Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  He decided not to begin with the bakers or the butchers; he would have to go into a shop, and he remembered from old days how a travelling salesman was cut abruptly short when a customer entered and had to wait, with a solemn and obsequious smile, till the customer was satisfied. The painters are difficult enough to begin with.

  He had made his list and was now looking up the addresses on a plan of the town and sketching out a round—which seemed likely to lead him all over it; he would get to know it pretty well in the next few weeks.

  He was still thus engaged when the door opened and Herr Freese appeared, grey, dishevelled, with bloodshot blinking eyes. He had some sheets of newspaper in his hand. ‘There,’ he croaked. He cleared his throat, several times. ‘From our syndic. Pile of crap! But you’d better know what you’re going to tout for.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt politely, and took the sheets.

  ‘Right,’ said Freese. He looked at Kufalt; it was an evil, bitter face, with cold, fishy eyes.

  ‘Young,’ he muttered. ‘Too young.’ And he added, with a sudden air of concern: ‘Do you think you’ll manage it?’

  ‘Manage what?’

  ‘Six subscribers a day.’

  ‘I don’t yet know, I’ve never done it before.’

  ‘He doesn’t know, he hasn’t done it before, he won’t manage it, and the other rag’s circulation going up and up . . . ’ There he stood with bowed head, his thick blue lips quivering under his walrus moustache.

  Then he remembered: ‘By the way, where are those twenty marks you got from Dietrich?’ he asked. ‘Have you brought them?’

  ‘I haven’t got twenty marks now,’ said Kufalt.

  Freese looked at him for a while. A glint of mockery flickered in his eyes. ‘Won’t trust me with twenty marks, and goes out canvassing for me . . . How they struggle to keep above water!’ he whispered, chuckling.

  The spark went out. An evil, querulous man remained. ‘That cover belongs to the sofa, young man, do you hear?’ he said savagely. ‘It’s a very important cover, you see! I can dream of it, ha!’

  He screamed out the ‘ha!’ with unnatural violence, it was like the screech of a bird; and then he slammed the door.

  Kufalt settled down to an article on the effects on the smaller bakers of the prohibition of night bakery. Then he fell to reading the serial.

  XV

  It was now eleven o’clock, and the time had come; Kufalt had no excuse for dallying any longer. He picked up his briefcase and said to Herr Kraft in a professional tone: ‘Well, I’m off on my round,’ and departed.

  The round as planned began ten houses away from the Town and Country Messenger, at Retzlatt’s paint shop, but at the last moment Kufalt changed it; he would pay his first call on Benzin’s, in the Ulmenstrasse, on the outskirts of the town. That would postpone the fatal moment, and he would also have time to memorize his speech on the way.

  However, it proved impossible to memorize the speech. In the street he met Dietrich. Three houses away from the Messenger office he came up to Kufalt and said: ‘Good day, Herr Kufalt.’

  ‘Good day, Herr Dietrich,’ said Kufalt, lifted his hat and walked on. Dietrich walked with him. Dietrich had lost his wholesome, ruddy complexion of the day before; he looked blotched and dissipated, and the tip of his long nose was white.

  ‘You’ll get some shocks when you start canvassing,’ said Dietrich.

  Kufalt did not answer and walked on. It was foolish, the man had done him no harm; indeed, the man had lent him twenty marks, but he felt furious with him.

  ‘I wouldn’t walk about with a briefcase like that,’ said Dietrich dubiously. ‘It always suggests a travelling salesman. Just put the receipt book in your overcoat pocket, and they’ll all think you’re a new customer, and bow you into the shop.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kufalt politely, and walked on. But he could not restrain his curiosity, and said: ‘Why did Freese fire you? Over the 25 per cent you tried to get out of me?’

  ‘Look,’ suggested Dietrich, ‘I’ll give you all the tips, especially over the advertisement canvassing, and you give me 25 per cent in return. I’ll leave the accounts to you.’

  ‘Without security?’ asked Kufalt.

  ‘Without security,’ agreed Dietrich.

  ‘I don’t need any tips,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Just as you like,’ said Dietrich equably. ‘You never know; sometimes people are more stupid than you think. However, I’ll get one up on Freese. I am going now to the Friend.’

