Iron Gustav

by Hans Fallada

First he bent down. Yes, he hadn’t paid attention, but he had noticed the clothes thrown drunkenly about. It wasn’t a bedside rug he’d stood on. And he began to pick up the clothes.

  Something dropped out of the waistcoat pocket and fell with a clink.

  First of all the old man hung the waistcoat in an orderly way over the back of a chair. Then he picked up the key. It was a completely ordinary key, a little key, the kind used for cupboards and drawers. It was still quite new. Even in the dim light the father thought he could make out the filing of the bit … and it was no industrial key but one made by a locksmith – nothing special.

  The father stood absolutely still. As he held the little key in his hand, he felt he could hear time go by in seconds and minutes. It fell like heavy rain, obliterating all other sounds – all the sounds of life. And behind this veil, life itself became grey, colourless and distant …

  Only a little key …

  He no longer looked at his drunken son’s bed. He didn’t care if Otto was awake and watching him. When in great pain everyone is utterly alone. Nothing reached him any more.

  With dragging feet and unseeing eyes the father went to the door, the key in his hand.

  A little key!

  § V

  In the passage Hackendahl again heard the grey, his pampered favourite, demanding its extra ration. No, things were not right, either with the horse or Erich or the master of the house. He, scrupulously just and conscientious, got up half an hour earlier to give the grey something extra before Rabause the head stableman arrived. His children all meant a great deal to him, but Erich with his coaxing could always in the end obtain what was refused the others. The father had never thought of this as unjust, since no one can command his affections, yet now he saw that it was not the proper way of doing things; it sinned against reason, human and divine. He carried the proof in his hand.

  He carried it as though it were a magic key with a power as yet unknown and which had therefore to be handled cautiously. It was a magic key, opening Iron Gustav up to new knowledge. No father’s heart can be completely made of iron. It is soil forever newly ploughed, some of whose furrows never disappear.

  He stood before his desk. There was no retreat now, even had he thought of it – an old soldier faces the enemy, and attacks.

  The massive desk was of heavily carved oak, with brass embellishments representing lions’ mouths. He pushed the key into one of these mouths and – there! – the key turned. He was not surprised; it was to be expected that this key would open the drawer in his desk. Hackendahl looked inside. When the children were small, a slab of toffee was always to be found on the right-hand side, in front. Every Sunday, after lunch, the children lined up before the desk where the father, sitting in judgement on their behaviour during the week, hacked off appropriate pieces from the slab. He had thought toffee good for the children; in his youth sugar had been dear and was believed to bestow great strength, and Hackendahl wanted healthy children. Later this belief turned out erroneous, the dentist explaining that sugar actually spoiled children’s teeth; Hackendahl had meant well but had acted wrongly. That often happened in life. You mean well and do wrong all the same. You don’t know enough, perhaps – had learned too little. With Erich he’d also meant well and done the wrong thing. He hadn’t been strict enough, and now his favourite son was a thief, the meanest of his kind – a pilferer in the home, a creature who stole from his parents, from his brothers and sisters … The old man’s pride was wounded. He groaned. His honour was stained. If the son is a thief the father cannot be blameless.

  Standing there, he heard it strike four o’clock. He ought to go downstairs to the stables to superintend the feeding and grooming of the horses – in half an hour the night cabs would be coming back and he had to settle up with them – he had no time to stand there brooding over an undutiful son.

  Yes, but first he must count the money in the little linen bag, ascertain what was missing and question his son; then he could superintend the feeding and the grooming, have the horses seen to, settle up with the drivers … He did neither of these things. He shook the linen bag which Sophie had embroidered with ‘10 marks’ in red cross-stitch, the little bag that contained gold in ten-mark pieces. But he did not check the contents; he went neither to his son nor to the stable. He was lost in memories.

