by Hans Fallada
He was now calm, but it was a dark and bitter calm. ‘They can do exactly what they like with me. There is no proof against me, and they’ll have to let me go. And then! And then!’
Herr Brödchen was in the room with his chief, the large and imposing chief inspector, who had entrenched himself behind his desk and was looking over some papers. He behaved as though he was not listening to his subordinate’s interrogation of Kufalt, but as Kufalt caught him looking up once or twice, he realized that this attitude was merely assumed.
‘Sit down, Herr Kufalt,’ said Brödchen with notable geniality.
Kufalt said, ‘Good morning,’ and sat down.
Brödchen cocked his head to one side and surveyed Kufalt quizzically. ‘Well, have you thought things over, Herr Kufalt?’ he asked.
‘I have nothing to think over,’ said Kufalt. ‘You had no right to keep me here. The woman did not recognize me.’
‘Frau Zwietusch certainly recognized you,’ replied Brödchen. ‘She was merely confused by the artificial light.’
‘I have never been inside the place,’ said Kufalt.
‘Oh yes you have!’
‘You’ll have to prove it.’
‘Frau Zwietusch will swear it.’
‘She will, will she? She wondered whether she’d said the hat was green, and whether the man wasn’t taller than me. You didn’t believe her yourself.’
‘Why do you tell such useless lies, Herr Kufalt? You have been there.’
‘Never!’
‘And what is this?’
Kufalt looked, and stiffened; looked again, and stiffened.
It was a receipt for a subscription to the Messenger made out to Frau Emma Zwietusch, Töpferstrasse 97, in the month of January: ‘Received, one mark twenty-five; Kufalt.’
He looked once more, and stiffened.
A memory of that room floated to the surface of his mind, a memory of the evening before, when the fat old woman wailed: ‘And you told me to go and see about the dinner, as you could wait . . . ’
That, or something like it.
At that moment he had been dimly conscious of being on the right track, then the bricklayer appeared and confused him . . . So he had been there, and the recollection of it had slipped his mind among the hundreds of faces during the last few weeks . . .
His head sank to his chest and he looked at no one. ‘Shot like Robert Blum,’ thought he.
They gave him time.
After a long pause Brödchen said genially: ‘Well, Herr Kufalt?’
Kufalt pulled himself together. Very well, he was for it. He would not get out of it as quickly as he had thought. He must resign himself to that. It was always easy for ex-convicts to get back into prison one way or another.
Should he confess, should he produce a tidy confession? If he did it now, to the police, he would perhaps get off more lightly. What would the whole thing let him in for? It was a simple theft, but he had been convicted before: a year? Eighteen months? It was a good thing he hadn’t any probation to work off; that was a consolation, at any rate . . .
His brain was in such turmoil that he had almost forgotten the presence of the police officers. Then he once more felt their eyes upon him and he heard Brödchen say impatiently: ‘We are still waiting, Herr Kufalt?’
(Why did he persist in saying ‘Herr’?)
‘All right.’ Kufalt shook himself. ‘Yes, I’ve been in the place.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so at once?’
‘I thought I’d get away with it.’
‘You thought we would let you out, and you could do a bolt, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘I thought I’d be able to put the old woman off the scent.’
‘Ah—so you took the three hundred marks?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘You took them? Stole them?!’
‘Of course.’
To his astonishment Kufalt observed that Brödchen did not seem at all pleased. Brödchen gazed at him reflectively and chewed his lower lip. The other officer also stopped turning over papers and surveyed this candid criminal.
‘I pinched it,’ said Kufalt, feeling the need to amplify his confession. ‘I needed money, I wanted to marry.’
‘But you were earning a great deal of money.’
‘It wasn’t enough.’
Silence fell.
Chief and subordinate eyed each other. Kufalt again observed them both. Something had gone wrong, so much was clear. The chief inspector leaned towards the detective inspector and whispered something in his ear. Brödchen again looked meditatively at Kufalt and nodded slowly once or twice.