  ‘But this isn’t the way to the Friend office,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Listen, Herr Kufalt,’ said Dietrich, ‘you needn’t give me back that twenty marks yet. I told you we will work together, and so we will. But you won’t give it to Freese either, will you? Just tell Freese you’ve paid it back.’

  Pause.

  ‘He’d only buy brandy with it.’

  Pause.

  Dietrich laughed, a rather rueful laugh. ‘And I would only buy brandy with it too, anyway.’ At this point a large smile came over his face. ‘Why, here’s the Pine, my old friend Schmidt’s place. Shall we have one to buck us up? Me for the Friend, and you for your first customer?’

  ‘I don’t drink . . . ’

  ‘Oh no, oh yes; you don’t drink in the morning,’ said Dietrich hastily. ‘It’s an excellent principle, but I’m going inside . . . ’

  He stopped and contemplated the windows of the tavern. ‘Tell me, when you’ve drunk too much, do you feel you need to start again at once next day? . . . If not, my stomach heaves.’ He smiled, then added gloomily: ‘But the effect doesn’t last, it heaves quicker every time . . . Well, I’m going to have one now, or I’ll vomit.’ He wondered: ‘I’ll just see if old Schmidt’s beer has come up the pipes yet. If not, I’ll vomit.’

  He reached out a hand. ‘Well, best of luck.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Kufalt, and shook the hand. His anger had gone; he was even a little touched. ‘How about laying off drink today, Herr Dietrich . . . ?’

  ‘Look,’ said Dietrich; ‘even if they have sacked me, I’ll have to go on reading the old Messenger. Write me out a receipt: Dietrich, Wollenweberstrasse 37 III.’

  Slowly Kufalt produced his receipt book and pencil.

  ‘The money, eh?’ laughed Dietrich. ‘Of course you will get your mark twenty-five. Here . . . ’ He fumbled in his pockets. ‘One mark twenty-five. Exactly right.’

  Kufalt wrote. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, and gave Dietrich the receipt.

  ‘Not at all,’ said he. ‘Not at all. We will be working together, as I told you.’

  And he vanished into the tavern, slipping the receipt under his hatband.

  XVI

  Kufalt’s heart throbbed within him as he stood at the door of his first real customer. He waited a while before he pulled the bell, until it quietened down a little, but it only thumped the harder.

  At last he made up his mind to ring; steps came along the passage, the door opened and a young girl stood before him.

  ‘What, please?’ she asked.

  ‘May I speak to Herr Benzin?’ asked Kufalt.

  ‘Certainly,’ said she.

  She led the way along the passage and opened a door. ‘Father, here’s a gentleman for you.’

  In the room sat an elderly, pleasant-looking woman at a table, slicing cabbage into a bowl. Herr Benzin, a bearded gentleman, was standing at the window with another man.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ said Herr Benzin.

  Kufalt, in the centre of the room, bowed. His heart contracted; he wondered with horror whether he would be able to utter a word.

  Then he heard himself speak. Good day. Yes, he came from the office of the Town and Country Messenger. Might he be permitted to ask whether Herr Benzin could not be persuaded to subscribe to the paper, to begin with, perhaps, on trial?

  ‘We,’ said Kufalt, warming to his work, ‘are primarily the paper of the industrial middle class, and more especially represe
nt the interests of trade. The syndic of your trade, Herr Benzin, is our regular contributor. In the last few weeks we have published articles by him on trade questions which have attracted the attention of the Chamber of Commerce. In these hard times friends must stand together, and as we are specially active on behalf of trade . . . ’

  Here he became involved; but soon extricated himself. With a sidelong glance at the wife, he proceeded: ‘As regards our serials, they are by the top authors and are exceedingly popular in family circles. We have a serial now running, of which today’s instalment is the hundred and sixty-seventh. It deals with the conflict between gamekeepers and poachers . . . ’

  He stopped abruptly. He had run dry; he had thought to make a final effort, a really pressing peroration—no, the words would not come. He stood and looked rather confusedly round the room.

  They all looked at him; the pendulum clock on the wall ticked incredibly loudly, and he could hear the children shouting in the street outside.

  ‘Perhaps we might give it a trial, Father?’ said the wife finally. ‘How much is the Messenger?’

  Then Kufalt got under way again, the receipt book appeared, money changed hands; a polite ‘Thank you very much. Good morning.’

