Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  No. Now, when there was every reason for it, he felt no hint of fury or despair. On the contrary. It was just as though, at this last and bitterest blow, his almost exhausted powers of resistance had been rekindled. As he painfully made his way along, with his head again and again refusing to work, he had first to abandon the thought of any help from men—he was alone. Then the thought of his home with the kindly old Pastorin—he no longer had a home. Then the thought of money. His little treasure, so laboriously saved, or stolen at such peril—of that too he had been deprived.

  There was no more help in alcohol. What help there was must come from himself. Some weeks ago, when things were going relatively well, he had often toyed with the idea of giving himself up at a police station, or doing something that would get him arrested, just to land himself back home, in jail—but not now.

  He stood under his tree, half frozen and half dead, and mulled over a plan by which he could again lay hold of money and win freedom for himself—even though he did not know what to do with it.

  IX

  Frau Lehmann’s greengrocery shop was not on the Fuhlentwiete itself, but round the corner in the Neustädter Strasse. Kufalt was there known as Herr Lederer. He had inquired there for Frau Pastor Fleege’s cat, Pussi. And he had now and then bought things from Frau Lehmann for his landlady.

  So he met with a friendly welcome when he appeared a few minutes after seven and bought ten eggs and two bottles of beer. But while they were being packed up, and before he could pay for them, poor Herr Lederer felt faint. Frau Lehmann hurriedly fetched him a chair and sent the one assistant still remaining to the tavern at the corner to get an eighth-litre of brandy for the poor gentleman.

  What a state he was in! He explained in the meantime that he had fallen down on the street. His chin had hit a kerbstone and his head was still dizzy, he said.

  When the girl appeared with the brandy, Frau Lehmann wanted to send her round for Frau Fleege, but Herr Lederer would not hear of it. She was an old lady, and the shock might be the end of her. And he would soon be all right. Might he sit for five minutes in the warm room behind the shop?

  Of course he might. He took the brandy with him and then, while Frau Lehmann was clearing up the shop, he asked her, this time in a more cheerful tone, for twenty cigarettes. He took them, disappeared into the back room and shut the door.

  He then gulped down the brandy, lit a cigarette, opened the window and jumped out into the yard.

  He knew that yard well. In it stood the refuse bins in which Pussi loved to rummage for her scraps of herring. He climbed onto one of the bins and pulled himself up the wall. He was then in a garden, at that time of year quite deserted. He hurried across it, pulled himself up the farther wall and stood in the yard of the Fleege house.

  The hardest part was now to come. He had to go from the yard into the lit stairway; possibly the policeman whom he had noticed in the Fuhlentwiete would be just outside the front door. Or he might arrive at the door that very moment and discover him on the staircase as he ran, with no concealment possible, up to Frau Fleege’s flat.

  However, he must take the risk, and hesitation was folly. So he hurried into the stairway, ran up the stairs and opened the door. Not until he had opened it did he dare to look down. The coast was clear. Now all depended on a successful return journey.

  He opened the door quite softly and tiptoed into the hall. Then he pulled the door noiselessly to, and stood listening. In the kitchen nearby there was a light and the clatter of saucepans. The old lady was cooking her supper. Just as well. He would be sorry to do her any harm.

  He did not go into his room at all. He went straight into her living room and closed the door softly behind him. It was dark, but not that dark. The street lamps threw a reflection on the ceiling and he could make out the little sewing table by the window. It needed only an instant for his fingers to close on the bunch of keys. But that he did not want. His fingers felt again, and under a handkerchief they came upon the smooth and very serrated single key.

  He tiptoed quickly to the cupboard, felt for the keyhole with his other hand, inserted the key, opened the door, which creaked a little, and stood for a moment listening; not a sound. His fingers felt in the upper drawer, grasped the smooth, deep sewing basket and lifted it out. He carried it to the sofa table, opened it, took out the tray, laid it beside the box—and in that moment the door clicked, the light came on and old Frau Pastorin Fleege stood in the doorway.