  His life in the army had made a man of him and given him principles; all his experiences in civilian life had their counterpart in the army. He could remember instances of barrack room thieves, incorrigible rogues who repeatedly stole tobacco or home-made sausage from their comrades. In the beginning they would get a good thrashing one night with a belt buckle on their naked backsides, their head muffled in a horse blanket, although even without that precaution no NCO would have taken any notice of a scream. But if the thrashing was in vain – if the man was really incorrigible, an enemy to his comrades – then came degradation before the entire regiment and transfer to a penal battalion, shame and dishonour. And wasn’t it worse to steal from a father than from a comrade?

  In three hours his son would have to go to school. It was almost impossible to imagine that he would never again go there, he, his pride and hope. And yet it had to be. He remembered a certain soldier with a great big blob of a pale nose facing his comrades on parade. Tears ran down his cheeks as the merciless voice of his officer declared that condemnation of the man and the thief against which there was no appeal …

  That his own flesh and blood had sinned did not affect the issue – a thief is a thief. They had christened him ‘Iron Gustav’, probably half in jest because he was stubborn. But one can turn a nickname into an honour.

  At last Hackendahl counted his money and when he had ascertained the amount missing he stood aghast. So much? Surely not! But it was true – yet more shame and dishonour. Surely all that money couldn’t have been spent in drink, at seventeen! And suddenly the father saw behind his son’s pale, intelligent face the leer and grimace of loose women, abominations to any decent man. At seventeen!

  Shutting the drawer abruptly, he locked it and hurried back to his sons’ bedroom.

  § VI

  At his father’s unexpected return Otto, who was dressed and standing by the window, started violently, trying to conceal the wood and knife in his hands; a dozen times he had been forbidden to pursue his hobby of carving pipe bowls or tiny animals in wood, his father holding it a ridiculous pursuit for one who was some day to manage a stable of thirty horses. Now Hackendahl took no notice of his eldest son’s disobedience but went directly to Erich, clapped his hand on the boy’s shoulder and ordered him to wake up.

  The sleeper moved, trying to release his shoulder; his eyelids fluttered, but he did not wake up.

  ‘Wake up, do you hear?’

  Erich was still trying to escape into sleep, but in vain. His father’s hand hurt, his father’s voice threatened. With an effort he opened his eyes. ‘What’s the matter? Time for school?’

  Without a word the father gazed at him. Then, grasping the long, fair hair, he pulled his son’s reluctant head so close to his own that the two foreheads almost touched, and each saw only the other’s eye. In one was fear, in the other an angry glow …

  ‘What’s the matter?’ repeated Erich. But his voice trembled.

  The father, his heart beating heavily, read a confession in his son’s gaze. For a long time he said nothing; then, suddenly, despite himself, he quietly asked: ‘Where did you leave the money?’

  The dark, narrow pupils seemed to contract. Was this the son’s answer? The father didn’t know. He pulled his son’s hair and repeatedly hit his brow against his own.

  ‘My money,’ he whispered. ‘You thief! You key-forger!’

  The son’s head shook uncontrollably. He didn’t even try to escape his father’s gruesome hold.

  ‘What are you stinking of?’ asked the father once more. ‘Drink? Whores? You give them my money?’

  No reply. And this cowardice only incensed Hackendahl the mo
re. ‘What shall I do with you?’ he groaned. ‘Go to the police? Send you to prison?’

  No reply.

  ‘What do you want?’ he burst out, turning angrily on his eldest son. ‘Don’t interfere, blockhead.’

  ‘I’m going to the stables,’ said Otto. ‘Shall I give out the feed?’

  ‘You?’ barked the father contemptuously. But the distraction had relieved him and he even let go of Erich. ‘That would be marvellous! No, you go on – I’ll follow presently.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Otto submissively and went.

  Erich had risen and was standing, very pale, on the other side of the bed.

  ‘Have you anything to say?’ The father was trying to whip up his rage again. ‘Be quick – you know I’ve other things to do. I’ve got to earn money for my fine son to steal and booze and whore with.’

  Erich looked up at his father with trembling lips. Now that he was free of that painful grip, and with the bed between them, he spoke. ‘I want something from life …’

  ‘Want, eh? And what do you give to it? If you want something, you’ve got to give something back. But you’re only a thief.’

