by Hans Fallada
Easy for him to command – Hackendahl was only too ready to obey – but the grey was subject to her instincts alone and raced on, so that the policeman had to make a most unmilitary leap to safety and was left far behind. And Hackendahl, racing onward, knew that particulars were being taken – he would be fined – and ever afterwards he would be a ‘previous offender’.
With a desperate effort he pulled the horse to the right into the quiet Hindersinstrasse; outmanoeuvred, the motor car shot past; the horse made another ten or fifteen bounds, fell into a canter, then into a trot …
Hackendahl realized that the Geheimrat was tugging at his arm. ‘Stop, you fool, don’t you understand?’ yelled the old gentleman, crimson with rage.
Hackendahl stopped. ‘Excuse me, Herr Geheimrat, the grey bolted. The motor car upset her. The chauffeur did that intentionally.’
‘Racing like mad!’ said the old gentleman, still trembling. ‘Old people, racing!’ He got out. ‘We’ve driven together for the last time, Hackendahl. Send in your bill! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘But it wasn’t my fault. The quietest horse wouldn’t stand it.’
A horn sounded. The car, that triumphant monster, had circled the block of buildings and cut them off. Defeated and exhausted, the grey stood with hanging head; she did not move even when the car drew up beside her.
‘You blame it on the horse!’ cried the Geheimrat. ‘But the horse is standing still. No, it’s you who wanted to race the car, Hackendahl, you alone.’
Hackendahl said nothing. With gloomy eyes he watched the Geheimrat get into the car with his smiling son. The burden God imposed on a just man was heavy indeed to bear.
§ XIV
For half an hour Frau Hackendahl had worked with chisel, hammer and pliers on the padlock to the cellar door, and had beaten the staple out of shape and bent the shackle, injuring her fingers but not opening the door.
Weary and despairing, she sat down on a stair tread. From the distance, through two doors, she imagined she could hear her imprisoned son calling. But he called in vain – she could not get to him. When she thought of the trouble she was inviting from her husband, and all for the lost labour of a spoiled padlock, she was filled with an ever-increasing despair.
And, as it was now, so had it been the whole of her life; her intentions had not been bad, her courage not less than that of other people, but success had never been hers. The marriage was not successful, the children hadn’t turned out as she had hoped, she hadn’t broken open the door.
She looked at the lock. Certainly she could have fetched a locksmith but one didn’t expose to a stranger the family shames. She could have gone into the yard and listened at the cellar grating, but the neighbours might be watching and laughing. Life was such that you couldn’t tell your own husband what you couldn’t stand most about him. And if you did tell him, he wouldn’t listen, and if he heard, it wouldn’t change anything. Life was unbearable anyhow, and yet one endured it.
And now she was getting old and fat (she liked her food), and the faint, meaningless hope she cherished that everything might still be different was the stupidest thing of all. Exactly the same hope as in a young girl still existed in her old, used-up, bloated body. Not once even had it been fulfilled, but hope lived on more stubbornly than ever, whispering: if you get the door open and set Erich free, everything may yet change.
Nothing but this absurd padlock stood between her and a better life, just as it had always been some trifle which had unfailingly prevented her from enjoying existence. Only trifles – that was the worst of it! And it was the same for Erich. Because of a trifling sum, a few marks, he was to be branded as a criminal.
Life was so miserably limited. Absolutely nothing happened. If a local girl had a baby, it was news for years. Little people, little lives! Her body was enormously swollen, but her own soul – who she really was – that was just the same size as when she was a little girl. That hadn’t grown.
There she sat on the cellar stairs knowing she could not force the door open, and knowing that, because of it, Erich might be plunged into disaster, perhaps even hang himself. But she would call neither Otto nor a locksmith. She could not change her nature.
She tried to visualize the cellar, whether it contained hooks and ropes, and whether the ceiling was high enough … Then she remembered reading of someone who had hanged himself on a door handle, and that the tongue of a hanged man protrudes purple and swollen from his mouth and that they are supposed to mess their trousers … Overcome by fright she jumped up, shouting and beating on the cellar door. ‘Don’t do it, Erich. Don’t do it, for your mother’s sake!’
What she did wasn’t conscious. She didn’t even hear what she cried out. But her martyred heart suffered, and she danced a kind of grotesque dance of pain. And when Otto and Rabause in alarm rushed down the stairs, demanding anxiously: ‘What’s the matter?’ she pointed and screamed: ‘He’s hanging himself, he’s hanging himself!’
