Ferdinand, the Man with the Kind Heart

by Irmgard Keun

  Pittermann has promises of telephones outstanding to another ten people. Or maybe more than that by now. At any rate, ten people have now got together to form an anti-Pittermann trust. Pittermann’s connection has let him down. The suspicion has surfaced that he himself may be the connection. Anyway, to date no one has a telephone, and dark clouds are gathering over Pittermann’s head.

  Before the currency reform Pittermann had a very lucrative and rather more innocuous idea. Again using his connections, he engaged himself on behalf of people who wanted or needed to be de-Nazified. They were innocuous cases, but it was precisely these innocuous cases that were nervous and anxious. Pittermann propped them up, Pittermann lent them support. One day they were de-Nazified. They would have been without Pittermann’s intervention. Whereas Pittermann would probably have perished of hunger and thirst long before the currency reform without the de-Nazification scheme.

  I wonder what possibilities the Pittermannesque brain would see in a situation like Toni’s. I can see the wheels turning, and Toni is looking optimistic, almost happy.

  Soon it’ll be tomorrow. Noise and drink chew up the time, the hours turn into minutes. And vice versa.

  Anton is back. He is sitting with Johanna and a policeman who has come to see about the noise. Johanna welcomed the policeman with delight, he was one she knew from another life. I’d like to meet someone Johanna hasn’t known in another life. The policeman is singing and having a high old time.

  In the lending library reconfigured as a bar, Mother Peipel’s curtains have fallen victim to the flames. A few books are lying in puddles on the floor. Heinrich and Magnesius distinguished themselves as first responders. I have a singed eyebrow and a hole in my trousers. I don’t usually like catastrophes, but there was something refreshing about this one. Rowdy parties are much of a muchness, and a little interruption seemed to me very much called for. I don’t like to sing, and I prefer to do my drinking and kissing in private.

  Luitpold and his wife Lucca are wandering across the courtyard arm in arm, sweeping glasses off the table. “I’m surprised at you, burying yourself in your middle-class business,” I said to him, “you take everything so seriously, even when we barely know what will happen tomorrow, and we’re just living from day-to-day.” Luitpold didn’t reply, and Lucca looked startled. “Since when do you talk such nonsense, Ferdinand?” she said, “Ever since there have been human beings on the planet they’ve lived from day-to-day and have no idea if they’ll be gravely ill tomorrow or suffer a calamity the day after. You act as though war was the only calamity in the world, but there are floods and tornadoes and volcanoes and earthquakes—people have lived from day-to-day for thousands of years.”

  “She’s right,” said Luitpold. Lucca is always right.

  Heinrich is lying in Meta Kolbe’s embrace. He will regret it tomorrow.

  Luise, my fiancée, is dancing, I don’t know her partner. Gradually my eyes are swimming. Luise seems worried to me, I have probably neglected her. Luitpold is so happy with Lucca. I wonder if I could ever be as happy as he is? I don’t know. At the moment I’d be hard-pressed to say what happiness is, and whether I even want to be happy. But I don’t want Luise to suffer. “Come on, Luise, let’s drink a bottle of champagne together—here in the courtyard, at the far end of the table, we can have a little privacy.” Luise sets off after me, her expression is sad. I pop open a bottle of champagne. Will I ever have the courage to tell her the truth? The sky is just beginning to brighten, the paper lanterns have gone out. At the opposite end of the table, Damian the singing postman is asleep with his head on the table like a traveler in a third-class waiting-room who’s missed his connection.

