Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  The messenger stood in the doorway. ‘A Herr Kufalt to see you. He says you know about him.’

  Scialoja had a pencil in his hand and was writing. He barely looked up as he said: ‘I’m busy. I have never heard of Herr Kufalt. I know nothing at all about him.’

  The door closed. Herr Scialoja was again alone. He had laid the pencil down and was listening to the wireless music. They were playing dances. Those corrupt and evil dances that did the people so much harm. There were such pretty peasant dances, all of which had been pushed aside by this urban kitsch. Still, he listened. It did not sound so bad, bad as it was.

  There was soon a further knock at the door. Once more the messenger appeared. ‘The gentleman says,’ he announced diffidently, ‘you gave him an appointment between eleven and one.’

  The chief editor replied: ‘I have so many things in my head; I must work, don’t you understand? I made no appointment. Send the man away.’

  The door again closed. Once more the music and the papers and all the tiresome manuscripts by other hands than his.

  Was the messenger really coming back? Would he dare? Yes, he did! This time he had a bit of paper in his hand—a letter. ‘The gentleman won’t go away, he says you wrote him this letter.’

  The messenger stood in the doorway with the letter in his hand. Scialoja was writing. He said abruptly: ‘One moment, please, I am busy.’

  And he wrote for quite a while.

  Then he put down his pencil with a sigh. ‘Show me the letter,’ he said.

  He read it through, once, twice; he carefully examined the signature: signatures of great men can be forged, so he examined the signature. Then he said: ‘Bring the man in. But tell him I can only spare him a minute. I am busy.’

  Kufalt stood in the chief editor’s office in front of the white-faced man with the black parting, who was writing and did not look up.

  Half an hour before, in his own room, Kufalt had still been doubtful whether he would use the letter. But resistance breeds resistance: ‘What thou hast written, little friend, that do.’

  ‘Well—what is it?’ asked Scialoja, and went on writing.

  ‘I gave full particulars in my first letter to you,’ said Kufalt in a hesitating tone.

  The chief editor looked up. He smiled. ‘I have so many things in my head,’ he said. ‘Hundreds come to me for help. I am known all over the country. What is it you want?’

  ‘A job,’ said Kufalt. ‘Some work to do. Any kind of work.’

  And he added in a low tone: ‘I mentioned in my letter that I had been in prison. I can get no work. I thought that just you, sir . . . ’

  That was really the right appeal to the great man: just you, sir; on the other hand the great man could not admit that there were cases that he had not met before. So he said:

  ‘Dozens of ex-convicts come to me for help—dozens, I tell you.’

  He had stopped writing and eyed Kufalt with friendly detachment.

  Kufalt stood expectant.

  ‘Yes,’ said the great man; and once again, ‘Yes.’

  Kufalt still did not know what to say. So he stood and waited.

  ‘You see,’ said the great man, ‘I have to work; I represent the people, the simple people, you understand? Blood and soil, you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt patiently.

  ‘I have to conserve my energy,’ went on Scialoja. ‘I belong to my vocation. Do you understand what a vocation means?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt again.

  The chief editor surveyed his visitor as though the matter was settled. But Kufalt did not agree; there was no need for him to be asked to call between eleven and one, merely to be informed that another man had a vocation, whereas he had none.

  He stood and did not move.

  ‘Look,’ said Herr Scialoja. ‘You might inquire again later on. As I said, I feel very sorry for you. The governor of the prison gave me an excellent report of you.’

  His memory seemed to be coming back to him, in spite of the thousand things that went through his head. So Kufalt tried once more.

  ‘Just a little work,’ he said; ‘one or two hours a day.’ And he added persuasively: ‘I have my own typewriter.’

  Scialoja’s face assumed a sympathetic expression.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘I live only for my own work. Perhaps you had better see our business manager.’

  ‘Would you recommend me to your business manager?’ said Kufalt.

  ‘But, my dear sir, I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘But you had a talk with the prison governor about me.’