  ‘I don’t want to live like this,’ said Erich sullenly, pushing his hair away from his aching brows. ‘Only school and homework, and when I want half an hour off I’ve got to ask you, and you have your eyes glued to your watch to see that I don’t take a minute longer.’

  ‘You can’t live like that? When I was your age I was a farmhand. I had to get up at three in the morning and when I went to bed at nine o’clock at night I was half dead. And you can’t stand five hours of school, good clothes and good food? – That’s too much for you?’

  ‘But I’m not a farmhand. A schoolboy doesn’t live on a farm. Times have changed, Father.’

  ‘Yes, they have indeed changed. No respect or honour left. Look at the Reds making a row in front of the Schloss, demanding their rights from the Kaiser. Their rights! And you’ve become a Red as well and want to prove your right to imitation keys and stolen money.’

  ‘You never give me a farthing,’ went on the son defiantly. ‘Haven’t I a right to live like the other boys at school? You brought me into the world and wanted me to study … Very well then, give me what’s necessary. But you only want to tyrannize, you’re only happy when we’re all trembling before you. You’re just like your Kaiser. He who doesn’t obey is shot down.’

  ‘Erich!’ The old man was deeply wounded. ‘How can you say that? All I want is your happiness. What are you talking about? You’ve stolen my key and had a false one made, you’ve stolen my money – and you are trying to defend yourself. Why don’t you repent and ask my forgiveness? Have you gone completely mad? A son steals from his father and it’s the father, not the son, who’s guilty!’

  At this point Heinz, awakened by the quarrel, sat up and said, in his cheeky Berlin manner: ‘Don’t get so worked up, Father. Erich’s got a screw loose, he’s not quite right in the upper storey. The whole school knows that. Why, he’s a Red!’

  ‘A Red!’ cried the father. ‘My son a Red! A Hackendahl a Socialist! Don’t you know that the Kaiser’s said all Socialists are the enemies of the Fatherland and that he’ll smash them?’

  ‘If they don’t first smash your Kaiser,’ said Erich angrily. ‘He can only rattle his sabre, that’s all he’s good for.’

  ‘Father!’ cried Heinz. ‘Don’t take any notice of Erich, he’s cracked.’

  ‘I’ll show him,’ shouted the father. ‘When my own son …’

  He reached out but Erich ducked away.

  ‘Quietly, quietly!’ cried Heinz from his bed.

  § VII

  ‘Just listen to the row,’ wailed the mother. ‘And this early in the morning! Father can never keep quiet – he thinks he’s still in the barracks.’

  Eva sat up in bed, looking almost pleased about the quarrel. Sophie had pulled the blanket up to her chin and behaved as if she heard nothing.

  ‘Sophie,’ implored her mother, ‘Father listens to you. Go and smooth him down and find out what’s really the matter, what’s the trouble with Erich – he was even quarrelling with him in his sleep. Sophie, please!’

  ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with your quarrels.’ Sophie sat up, her face pale and twitching. ‘Oh, how you get on my nerves! I can’t stand it any longer. Nothing but quarrels and scandal! What does one live for, then?’

  ‘To go to church, of course,’ sneered Eva, ‘and see Pastor Rienäcker. God, what a wonderful beard he has! You can’t get bored with that in front of you.’

  ‘I’m not speaking to you,’ cried the elder sister. ‘Oh, you’re beastly. You think because you … But I don’t want to speak evilly of you. God forgive me that I should behave like you …’

  ‘Children, don’t quarrel,’ begged the mother. ‘We could all live so happily together. We could be so comfortable. But no – only quarrels and trouble …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ said Sophie resolutely, ‘but it’s not enough, your comfortable life as you call it. You like it, but it’s only you old people who do. We, the younger generation – I have to agree with Evchen and Erich about that – we prefer other things.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss Goody-Goody,’ interrupted Eva. ‘I don’t want your support. I can tell Mother what I want myself. But to be like Erich, coming home at one o’clock in the morning, getting drunk and pinching Father’s money …’

  ‘Oh, God,’ wailed the mother. ‘Erich can’t have done that! If Father gets to know, he’ll kill him. He can have money from me.’