  He stood as if numb. She looked at him helplessly. He saw the horror in her face, her lower jaw began to quiver and tears ran down the old wrinkled face . . .

  He did not know what to do. There she stood and wept. He looked confusedly into the basket, opened the inner compartment, saw the money, the savings bank book and reached out for them . . .

  ‘Oh, Herr Lederer! . . . ’ she whispered.

  Suddenly he heard himself speak. While he snatched up the money and the book, he heard himself whisper: ‘Sit down at once, don’t make a sound. I won’t hurt you.’

  She whispered again in even deeper horror and bewilderment, ‘Herr Lederer! . . . ’

  Then she made as though to go out into the passage.

  Three leaps, and he was beside her. He gripped the little, fragile, helpless, quivering form, laid his hand over the sobbing mouth, dragged her through the sitting room into the bedroom, laid her on the bed and whispered once more, ‘Lie quiet for three minutes. Then you can scream.’

  He ran out of the bedroom into the sitting room and looked wildly round him for a moment; where had he put his hat? Fool! It was on his head. She would scream in a moment.

  He ran down the passage to the door and stood for an instant listening.

  Not a sound, all was deathly still. He grasped the handle of the door, turned it very carefully, noiselessly and inch by inch he opened the door, peered out onto the landing, saw nothing, hurried out—and stepped into the arms of his policeman.

  ‘Ah, Kufalt, didn’t I tell you I’d find you again?’ And to one of his men who stood behind him, ‘Have a look round at once, in case he’s been up to any games.’ And again to Kufalt, ‘Well, how’s life? Not so good, eh?’

  10

  North, South, East, West—Home’s Best

  I

  The house stood at the top of a precipitous little road immediately under the castle rock. The schoolboy’s room lay up four flights of stairs, each one narrower and steeper than the last, at the peak of the gable.

  If the boy went to his window and the day was clear, he could see over the roofs of the little town, over the broadish river valley, over the gentle wooded hills that edged the other side of it as far as the rugged basalt ridges clad in dark firs and pines, known as the Great Owl.

  He often gazed at them, for under the Great Owl, a bare hour’s walk away, lay his home, the estate of Triebkendorf.

  The boy stood at the window and in his imagination he climbed down the steep path to the Great Owl. Torrents of rain had swept the soil from the path and he clambered cautiously from rock to rock. Many of them were gripped and held steady by tenacious strands of roots washed bare; others shook as he slipped on them and threatened to roll downwards if he lingered.

  Gradually the path grew gentler, the trees closed in and he seemed to be walking through a cool, green hall. Then it grew lighter, and he stepped out of the forest; the mountain path had climbed the ridge and come out onto a fertile plateau.

  A few more steps, the path turned the corner of a hedge, and there was the village. It was more of an estate than a village, with the long, bare cottages of the labourers always enveloped in a damp reek of rotting potatoes.

  At the end of the path rose the tall, grey stone gateway leading into the estate. And immediately opposite, on the farther side of the yard, flanked by barns and stables and sheds, stood the great house. But that was not important. More important was the small red-brick house on the right of the yard near the gate, with its six windows beneath the low roof, which wa
s the boy’s home. It was quite insignificant; a little red box of a place, a steward’s house, such as are to be found on thousands of estates, with whitewashed walls, worn planking and smoke-stained kitchen—but there he was at home.

  Two lime trees stood outside the door, tall strong trees, towering above the roof and the chimney. They had always been there, since he was quite small, proud guardians of that little house. When the weather was at all clement, his mother wheeled his perambulator out into the yard. How often had he looked up at that marvellous golden wilderness of leaves trembling faintly in the breeze and reached up at them with tiny hands.