  ‘The governor of the prison,’ said the chief editor, suddenly returning to earth, ‘naturally recommends all his discharged prisoners, so as to save himself trouble.’

  ‘But why did you tell me to come and see you?’ asked Kufalt.

  ‘Now look,’ said the great man with a sudden inspiration. ‘We have a sort of fund here, I’ll give you an order on it for three marks if you’ll promise not to come back again.’

  Kufalt stood silent for a moment. He thought it over. Then all his diffidence departed, and he said abruptly:

  ‘You live in the Dottistrasse, don’t you, Herr Scialoja, in a villa?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the chief editor, looking puzzled.

  ‘Ah,’ said Kufalt. ‘That’s fine. Office shuts at six, I suppose?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Scialoja.

  ‘Because it’s pretty dark around there,’ said Kufalt, and laughed. And, still laughing, he walked out of the editor’s office.

  He left an agitated man behind him.

  VII

  The laughter with which Kufalt had left the office did not last very long. The Dottistrasse was certainly dark about six in the evening, and it was certainly pleasant to know that for some time to come Herr Scialoja would go home in a state of nervousness and would probably get some sub-editor or compositor to see him home—but what was the use of that!

  Four hundred and thirty marks was not a great deal of money, and the end of it could be easily reckoned. Well, he would go to the six clergymen whose addresses he had looked up at the counter of the newspaper office, though he was sure that nothing much would come of that either. Among the six clergymen there was one whom Kufalt knew. That was the Catholic priest, whose altar Kufalt had had to look after in the prison; a stern man, advanced in years. Kufalt had often fallen out with him. Perhaps the priest made Kufalt pay for it, that the officials had foisted a Protestant on him for this work.

  However, as Kufalt walked along the street and thought matters over, the man did not seem so bad. He had done his best for his prisoners, and though he snubbed and scolded them he was always there when they wanted him. Perhaps he would be there now that Kufalt wanted him.

  Kufalt made up his mind at once; after that bloody Scialoja, he would go straight to the priest.

  A nun, or someone who looked like one, opened the door to him, her white face almost hidden under a great coif. Kufalt had to wait a while in the hall; the house was as still as death. He had to wait a long while; but, after all, he had nothing else to do, nothing at all.

  At last the priest appeared. The tall, powerful figure went slowly up to him, and asked him, in a slow and gentle voice, what he wanted. He had not recognized Kufalt, and Kufalt had to remind him of the prison.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the priest, still not quite remembering his visitor. ‘But you look quite different now. So neat.’

  ‘That’s the different clothes,’ Kufalt reminded him.

  ‘To be sure,’ said the priest, ‘yes, different clothes.’

  He still spoke in a slow and gentle voice; he was certainly a peasant’s son from the coast, where the men have just this gentleness and strength.

  ‘And what can I do for you now?’

  Kufalt told his story, the priest listened, even asking a few questions, and Kufalt noticed that he understood how a man might feel.

  In the en
d the priest said briefly: ‘I will give you a note for the manager of a tannery. I don’t say that it will be any use. But I will give it to you.’

  He sat down and wrote; then he looked up and said: ‘But you are not a Catholic, are you?’

  It occurred to Kufalt to lie, but he said in a low tone, ‘No.’

  ‘Good,’ said the priest, and went on writing.

  ‘Go round at once,’ he then said. ‘The man is sure to be at home for his dinner.’ He shook his head. ‘But don’t be too hopeful, there is much worse distress than yours. Have you any money left?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘And clothes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Well, perhaps you will come and see me again if this is no good. I will see what I can do . . . ’

  He gave Kufalt his hand.

  Kufalt handed in the letter at the manager’s house and waited at the door. His heart throbbed a little—the kind old man had told him not to be too hopeful—but what if something came of it?

  The maid came back, slipped some money into his hand and said: ‘You need not call again.’ Then she shut the door.

  He stood gloomily on the steps and counted the money; it was thirty pfennigs. He could hear the maid moving about the kitchen, dropped the thirty pfennigs through the letterbox, and ran down the steps as he heard them drop into the box.