  ‘But, Mother,’ argued Sophie, shocked, ‘you shouldn’t give Erich money behind Father’s back. Parents ought to stick together.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such rubbish!’ said Eva contemptuously. ‘That is so much priggish nonsense. Better for Erich to steal money than …’

  ‘What does he want money for?’ countered Sophie heatedly.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you, Sophie. You get out of doing anything here. You’d rather gad about with some dirty little cheat in the private ward than empty Father’s chamber pot. You think you’re God knows who and that He’ll give you full marks …’

  ‘Mother,’ cried Sophie tearfully. ‘Don’t let her talk in such a vulgar way, I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Yes, you’re too refined to listen to the truth but you’re not too refined to thrust it down our throats.’

  ‘I won’t stand it any longer.’ Sophie wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her nightgown. ‘And I don’t need to. I’ll speak with the Matron this very day and I’ll move my things to the Nurses’ Home this evening.’

  ‘Sophie,’ cried the mother, ‘don’t do that, please don’t! Father will never allow it. You’re our daughter and we’re a family and we should cling together.’

  ‘Yes, so as to quarrel,’ said Eva. ‘Sophie’s quite right, she should get away. And I’ll go as soon as I can. Everyone must look after himself, and all that stuff about family and parents and love is only nonsense.’

  ‘But, Evchen, we do love one another.’

  ‘We don’t,’ said Eva. ‘We can’t stand one another.’

  ‘I won’t listen any longer,’ said Sophie. ‘Talking like that just shows your lack of faith – both you and Erich. And you only want to go away because you don’t want any restrictions. I’ve seen it coming for a long time without having to meet you arm-in-arm with men. It’s shameful. I knew it when you used to go to the fairground. When you were only thirteen years old you let boys pay for you on the roundabouts.’

  ‘You’re jealous because nobody ever looks at you, Sophie.’

  ‘And you weren’t at all ashamed when the wind blew up your skirts so that people could even see the lace on your knickers.’

  ‘Splendid!’

  ‘Oh, children, do help!’ wailed the mother. ‘Just listen. I believe Father’s killing Erich …’

  § VIII

  ‘Governor overslept?’ asked old Rabause, the head stableman
, sitting on the feed chest and kicking his clogs against the sides. ‘Time’s getting on.’

  When Otto entered twenty horses had turned their heads, neighing expectantly. But they knew he was not their master, the one who brought food, and they turned their disappointed heads away. Only the grey pawed the ground with more determination than ever.

  ‘He’s coming presently,’ replied Otto, sitting down beside Rabause. ‘He’s been up a long time.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he fed the grey?’ wondered the head stableman. ‘He never misses.’ He laughed. ‘The Governor thinks I don’t notice.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with us, Rabause. It’s Father’s horses and Father’s corn – he can do what he likes with them.’

  ‘Did I deny it, Ottchen? I only said he feeds them on the quiet and that’s true. The boss has his favourites however much he pretends to treat everyone according to merit.’

  ‘I know nothing about that,’ said Otto distantly. ‘I do what Father wants.’

  ‘Just what I say, Ottchen,’ grinned the old man. ‘But for all that you’re not his favourite either.’

  For a while they were silent. Then Rabause cleared his throat. ‘Well, Otto, have you carved my pipe bowl yet?’

  ‘I haven’t had time. You know I have to be so careful, and not let Father see.’

  ‘Make a good job of it,’ begged Rabause. ‘I want it like my Ajax. You know – a blaze down one side of his muzzle.’

  ‘I’ll do it, as soon as I have time.’

  ‘You see, Otto – you’ve once again forgotten to remind me that I should use the formal “you” when talking with you. You know the Governor has strictly banned me from being informal.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten. I just don’t like telling you all the time.’

  ‘That’s precisely it,’ said Rabause hurriedly. ‘If you yourself wanted me to be formal, I wouldn’t keep forgetting not to be. But you want the informality.’

  ‘Rabause, you’ve just done it again!’