  He learnt to know the trees; the transparent network of their winter garb, when the sky peered down through the gnarled black serpentine branches. Then, later on, when they came to fullness, and nothing could be seen but a great canopy of green. Soon they blossomed, and the trees rang like great bells with the incessant humming of the bees. At last the leaves shrivelled and grew yellow, and dropped, one by one at first and then in fluttering clouds. Every gust of wind drove them across the yard, where they lay heaped in the horses’ drinking troughs, against the rubble walls of the stables, and the whole place was filled with their acrid, mouldering smell.

  When the boy grew older and moved from his parents’ bedroom into the gable attic, and learnt to sleep alone, it was the lime trees that brought him comfort when he felt frightened in the solitary void of night—he knew every sound they made, indeed he had grown up at their side.

  The boy stands at the window of the pastor’s house at the top of the steep street and stares at the Great Owl. He imagines he can see his mother’s smooth head bowed over her sewing at the window. His father comes out of the stables with his riding whip in his hand. He stops by the wooden frame in the centre of the yard from which hangs an old ploughshare.

  His father pulls out his watch, waits a moment and then says to the foreman: ‘One o’clock!’ The foreman strikes the ploughshare with a hammer and the sharp metallic clang echoes all over the yard.

  From the stable door comes the first team of horses. The workers range themselves in rows outside the steward’s house. The casual workers in front, first the lads, then the girls. Behind them the estate labourers, first the women, then the men . . .

  He sees it all, as he has seen it a hundred times before. And that is why he sees it now, from the window in the pastor’s house, across seven lines of hills and seven valleys.

  The bells in the valley begin to peal; it is Saturday afternoon, a holiday. The schoolboy sighs. He no longer looks at the Great Owl, he looks across the little town; over by the river stands the high school, which explains his presence in that place. Then he looks down into the street, at a house on the other side, a little below the pastor’s, where there is a dressmaker’s shop. There too they were packing up, as it was Saturday afternoon. A bevy of girls bustling about and putting their belongings away: daughters of the more substantial townsmen who had been taking a sewing lesson.

  He has often noticed one of them, a slim and cheerful fair-haired girl, and when she looks across at him he nods.

  She nods back; and for a few moments they stand at their respective windows. The fifteen-year-old schoolboy and the little blonde girl. They nod again, and laugh.

  Suddenly he has an inspiration. He makes a sign to her, runs back into the room, picks up the empty envelope of a letter from his mother which had come that morning, and dashes back to the window.

  She looks at him, he waves the envelope and nods meaningfully. She looks doubtfully back at him, and then nods slowly in reply . . .

  He dashes away from the window and down the stairs.

  On the first landing he stops; she has also run down a flight, and she has also stopped. He waves the letter again, and they both nod.

  Next flight, another nod.

  Last flight, last nod.

  He flings open the heavy, creaking oak door and runs out onto the rough, cobbled street.

  In the middle of the street, between the two houses, they meet.

  ‘Good day,’ he says awkwardly.

  ‘Good day,’ she answers shyly.

  And that is all for a few moments.

  She looks doubtfully at the letter in his hands. An odd-looking envelope, torn open, with a stamp and a postmark.

  He too looks at the envelope.

  ‘Please give me the letter,’ she says quickly.

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ he says. ‘I only wanted to get you to come down.’

  Pause.

  ‘I must go back,’ she says.

  ‘Eight o’clock this evening by the town wall,’ he urges.

  ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘My mama . . . ’

  ‘Please!’ says he.

  She purses her lips and looks at him. ‘I’ll try,’ says she.

  ‘Please!’ he says. ‘Eight by the town wall.’

  ‘Right,’ she says.

  They look at each other. Suddenly they both burst out laughing.

  ‘Aren’t you funny with your letter,’ she laughs.

  ‘You bet!’ he says proudly. ‘I caught you at last.’

  ‘At eight, then.’

  ‘Punctually.’

  ‘Till then.’

  ‘Bye-bye.’

  Back indoors again; and upstairs. Only a couple of hours till eight, only a couple of hours till eight—it sounds like a song to him.

  But he doesn’t sing that song for long.