  Then he made his way home, downcast and miserable. In a shop on the Königstrasse he bought two dried herrings; there was bread in the house and milk, so his daily lunch, à la Maack, was complete. Then he could sleep after his food or not, just as his head felt disposed, and then came the bright spot of the evening, the visit to Emil Bruhn. And, if Emil Bruhn had done well at his timber works that week, they might even go to a dance hall. Such were the fantastic plans that hovered in his mind. Grasping the herrings in their greasy parchment paper, Kufalt opened his door and stood still.

  A lanky, red-faced man with a long nose was sitting by the window, reading a newspaper, which he proceeded to fold up.

  ‘Herr Kufalt, I take it?’ said the man. ‘Pardon my making myself at home like this. Your landlady didn’t seem to mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Kufalt, rather taken aback.

  ‘My name is Dietrich,’ said the man, looking amicably at Kufalt with quick, mouse-like eyes set strangely near the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Mine is Kufalt,’ said Kufalt quite superfluously. He still did not know who his visitor was.

  This the stranger realized at once.

  ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I see you don’t remember. You wrote to the Town and Country Messenger about a job; and about your unfortunate position. There was some talk about your letter in the office, but of course none of the big people will do anything, and that’s why I’m here.’

  He smiled affably, and seemed to regard the matter as explained.

  The Town and Country Messenger was the smaller competitor of the more important paper, upon whose editor Kufalt had already called.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt doubtfully, putting the herrings down on the washstand, ‘and have you a job for me?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Herr Dietrich. ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘And what must I do about a possible job?’

  They had both sat down and were surveying each other with friendly eyes.

  ‘I may tell you,’ said Herr Dietrich, and leaned so near to Kufalt that he became very aware that Herr Dietrich had been drinking brandy; ‘I may tell you that I am not on the staff of the Town and Country Messenger. I am on my own.’

  Kufalt recoiled slightly: as much at his visitor’s breath as at his announcement.

  ‘But,’ said Herr Dietrich, drawing out the word, ‘I am a very busy man. I have a great many things in my head.’

  Kufalt thought he had heard that remark once before that day, and sat silent and expectant.

  ‘First,’ said Herr Dietrich, laying his hand softly on Kufalt’s, ‘First, I am subscription canvasser for the Town and Country Messenger.’

  He raised his hand and observed it meditatively. He did not seem to notice that the short and bitten nails looked rather dirty. After a pause, he laid it down again on Kufalt’s.

  ‘Secondly,’ said Herr Dietrich, ‘I am advertisement canvasser for the same paper.’

  Again the same manoeuvre with the hand. And again the hand returned to Kufalt’s.

  ‘Thirdly,’ said Herr Dietrich, ‘I canvass for voluntary health insurance and collect the subscriptions.’

  The hand again hovered in the air and again came back to Kufalt.

  ‘Fourthly, I collect the guild subscriptions for the local publicans’ union.’

  Kufalt was convinced that Herr Dietrich had been collecting the publicans’ subscriptions that very morning. He did not know how long Herr Dietrich had been sitting in his room. But the room smelt decidedly of spirits.

  ‘Fifthly,’ said Herr Dietrich gravely, ‘I also collect the membership subscriptions for the Old Oak Sports Club.

  ‘Sixthly, I am the business manager of the local Commerce and Transport Office, and I provide all the information which would otherwise have to be supplied by the entire staff of a Central European travel bureau.’

  Kufalt waited to see if there was any more to come, but the hand remained in the air, then found its way to Herr Dietrich’s pocket and rattled his small change.

  ‘Well, he’s not going to sting me for a loan,’ thought Kufalt.

  ‘I was utterly overcome by your story,’ said Herr Dietrich confidentially, ‘I assure you—utterly overcome.’

  Pause.

  It was really time for Kufalt to say something; but he said nothing. Herr Dietrich suddenly turned and looked straight into his interlocutor’s face. ‘And what do you imagine I can do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t yet know,’ said Kufalt dubiously.