‘Herr Kufalt,’ he said; ‘you are quite sure you stole that money?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘And what else have you been up to?’
The question cut through Kufalt like a knife. His heart went into spasm for a moment, and then he said with a foolish smile: ‘Nothing at all, sir; that was my first attempt.’
‘No it wasn’t, don’t tell lies! We have made inquiries. You—have . . . ’
Brödchen leaned forward and glared at Kufalt.
Thoughts raced through Kufalt’s brain: had they caught Batzke? Made inquiries? He had never heard a policeman use such a phrase. It was just bluff—well, he could out-glare the old bull-head: bull-head and brains, the arms of Mecklenburg . . .
He returned the policeman’s glare.
And he was right; Herr Brödchen could not finish the sentence he had so craftily begun.
‘If you want to find yourself in the cells for a bit, Kufalt . . . ’ he said instead.
‘A few nights in jug won’t do me any harm,’ said Kufalt bitterly.
Brödchen glossed over this, obviously not understanding Kufalt’s anger.
‘Where did you find the money?’
‘In the chest of drawers?’
‘First, second or third drawer?’
‘In the top drawer. No, I don’t remember exactly, I was rather excited.’
‘Whereabouts was it?’
‘Under some linen, I think.’
‘How did you find it? Did anyone tell you where the money was?’
‘Oh, I just had a look round because the old woman was so long in the kitchen.’
‘Ah, indeed!’ Brödchen meditatively rubbed his ill-shaven cheeks. ‘Indeed. And we can draw up a statement accordingly?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will sign it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And go to prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll get about two years.’
‘So I thought, Detective Inspector,’ said Kufalt cheekily, but looking at Brödchen with an air of mock humility. He had realized that they were merely bluffing, and that that statement would never be drawn up.
‘Kick him out, Brödchen,’ said the chief inspector suddenly. ‘I’m sick of this liar.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Brödchen stood up stiffly and Kufalt started to his feet at this outburst.
‘And the other matter?’ asked Brödchen in an undertone.
‘Kick him out, I tell you! Just look at him! A bloke like that will hang himself all right, we don’t need to worry. You’ll soon be back again, my lad,’ he shouted into Kufalt’s face, shaking his fist.
‘Good morning,’ said Kufalt politely, as Brödchen took him out of the office.
‘What on earth is the matter, Detective Inspector?’ he asked when he got outside. ‘Why is he in such a rage? Didn’t I steal the money?’
‘You clear off, young man. Get your things from the cells and hop it. I’ll give them a ring on the phone.’
‘But have I made a cock-up somehow? I don’t understand, I wish you’d tell me . . . ’
‘If you get into our hands again, my lad, you’d better watch out!’
Kufalt looked into the sallow face, now quivering with anger.
‘I’ve got them worked up all ri
ght,’ he thought.
‘A night in the cells won’t do me any harm, Detective Inspector,’ he said, and this time Brödchen understood.
‘Listen here!’ he shouted.
But Kufalt was already on the way to the cells to recover his possessions.
IX
Two hours later Kufalt was sitting in the train for Hamburg.
He felt as he had done on the day of his discharge in May: he must start all over again, and how he did not know.
It was not quite as it had been in May; he knew he would not start again in that way.
This time he would try the other route. He was sick of all this futile struggle. No more of that.
‘Look,’ Herr Kraft had said to him, ‘we heard from Brödchen that you didn’t take the money, but all the same . . . ’
‘Do you know who did take it?’ asked Kufalt with some curiosity.
‘What! Don’t you know? It was old man Zwietusch himself. You’re surprised!’
‘And he was going to break all the bones in my body,’ said Kufalt in genuine astonishment. ‘What did he take it for?’
‘He drinks. For eighteen months all went well, he belonged to the temperance movement, but now he’s on the booze again. He’s making up for lost time.’
‘The old bastard!’ said Kufalt with emphasis. ‘And I was going to do a stretch instead of him. Did Brödchen uncover it?’