  The moment he sees the fat dressmaker, Gubalke, with her white, short hair, cross the street, ring the doorbell and go in—the song fades on his lips. The boy forces himself to continue, but it is a faltering effort and often comes to a stop when he leans out of the window to see whether the dressmaker has come out again.

  No, she has not, and the empty workroom opposite wears a bleak and ugly grin. A couple of hours till eight? An eternity till eight.

  Then she comes. She crosses the street to her house, but as she stands in the doorway she turns, catches sight of the boy at the window, glares and shakes her fist at him. Then the door slams behind her.

  ‘Nothing much can happen. I really haven’t done anything I shouldn’t,’ he tries to reassure himself.

  Then comes a knock at the door and Minna the maid, a bitter old nag, says: ‘The Herr Pastor wants to see you; at once!’

  ‘All right,’ says the boy, and starts to comb his hair in front of the mirror.

  ‘At once. This very minute.’

  ‘I’m coming!’

  ‘You’re in for it!’

  ‘You sour old lemon!’ says the boy, and runs down the two flights of stairs to the pastor’s study.

  He knocks; a voice—a smooth and oily voice—says, ‘Come in,’ and he stands before his pastor.

  The voice is ominously smooth. The homily begins: shocked and disappointed—wanton flirtation—desecration of a godly household—clandestine correspondence—a mere boy, too . . .

  ‘What is to become of you later on if you begin like this?’

  ‘I never wrote a letter.’

  ‘Your denial completes the picture. Minna saw it, as well as Frau Gubalke. The whole street must have seen it. Tomorrow the whole town will know what kind of person is living in my house . . . ’

  ‘But really I didn’t . . . ’

  ‘I have no intention of discussing the matter. Go up and pack your things. I have already telephoned your father. I will not have you another night under my roof.’

  The boy’s mouth begins to quiver . . .

  ‘Please, Herr Pastor, please . . . ’

  ‘That will do. Going with girls at fifteen. Disgusting. Simply disgusting.’

  The clerical forefinger rises in menace. Then it points to the door and the boy can do nothing but go out.

  In his room he is alone; but he cannot pack for crying. Minna brings his clean linen. ‘Yes, howl away, you nasty little boy!’

  ‘Get out, you old lemon!’ he roars, and finds he can howl no more.

  And whil
e the day, with all the lively, cheerful noise of Saturday afternoon, passes over into evening, he sits there on his oilcloth sofa, with his trunk, half full, on a chair; he cannot bring himself to pack it because he cannot believe that all is really at an end . . .

  Shortly after seven he hears his father’s bicycle bell. He dashes to the window and shouts: ‘Father, come up to me first!’

  But though his father nods, he does not come. The pastor has intercepted him, of course; for Father is a man of his word.

  Another five minutes to wait, then the stairs creak under Father’s heavy riding boots and he comes into the room.

  ‘Well, my boy? By the waters of Babylon they sat and wept, eh? Too late. Too late. Tell me all about it.’

  Father is always splendid. The way the great, strong man sits there at the table on a little chair, in his leather-strapped riding breeches, his green shooting jacket, with his ruddy tanned face and the snow-white brow above it—the white skin sharp-edged against the tan at the line of his cap—and the way he says ‘Tell me all about it’—makes everything seem easier at once.

  He listens. ‘Right,’ he says at last. ‘And that is all? Right. And now I’ll go down and see your pastor.’

  But he soon reappears and his face is rather flushed.

  ‘Nothing doing, my son, it seems you’re a very bad lad indeed. Well, you’d better come along home with me. Mother will be very pleased to see you.

  ‘We’ll leave your trunk here. Eli can fetch it tomorrow. He’s got to come into town anyhow. You can stand on my back wheel so long as the road’s flat. When we get up into the hills we’ll both push. We’ll be home by eleven.’

  ‘But what about school?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all up with the high school, my boy. He’s sure to shop you to the head. We’ll see tomorrow, I’ll ride over.’