  Luise’s hair looks colorless and scruffy, she is in an ugly turquoise dress. She is wearing a triple strand of wax pearls and a broach on her bosom in the form of a spider with brass legs and a shimmering pebble for a belly. She looks so cheap and wretched that I am almost moved. Her posture is awful. She is sitting there with her chin in her hands. I’m just wondering what to say to her when I notice that she’s crying. Oh, what now? I feel an upsurge of detestable feelings. I’d like to run away and leave her all alone, I’d like to smack her face; I want to say I’ve had enough and have had for as long as I can remember. And all the time I feel sorry for her, and think I’m being mean. I fill our glasses, say “There, there, what’s the matter?” and light a cigarette. I give her shoulder a little shake. Luise’s quiet crying turns into an audible sob. It’s terrible not being able to comfort crying women. As soon as they have your pity, they can’t stop. With positively sadistic pleasure, they kneel down in their puddle of misery. I feel like saying “Go on, have a drink!” but feel that every word I could utter would only be more barbarous. It’s getting chill, and Luise is cold. She has goosebumps on her arms. Crying as she is, I really don’t want to drag her indoors.

  “All right, let’s drink,” Luise suddenly says, with a little quaver in her voice. We do so. We do so again. Luise has a big gulp. And then she starts to speak: “Well, it had to happen, Ferdinand, I’m very fond of you, I really am, otherwise I’d have told you long ago. But with you always fixing everything about the house, and mother saying you’re a useful fellow to have around. You remember, before the currency reform, when money wasn’t worth anything, and you couldn’t get anyone to work for you, unless you offered them an arm and a leg. And we didn’t have anything to eat either, and you kept producing stuff out of thin air, but that’s not really it—”

  I’m not really following at this stage, presumably Luise is drunk. I don’t care if she is, nothing’ll happen to her here. So long as she stops crying. I pour us some more. “Cheers, Luise.”

  Luise’s stout little hand clasps the narrow stem of the champagne glass. “Go on, drink, then you can go on.”

  “Well, please understand, Ferdi, and please don’t take it amiss. See, Papa’s de-Nazified now, and he can get a proper job, and other men are earning as well. Of course, everything’s terribly expensive, but we’re able to buy vegetables and get our shoes resoled. I know it was really nice of you to repair our shoes, but a proper shoemaker does it better. Mama says you never had a proper training in it. Papa says, he’s perfectly fine about you, but you were a man for abnormal times. And now the times are getting much more normal, or don’t you find? We spent so long walking around bareheaded, but Mama and I are getting three hats made, each. You can’t really walk around without a hat anymore, and that’s an indication, don’t you think, about the times getting to be more normal?”

  “So, I’m not a man for normal times, Luise?”

  “No, Ferdi, you’re really not. I mean, when people are wearing hats again, and not those headscarves, and you never want to go for a nice promenade on Sundays either. I hardly know what to say when someone asks, What does your fiancé do? I always say, Oh, he’s an academic. But you’re not really an academic, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. Why should I be an academic? I never claimed to be an academic. Have some more, Luise?”

  “Thanks, Ferdi, here’s looking at you. I really have nothing against you. Don’t think I’m being silly—there’s no law that says a man has to be an academic, and I know academics these days earn a pittance, and other men provide a much more solid basis. But you’re not a businessman either, or a civil servant. Don’t think I’m uncouth, I appreciate artists too. They can be very decent people, with a regular income and everything. But you’re not an artist either. I’m not saying you’re not a regular person, but you’re not really anything, are you. I’m sure you’re not a bad man, we always thought the world of you, because you were so well brought up and a bit shy and never expected anything. Papa once wanted to tell you that you did a really bad job with the guttering, but Mama and I wouldn’t have it because we felt so sorry for you. It turned into a proper scene, and you once told me I never put up any fight.”

  I don’t remember ever having said anything li
ke that to Luise. My head is buzzing. Damian has gone to sleep and is snoring; his snoring is pleasanter to listen to than his singing.

  “Of course you can put up a fight, Luise,” I say.

  “Well, I want to wish you all the best in your life to come,” says Luise, “you know, I once thought of writing to you, but then I didn’t. I really didn’t like you at first, but then I didn’t want to be that way, and you were a soldier, fighting for the Fatherland. And then I was a soldier’s girl, and I had to wait for you to come home, because that was my duty. And then you were coming out of POW camp and it wasn’t right to disappoint a homecomer. You have no idea what scornful looks I got from all the other girls. And then you went and made yourself useful and you did odd jobs about the house, and only a man who’s head over heels in love would do that. Please now, Ferdinand, promise you won’t kill yourself and don’t hurt me just because I can’t respond to your love. I’ve said it now—now that times are normal again.”