  And Kufalt was again in the street, five quarter-marks the richer. Five quarter-marks in five minutes. Two hundred and fifty addresses! At least three hours’ typing!

  Kufalt walked on air as he went to call on Herr Herzog, also in the paint trade.

  XVII

  ‘How many?’ the girl at the typewriter called out to Kufalt as he dashed through the despatch room.

  ‘How many?’ asked Herr Kraft, who was standing in the editor’s room beside Freese’s chair and looked attentively at Kufalt’s face.

  ‘Well?’ asked Freese, blinking.

  ‘Guess!’ cried Kufalt, and flung his hat on the table and his briefcase on a chair, as though he were quite at home.

  But he did not wait. ‘I took the paint shops today. I thought they would be the best to begin with, Herr Kraft; tomorrow I’ll take the upholsterers, saddlers and decorators . . . ’

  ‘And how many?’ asked Kraft.

  Freese merely looked at him.

  ‘Yes, how many? There are twenty-nine paint shops on this list, five were not at home—I’ll fix them up next time. I interviewed twenty-four . . . ’

  ‘And how many?’

  ‘Anyhow, twenty-four are far too many on one day. From tomorrow I shan’t try more than fifteen. I was much too tired when I got to the last, and I could only reel it off. One must convince people . . . ’

  ‘Of what?’ asked Freese.

  ‘Well, that they ought to take the Messenger.’

  ‘Have you read the Messenger, by any chance? Today you can only have convinced people of the fact that you are very hard up.’

  ‘Maybe,’ laughed Kufalt. ‘Now just you guess, gentlemen, out of twenty-four I . . . ’

  ‘Six,’ said Kraft, who was getting tired of all this. ‘Show me your book.’

  ‘No, not six,’ cried Kufalt. ‘Nine. What do you think of that! Nine out of twenty-four, almost 40 per cent!’

  He beamed.

  ‘Nine,’ said Kraft; ‘nine—yes, that’s pretty good . . . ’

  ‘Nine,’ croaked Freese; ‘nine new subscribers on one day . . . ’

  His hand reached across the table towards the brandy bottle: ‘We’ll all three of us have one on that . . . ’ He broke off; his hand did not grasp the bottle, it picked up a pen. ‘No we won’t. Kraft, I think I’ll go on with my series of articles about the history of the town . . . People are still interested, I think. Nine—let’s call it fifty new subscribers a week . . . The Friend will throw up . . . ’

  ‘Dietrich’s going to the Friend,’ announced Kufalt. ‘He’s going to canvass for them.’

  They merely laughed.

  ‘Fat chance of them taking him! The man’s a good-for-nothing; he never kept accounts and only went out to work when he hadn’t a penny in his pocket.’

  ‘I got a subscription out of him,’ boasted Kufalt. ‘He actually paid in cash . . . Dietrich . . . Wollenweberstrasse . . . ’

  ‘Get out!’ said Freese. ‘I want to work. Kraft, take that brandy, and pour it down the WC.’

  Kraft grinned, and clasped the brandy bottle tenderly under his arm.

  ‘Well, well. Lock the bottle up in your desk; the man’s full of himself today; but I dare say he’ll only get two tomorrow. Or none at all.’

  Freese sighed, and looked sceptically at Kufalt over his pince-nez.

  ‘Besides, I’m playing skat this evening. I can start writing tomorrow. We must first see how it goes. One swallow doesn’t make a summer. Put the bottle on my table again, Kraft; it won’t get fuller in your desk. Good evening, gentlemen.’

  XVIII

  Many prisoners like to go back to their prison—on a visit. It really seemed a little bit like home as Kufalt rang the bell at the prison gate, especially as Senior Warder Petrow, from Posen, opened it.

  ‘Hello, Kufalt, old chum! That’s right—coming back to us now winter’s started. Are you on remand, or have you got another stretch . . . ?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, sir, I just want to see the governor.’

  ‘Oh indeed! Worn out your pants, I suppose? Want a little help from the Benevolent Fund, eh? Well, the governor’s your man; he’s always good for a bit. It makes the other officers wild; but I always say: you let the governor be, money always goes somehow—on booze, or girls, or pants—old lags can’t keep money . . . ’

  ‘Is the governor in?’

  ‘Go right along, old chum. You know the way; I needn’t ring.’