‘No, he didn’t. Zwietusch had deposited the money with a publican so he could go and booze when he felt like it, and the old woman wouldn’t find it on him. Well, the publican reported it when he heard about your story.’
‘So it’s all over the town?’ asked Kufalt.
‘Yes,’ said Kraft with emphasis. And he added hurriedly: ‘And you see, Kufalt, I’m afraid we shan’t be able to keep you on here. So long as it wasn’t known, you understand? But now, when it’s all over the place, you see. When you called at houses, we would be made responsible.’
Kufalt looked at him for a moment in silence. ‘But nothing has gone missing before,’ he said.
‘No, no, no—I don’t say it has. But all sorts of things might be said, and it would be very unpleasant for you.’
‘I did my job all right.’
‘You did indeed. We don’t dispute that. Our best canvasser! But as things are . . . we’ll gladly pay you compensation—thirty marks, no, fifty marks, eh, Herr Freese? Though you’ve earned good money here. But you understand . . . ’
They could not get the parting over quickly enough.
‘You’ll have to settle up for my room here, too,’ said Kufalt sullenly. ‘I shan’t stay here, I’ll go back to Hamburg.’
‘But . . . ’ began Kraft.
‘That’ll do,’ said Freese. ‘Give him what he wants. And, Kufalt, I wouldn’t go to the Harders to say goodbye . . . ’
Kufalt looked at him wide-eyed.
‘Brödchen has been to the Harders.’
So that was the end of that. Very well.
‘Here’s a copy of our new edition,’ said Freese, hurrying after him. ‘Just out. There’s been a big fire; and one of your . . . by the way . . . ’ He stopped, then added: ‘Well, all the best, Kufalt.’
‘It’s not the Trehne this time,’ said Kufalt, and tried to laugh.
‘Oh, the Trehne, the Trehne,’ said Freese. ‘It won’t flow away, you’ll always find it there. Besides, in Hamburg you’ve got the canals . . . ’
‘No, sir,’ said Kufalt. ‘In Hamburg I’m going to make a different start. I dare say you may hear of me . . . ’
He laughed, and departed; took as much money out of the savings bank as he could at short notice and packed his things, while his anxious landlady prowled about the landing muttering, ‘That such people should be allowed out!’ And at last he was in the train.
Farewell.
Hilde, Harder, Bruhn, prison, the Messenger—farewell.
Now for another chapter.
And he unfolded the latest edition of the Messenger.
‘Filthy rag,’ he murmured.
But he found something, more than a page and a half of it, in the filthy rag, which made him forget his journey.
The timber works had been burnt down.
‘In spite of the most active search by the entire town and country police no trace has yet been found of the incendiary, an unskilled workman by the name of Emil Bruhn, who had lately served a sentence of eleven years’ imprisonment. It is supposed that he made for Hamburg the same night. The theft of a man’s bicycle, during the fire, from outside Kühn’s Tavern may perhaps be ascribed to him, and he may have used it . . . ’
‘Well, Emil my lad, if I meet you in Hamburg, it won’t be a case of “Halves, or I’ll split”; I won’t give you away.’
8
A Job
I
It is early February; Hamburg lies in rain and mist, damp cold and swiftly thawing snow.
When the wind whistles at night over the outer and the inner Alster people pull up their coat collars and hurry to their homes. The luxury shops on the Jungfernstieg display their glittering wares in vain, except for an occasional young couple, still warm and animated after a visit to a theatre or cinema, who stop and look into a window. ‘Oh, what a lovely big aquamarine! No, that one in the old silver setting . . . ’
‘Yes, stunning . . . Come along, let’s get home, this damp cold soaks into your shoes.’
Ten minutes later the stream of theatre- and cinema-goers has passed by, the lights in the shop windows are extinguished, iron bars rattle noisily into place, steel grilles are lowered on the inner side of the windows; the street becomes deserted, save only for the shivering girls who stand at the corners waiting for a client.
‘Well, darling, what about it?’
‘No time, dear, no time,’ says a young man in an Ulster and bowler hat. ‘Another evening.’