  I promised Luise that I wouldn’t kill myself over her, and that I wouldn’t hurt her either. I feel incredibly stupid. For long tormenting years I’ve been wanting to be rid of Luise, and now I learn that I never had her anyway. “Well, cheers, Luise—bottoms up.”

  The dawn breeze blows masonry dust from the rubble into my eyes. I feel like whooping for joy, but I can’t. All these difficulties and awkwardnesses had become cornerstones of my existence. Against my will, I had committed myself to Luise and her family. The commitment has ended, and instead of feeling happy about it, I feel discombobulated. It must be the way a criminal feels after spending years trying to avoid the consequences of an action, when a sudden miracle slips him free of guilt and conscience. In this instant, I can understand my landlady Frau Stabhorn, who suffered for years from an ingrown toenail on her left foot and felt bereft when an orthopedic surgeon cut it out. No normal human being loves pain, no normal person loves his pain and gets used to his pain. But there comes to be an intimacy with it, he respects it, he treats it better than he treats anything else in this world, he is afraid of it, and hates it and fights it. And not until he’s rid of it does he understand how strong the symbiosis was. He’s freed but not yet relieved. He experiences a temporary disorientation. “I don’t understand,” said Luise, as I tried to explain my nebulous thoughts to her, “but I’m pleased everything’s all right now—you know, we had this really crazy carpenter once, he talked a bit like you, but he was very good at his job as well, and that’s where you’re different.”

  I kiss Luise’s hand and promise never to forget her. No, I’m not so dull that I can’t feel a little intimation of liberty. “Be sure something becomes of you, Ferdinand,” says a lurching Luise as I lead her back inside, “be sure something becomes of you, if only for my sake.”

  I hand over Luise to an indistinct tangle of humanity. She pushes on in the direction of a male figure—I think it is the man she was dancing with before. “An engineer at Ford,” says Johanna, “after the war he was something in the Planning Ministry and made a fortune with black-market plaster. A player. Nothing happened to him because he had protection.” I ask Johanna if he’s a man for normal times. “These aren’t normal times,” says Johanna, “but I knew him long ago, he got hold of some tiles for me and diddled me.”

  “Here, Ferdinand,” calls my brother Toni, “this is my friend Pittermann—he’s going to help me out. Pittermann is my friend. You’re my friend, aren’t you, Pittermann? Pittermann has connections in the post office and knows some pretty high-up people.” For now, Pittermann is finishing a Carnival song, and when he’s done, he tells me he means to find interested parties who will pay five marks to represent Toni’s interests. Each of them stands to earn three hundred marks for his original outlay, once Toni collects his 48,000 winnings. “It’s just the way I am,” says Pittermann, “I try to help people, I don’t feel at ease with myself if I’m not helping someone—basically I have no interest in these sorts of things, one only ever encounters ingratitude, I’m presently representing a rainwater enterprise—but you won’t understand. By the way, did you hear the one about the woman who raised her left leg?”

  “Why, there you are, Comrade,” comes a bellow behind me, “do you remember Sergeant Stolpe, and whatever happened to Fennkopf?” I have no idea. I see an ill-shaven man with skew tie, stubbly reddish hair, and little light-blue eyes. It’s Robert Leberfeld, my old comrade and savior. He’s been in Cologne for a week now. For a week now, he’s been glued to my tracks like some master detective.

  During the war, Leberfeld was a sergeant of mine. He wasn’t awful, but he didn’t arouse any particular enthusiasm in me either. There was no personal relationship between us till the day Leberfeld saved my life. During an unexpected artillery barrage I had taken cover, busted my ankle, and couldn’t get up. Leberfeld came running back, hoicked me up, and panting carried me two miles to the field dispensary, even though I was just about capable of hobbling.