  ‘I can’t pay you a salary,’ announced Dietrich with decision. ‘But I can offer you prospects.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kufalt non-committally.

  ‘Look,’ said Herr Dietrich, ‘I’m going to be quite candid with you. I am, as a matter of fact, a very candid man. My candour has done me harm a thousand times.’

  He looked at Kufalt with a friendly smile, and appeared to be at a loss how to go on.

  Then he had an idea.

  ‘By the way,’ said Herr Dietrich, ‘there’s a man called Lemcke has a public house just at the corner here. Can I offer you a glass of beer and a schnapps? We’ll get on much quicker like that.’

  Kufalt hesitated a moment. Then he said: ‘I never drink anything in the morning. It doesn’t suit me.’

  ‘Nor me either,’ said Herr Dietrich; ‘but you understand, owing to my connection with the publicans’ union . . . ’

  Kufalt took refuge in silence. Herr Dietrich fidgeted a bit, looked uneasily at his cigar and then said, more or less to the cigar:

  ‘We must come to a decision.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt politely.

  Suddenly Herr Dietrich got going.

  ‘Now look, my dear Herr Kufalt,’ he said, ‘after all, you don’t know me, and I’ve drunk a little brandy this morning. You go to the editor’s office tomorrow morning at twelve; there you’ll find our head honcho, Freese, and he’ll tell you the sort of man I am. Then I’ll let you collect the cash from all the associations and the union, on a percentage basis. And you can canvass for advertisements and subscribers, and if you do any other work for me I’ll pay you extra. Now what about it?’

  ‘What would that bring in monthly?’ asked Kufalt cautiously.

  ‘That depends entirely on you,’ said Herr Dietrich. ‘If, for example, you get a hundred subscribers in a month, at one mark twenty-five per subscriber, that makes a hundred and twenty-five marks, of which a quarter goes to me—well, it’s pretty easy money.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kufalt. ‘And what about the job of collecting it? People don’t like paying their subscriptions these days.’

&nb
sp; ‘That’s so,’ said Herr Dietrich. ‘You won’t become a millionaire. But it’s a living. Will you take it on or not?’

  ‘I’ll go and see Herr Freese,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘And there’s one more thing, my dear Herr Kufalt,’ said Herr Dietrich, leaning so close to Kufalt that he got the full benefit of the aroma of half a dozen brandies. ‘When you’re collecting the cash, you see, you’ll have hundreds of marks in hand, for which I shall be responsible.’

  He eyed Kufalt with an air of grave concern.

  ‘For which I shall be responsible,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt, and waited. He knew quite well what was coming, but he did not want to make it too easy for the other man.

  ‘Well now, my dear Herr Kufalt,’ said Herr Dietrich; ‘you mentioned it in your letter. That was what landed you in jail—I mean, that was how you came to fall into such misfortune.’

  ‘Then I can’t go round collecting money,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Oh, yes you can,’ insisted Herr Dietrich. ‘We can fix it somehow. You come from a good family. A security . . . ’

  ‘Then I’ll go and see Herr Freese tomorrow,’ said Kufalt, and got up.

  ‘You mean that there’s no question of a security? I would of course give you every possible guarantee for it.’

  ‘What can you be thinking of?’ cried Kufalt. ‘Do you suppose I would need to be writing begging letters if I could put up a large security?’

  ‘But what about a small one?’ asked Herr Dietrich. ‘You could settle up with me every day.’

  ‘Not even a small one,’ said Kufalt decisively. ‘In any case I would have to see Herr Freese.’

  ‘There’s no point in that,’ said Herr Dietrich, carefully stalking the door. ‘Freese is the rudest pig in the world. Besides,’ he said, as he succeeded in clutching the door handle; ‘besides, I only came to you because I was overcome by your story—utterly overcome.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Kufalt vaguely, and gazed at his long-nosed visitor thoughtfully. Suddenly he had an idea. ‘I wonder if you could lend me twenty marks?’ he said. ‘I’m pretty well cleaned out.’ He laughed.