He hurries on. He too has his coat collar turned up, but the damp air and cutting wind seem to leave him indifferent. He whistles cheerfully to himself, and the slushy snow crackles under the firm pressure of his heels.
‘My trousers’ll give old Fleege a shock tomorrow,’ he thinks in passing.
Outside the Alster pavilion stands a policeman. A dark and menacing figure, sternly surveying the street, but the young man merely whistles all the louder . . .
‘That’s right. You’re about 200 metres too far away!’
And he turns down the Grosse Bleichen.
He now slackens his step. He strolls on cheerfully still, whistling, and then stops by the window of a gentlemen’s outfitter’s and falls into conversation with a girl. After a while he gives her a cigarette and promises to meet her outside the same shop at eight o’clock the next evening. At the moment, unfortunately, he has an appointment.
After the Grosse Bleichen comes the Wexstrasse.
It seems as though the street lamps burn more dimly here, and there is hardly a human being in sight. The clock on St Michael’s church strikes midnight.
The young man has stopped whistling and is walking quietly on. Above him tower the dim walls of the houses, without a glimmer of light; a steamer’s foghorn hoots from the harbour and the sound carries so far in the moist air that the steamer might be steering round the next street corner.
When the man reaches the Grosse Neumarkt he stops for a moment and hesitates. He lights another cigarette and goes hurriedly into a restaurant, stands at the counter and orders a grog with double rum.
By the time he has downed this it is twenty past twelve. He pays and goes out into the street. He then retraces his steps and walks along the Wexstrasse again.
At the corner of the Trampgang there’s a girl. But this time he doesn’t wait until she speaks to him, he speaks to her at once.
And all he says is: ‘Well?’
‘He’s at Lütt’s place,’ she whispers hurriedly.
‘Sure?’
‘Honest to God! Am I to get my five marks?’
‘Two,’ says the man, after br
ief reflection. ‘Here you are. The other three when he’s really there.’
‘You look out, Ernst,’ she says in a warning tone. ‘He’s a devil. He half killed Emma yesterday and knocked her bloke about until he got all his money out of him.’
‘Then he’s got money?’
The man seems disappointed.
‘Yes, twenty marks, at least.’
‘Hmmm . . . Well, see you later.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest to God!’ he says, imitating her phrase, laughs and moves on.
II
He doesn’t turn into the Trampgang; he goes straight on, stops by the Rademachergang, peers down the dark alley, in which a dim gas lamp is burning, looks to the right, looks to the left—and dives into the Alley Quarter.
He turns right, then right again, crosses the Wexstrasse once more, disappears in the Langer Gang, walks a little way down the Düsternstrasse and disappears again in the Schulgang.
He always walks in the middle of the narrower alleys, sometimes stretching out his arms to see whether he can touch the walls on either side. Sometimes he can, but sometimes the alley is too wide.
Until then he has not met a soul. The old timbered houses stand silent and dark, as if they are long since dead; their gables tilt perilously inwards, and nothing of the sky can be seen.
Sometimes a beam of light from a tavern slants across the pavement at his feet; now and again he hears the clashing bells and cymbals of a band, or the rasp of a gramophone. The windows of the taverns are hung with red or yellow curtains.
The man is no longer in the mood for whistling; he walks slowly, he is sweating slightly, and once he feels for something in his hip pocket. All OK, but—it is going to be a tough job, even though he makes light of it in front of the girls.
Well, there’s still time to go home.
He’s coming into Kugelsplatz, he can already see the red glow from Lütt’s Tavern.
Now for it!
Two policemen, tall young men buckled firmly into their greatcoats, the straps of their helmets under their chins and the truncheons at their belts swinging to the rhythm of their walk, march up to him.
They survey this man, out for a late stroll, with sharp, appraising eyes.
‘Good evening,’ says he, politely taking off his black hat.
‘Nasty night,’ says one of them in a surprisingly friendly voice. ‘Nasty weather. Nasty neighbourhood.’