  I was moved and grateful, and from then on Leberfeld looked after me the way an animal lover might adopt a pathetic stray. He viewed me as belonging to him, and he is one of those people who look after their property. I had to sit with Leberfeld in the evening, and he would tell me jokes, the stupidest and nastiest jokes I’ve ever heard in my life. His supply of these was apparently inexhaustible—or at least it hadn’t been exhausted by the time we parted at the end of six months. When he wasn’t telling jokes, Leberfeld liked to talk about women and brothels and sexual experiences, his own and others’. I can’t imagine how anyone after three weeks of Leberfeld would have any interest in a love affair. Mine was certainly gone, and for the foreseeable future. Of course, I listened to Leberfeld. What else was I to do? He was my sergeant, and on top of that he had saved my life. It upset me to feel hatred welling up in me against my rescuer, and I did all I could to fight it down. I would much rather Bernard Shaw had saved my life. I missed out on such a lot. I had to be grateful to have been rescued at all, I suppose, even if it was Leberfeld. But the man made it difficult for me to esteem him as I ought.

  A week ago, Leberfeld showed up. I hadn’t seen him in years. “Don’t you remember me then, old codger?” Yes, I did. I asked him to supper. I was happy to be able to take him out and so do something for him. But Leberfeld didn’t need my help, in fact he wanted to pay for me. He’s taken over a transport company in a Cologne suburb, and he’s doing very well. He has so little in the way of practical worries that he can afford to seek out emotional contacts. Finding me—his old comrade whose life he saved—causes him to shed tears of happiness. “Jesus, fellow, now we’ll paint the town together—eh what? I expect you know your way around here. At least a fellow can talk to you. Do you still remember what fantastic conversations we used to have? Remind me to tell you a couple of jokes—I bet you won’t have heard these before—you’ll piss yourself laughing—at least with you, a man knows he’s not casting swine before pearls. Christ, we’ll have so much to talk about!” And so I pushed off with my rescuer. I spent three evenings and half the ensuing nights with him. I got rid of Luise tonight, but I’ll never get rid of Leberfeld. He’s all right, but really I can’t stand him. If any and all soldiers weren’t appalling to me, I could take it into my head to join the Foreign Legion. I’m hoping it’ll be enough if I just leave Cologne.

  Then again, I might find myself missing Leberfeld’s joviality. His cluelessness as to my real feelings is beginning to charm me. Also, I won’t find it easy to give up my volunteer work for Luise and her parents. People’s claims on me tether me to life. I will be pleased to go on being useful to Luise every so often.

  Johanna’s rooms are starting to empty out. The guests are leaving like ghosts struck by the dawn light. Just a moment ago they were here, now they’re suddenly gone. It seems to me they vanished into thin air. I can see my brother Toni totter off with Pittermann. The fool has let himself be talked out of his simple, uncomplaining existence; I must have a word with him tomor
row.

  “Now,” says Johanna, “that was a nice party, wasn’t it? Not a lot happened, but all the glasses are broken. Anyone who’s still here and wants a drink will have to drink out of the bottle.” Johanna’s guests have left an unholy mess. She’s looking at a mega clearing-up session. She won’t be able to open her library till the day after tomorrow.

  “Put up a sign, Johanna: ‘Closed for renovation.’ ”

  The now-broken glasses had been borrowed, and Johanna will have to replace them. Who’s going to pay for them? Johanna hasn’t any money. We should pass the hat around. Johanna laughs at the suggestion.

  “You can get money out of people before a party, Ferdinand, and during a party, but never afterwards, you surely ought to know that.”

  Well: people who have exhausted themselves while celebrating often turn into misers in the subsequent period of sobering up. Johanna sits up on her counter, the dawn stains her red dress red.

  She says: “I’m wondering if I should start tidying up now, or just go to sleep in this godawful pigsty. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a tidy room left over with a tidy bed in it? But I don’t have either one. You know what I wish I had, Ferdinand? A proper separate bedroom with a separate bed in it. I can’t stand this combination of bedsit-kitchen anymore. And I hate convertible couches, they’re neither one thing nor another.”