  It was only the office building, and not the prison proper, but he could already smell the old familiar odour of whitewash, of a rather musty cleanliness. The linoleum shone like a mirror; it looked too spotless to walk on with rubber heels.

  It was the quiet time of the day and Kufalt had chosen it on purpose; no prisoners were interviewed at that hour, and the corridors were empty. The officials were at breakfast. For a moment he listened at the old man’s door, but there seemed to be no visitor within. So he knocked, heard the clear voice say, ‘Come in,’ and entered.

  It was now late autumn, almost winter; December beckoned, but the governor was still wearing a light sports suit and a very neat shirt. Kufalt could see a good deal of it, as the governor was pacing up and down the room in his shirtsleeves.

  He stopped for a moment and looked Kufalt up and down. Three or four hundred prisoners had been discharged since that day in May, but he had Kufalt’s name in an instant. ‘Good morning, Kufalt. I heard you were back in these parts. What’s your job? Or haven’t you got a job?’

  So saying, he shook hands. And, as before, he said, ‘Cigarette?’ and, as before, it was a good cigarette. Except that Kufalt was not as impressed by such a cigarette as he had been then.

  ‘So you have left Hamburg for good, eh? We had an inquiry from the police about you, but I never heard any more of it. Did you get into trouble there, or don’t you want to talk about it?’

  But Kufalt did, and he told the story of Cito-Presto.

  The governor shook his head. ‘Pity—but perhaps it’s not such a pity, it wouldn’t have gone well, with all you ex-convicts together. And what are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m canvassing subscribers for the paper here, sir—the Messenger.’

  ‘Can you live on that?’

  ‘I’m certain to make two hundred a month, sir,’ said Kufalt proudly.

  ‘Indeed! I heard the paper was as good as bankrupt. I’ve never seen it. And now you want to get a subscription out of me?’

  ‘No, indeed, sir,’ said Kufalt hastily, in a rather injured tone. ‘I really don’t need to do that. I’m getting quite a nice lot of subscribers.’

  ‘Well then . . . ?’ said the governor. ‘Old debts? A winter overcoat? Though yours still looks pretty good. What is it?’

  Kufalt was quite offe
nded. Couldn’t a man go to the governor without wanting something for himself, just to pass the time of day, out of gratitude and friendship?

  No, he had to admit that he too wanted something from the governor; no one came here who did not want something.

  ‘Well, Kufalt . . . ?’ asked the governor once more.

  ‘Bruhn,’ said Kufalt. ‘Do you remember Bruhn, sir?’

  ‘Bruhn?’ said Governor Greve, and thought. ‘I’m not quite sure, we often have men called Bruhn in here. Which was the one in your time?’

  ‘Emil Bruhn, sir, the little man with the round head, in for robbery and murder, sir, but it really wasn’t robbery and murder . . . ’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the governor. ‘I remember now, eleven years, or something like that. And a period of probation.’ He frowned. ‘Surely that was the ruffian who got blind drunk on the day of his discharge and started a brawl over some women. Are you living with him, Kufalt?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m living alone; I have my own furnished room. But I often see him, sir, he really is a very good fellow and a hard worker . . . ’

  And Kufalt reflected that the governor had a very much better memory than he had. He had quite forgotten to ask Emil what had happened on the day of his discharge.

  ‘That business of Bruhn’s on the day he came out of prison was very bad,’ said the governor. ‘They threw the landlord downstairs, and the chaplain had to go to a great deal of trouble before the prosecution was withdrawn. Otherwise your friend Bruhn would have had his probation cancelled . . . ’

  ‘I knew nothing about that, sir,’ said Kufalt with dismay.

  ‘Very well—never mind,’ said the governor; ‘and now what about Bruhn?’

  And Kufalt told the governor what an excellent carpenter Bruhn was, how he had done nothing but carpentry all his years in prison, and how he could make no use of it outside because he had not passed the journeyman’s test. And that he, Kufalt, had thought it might be possible to send Bruhn to a master carpenter as an apprentice; the employer would do well to have such a first-rate workman as an unpaid apprentice, and then Bruhn would have a proper trade in which he could make some progress . . .

  Kufalt spoke eagerly and the governor listened to him with deep attention. He paced up and down the room, said, ‘Yes,’ from time to time, sighed now and again, and gave Kufalt a second cigarette.