or she would put him on the street.

  What a lovely morning for a walk!

  No, Kufalt no longer lived in the Marienthaler Strasse; he lived in the Raboisen, in a dingy lair at the far end of a dark backyard; however, he was not going there now, he was going to take a walk by the Alster on this fine morning, like a gentleman of leisure . . .

  ‘Besides, you are too expensive, Herr Kufalt. Others will do it for three marks . . . ’

  Nasty little ape! Nasty little long-tailed ape. So he had lost that work too, just because he had stared at the cashbox like that, and now he had no work at all. Was his belly less empty on that account? It might not sit well with any man in these hard times, but he would give himself a little treat first.

  And Kufalt bought four rolls and a quarter of liver sausage; twenty-five pfennigs, leaving ten ninety-five.

  Well, why shouldn’t he? Just for a picnic? And why not?

  The pleasant room in the Marienthaler was a matter of the past. No more fluttering curtains, clanking trains, obscene mothers, perverse Lieses. He had simply gone, and gone without a word. When Kufalt got back from the police station, there was no one at home. And as there was no one at home, Kufalt quietly and silently packed up his things and departed. Leaving no address.

  To tell the truth, there might have been another chance; there had been a moment of waiting or, more precisely, a full half-hour, while Kufalt had paced up and down. He could have got a taxi and been spirited away at once, wherever the driver might suggest; no, he had paced up and down, and waited.

  Is she coming?

  No, she is not coming.

  There had been one shameful night when we lay outside her door—shall we venture in now? Yes, we are mad, the blood surges to the brain, we smell her clothes and sniff at her bed . . .

  But then a door opens, and we dash out on the landing, our heart throbbing with fear, lest it may be she. But it is only one of the neighbours’ doors.

  That was the end; we could really stand no more, the last days had been a little too much, what with Beerboom, Cito-Presto, arrest by the police, and his good friends Maack and Jänsch—let’s get a taxi and depart.

  It was not enough to have found a room at last in one of the backyards of the Raboisen, a dark, dirty, stinking hole with tarnished windows, next door to a hovel of a kitchen, about the size of a towel, inhabited by countless cockroaches and an old and crazy landlady called Dübel—a proper lodging for the broken, discouraged, desperate Kufalt; a dark lair where he could lie in the folds of a lumpy eiderdown and doze for hours and hours; but that was not enough.

  For at times there came a flash within him: hope—ambition; all—oh God!—might yet be well.

  An idea sped into his brain: had he not paid money on his typewriter, and should that money all be lost?

  A little flower blossomed in his dreams; a typewriter of his own was something significant, not merely an object of steel and iron, composed of wheels and springs and cylinders and rubber—a typewriter was a hope, with a typewriter a man might hack his way through life, it was a draft upon the future. No more three hundred thousand contracts but, as he lay there on his bed, apparently dazed by the extent of his collapse, while his thoughts turned in the eternal dismal, grinding round of self-reproach: ‘If only I had . . . if only I had not . . . !’; in his mind’s eye he saw himself going from office to office and asking, ‘Have you got some typing for me to do?’

  Surely it must be possible to earn enough in a great city like Hamburg to keep a man from starving?

  And he had succeeded; he had been allowed to give his kindly friend the investigating magistrate as a reference, an equally kindly firm had listened to his appeal, and he had got a typewriter. Not a new one, but one that had been very carefully treated; 150 marks—30 marks up front and the remaining 120 in cash.

  How delighted he had been with his old Mercedes in the first days he had it, how he had scoured and polished it, brushed away the faintest speck of dust, tested all the keys and listened for the tinkle of the bell at the end of the line.

  And yet—he was not now living in a room, he was housed in a hovel, a burrow into which one crawled and lay. There stood the draft upon the future under its oilcloth cover; hadn’t he better get up and collect orders?

  Very well. He got up and went out, and occupied a long-distance telephone box at the Head Post Office for an hour and a half, while he copied out half the commercial telephone directory . . .

  Then he went on his way, rang twice, had two interviews, and was twice sent about his business; and so home, to his hovel and his hideous bed. There was no sense in taking off his boots, he had no idea whether he w
ould feel like putting them on again . . . so he flung himself on the bed in his boots and lay and brooded . . .

  ‘I was a convict, I am a convict, I shall always be a convict. It’s no use.

  ‘I couldn’t even make a decent crook; I suppose I may get a few orders, but how am I to live on that?

  ‘And the money goes, however frugal I am, it goes and goes, ten marks ninety-five between me and nothing—and what then?

  ‘I can pawn what I’ve got left, I can pawn the machine—and what then? I can give up this hole, and get somewhere to sleep, I might even doss at the Hallelujah Brothers—and what then?’

  Oh Kufalt, Kufalt, make up your mind!

  But when it is made up, what then?

  III

  So Willi Kufalt sat on a bench by the outer Alster and tried to make up his mind. And in the process he consumed his four rolls and his quarter of sausage, and very good they were; he did not need to worry about his appetite—if only all his affairs were equally sound!

  Strange: in these last few gloomy weeks, the memory of the Central Prison in that little town seemed like a blessed island emerging out of the grey and misty ocean of his life. Hadn’t it been a glorious peaceful time when he lived in his cell and did not need to think about money, food, work or lodgings?

  He got up in the morning and cleaned his cell, he went out at the recreation period and talked with the companions of his destiny, he stood at the net and wove—the hours went by, there were peas for dinner and he was glad, or there was gruel and he was angry, but he could look forward to lentils next day—truly, a blessed island.

  No wonder that, with the island, appeared the vision of a fair-haired seal-like head, little Emil Bruhn, with his pale blue eyes. Emil had been right; he ought to have joined him instead of going to Hamburg.

  There had been two alternatives before him then: Batzke—crook he was, and crook he would remain; and Bruhn—‘never, never again’; but he, Willi Kufalt, fool that he was, had never said yes, and never said no, and here he sat, his talents wasted.