Oh, but life is so complicated! If Frau Auguste had been a little more aware of what she was doing, more alert and intelligent, one might have thought she was acting like this so that the men should break open the cellar door and allow her to reach her goal and not founder on a mere lock. For her weeping and panic prevented all questioning. Without a word the men worked away at the lock while she stood beside them moaning and imploring: ‘Be quick, he’s doing it now!’
But Frau Auguste Hackendahl was not clever enough to contrive and carry out such a plan. She was genuinely terrified, genuinely in fear, and she herself was the most surprised of all when she saw, after the second door had been prised open, Erich sitting calmly on his box eating his hunk of bread.
‘I thought …’ she stammered, and said no more.
No. No more hanging. But because she had inadvertently achieved her aim, she was overcome by a feeling of happiness. She leaned against the door, looked at her son through half-closed eyes and murmured, ‘It’s all right, Erich.’
The three liberators looked at the prisoner. Seeing him so calm, they felt almost ashamed of their agitation.
‘You’re marvellously brave, you three,’ said Erich, rising and stretching. ‘You, Otto, the model son! Father’ll be very upset indeed. And old honest Rabause! Well, Father will sack you at once. And Mother – well, Mother …’ But at this even he, so cold-blooded, felt a little ashamed.
All were silent. (It is curious. This seventeen-year-old wretch behaves as if he’s had far more experience of life than any of you – as if he’s the eldest and not the youngest. And they all accept it!) ‘Well, and what have you got for the prodigal son?’ began Erich again. ‘Or has Father already gone to fetch the fatted calf for the merry feast?’
Rabause was the first to have enough of it. ‘There’s no time to lose, Erich; the chief will be back any minute. And I know who’ll come down a peg or two then,’ and he went.
Erich gave a forced laugh. ‘Well, Mother, what’s to be done? You haven’t been so silly, surely, as to get me out without having something ready – money, clothes?’
They were both silent. Yes, they had been so silly. They had completely disregarded their brother Erich’s cold-bloodedness.
‘Mother thought you were doing yourself in,’ muttered Otto.
Erich was dumbfounded. ‘Doing myself in? But why? Because of this nonsense? Because of a few minutes in a cellar and eighty marks? You’re loony!’
‘Not because of the eighty marks,’ said Otto.
‘Oh, you mean the dishonour and disgrace and so on. What does Father’s honour and disgrace matter to me? Nothing! I have my own views about honour; what I mean is, I don’t acknowledge dishonour. If one’s a progressive …’
Nevertheless he became a little confused in spite of his youthful self-assurance and therefore looked angrily at them. ‘So you’ve got hold of nothing for me? All right, I’ll have to look after myself – as usual.’ And he passed them by without another word and went upstairs.
&nbs
p; Mother and son glanced at each other, then looked away like conspirators plagued by guilt. Sitting down on the box, she picked up the rest of the bread and, as if to console herself for her defeat, remarked: ‘Now he won’t have to eat dry bread.’ But as she said it another and very distressing thought occurred to her, extinguishing every spark of consolation. ‘And what will he do now?’ she faltered.
Otto shrugged, perhaps entertaining the same thought as his mother. He looked at the ceiling, as if he could see through it, up into the house.
‘Suppose he goes on stealing?’
Otto made no reply.
She sighed heavily. Now that her son was free again her mood changed; he would have to look after himself. It was time to be thinking of her husband. ‘He mustn’t,’ she said. ‘Father has his troubles too.’
Otto nodded.
‘Please go upstairs, Otto. Stand in front of the door and don’t let Erich in. Tell him I’ll give him ten marks, no, nine – Eva took one for the herrings … With nine marks he can live three days. Tell him that, Otto, and by then I’ll get some more money from Father.’
‘I’ve got seven marks.’
‘Good, give him them too. Tell him to let me know where he’s staying. I’ll send Heinz with money now and then. Tell him that, Ottchen.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And, Otto,’ she called after him, ‘ask him to come down and say goodbye to me. I can’t come upstairs this moment, my knees feel weak with the excitement. Don’t forget to tell him. He must say goodbye to me. I’m his mother, I got him out of here.’
Otto nodded and went obediently. Otto was the family beast of burden, the one ordered about and scolded, and nobody cared what he thought or felt. His mother was holding Erich’s bread. It was good bread. Slowly, with enjoyment, she started to eat it. The chewing, the nourishing flavour, the assimilation of food did her good. The last remains of her excitement passed. She ate, ergo she lived. She no longer thought about the argument which might break out among the brothers upstairs. And she didn’t think, either, about the coming conflict with her husband. She ate, she lived.
But, before she had quite finished, Otto returned. She couldn’t read his message from his face.
‘Well,’ she asked, chewing. ‘Where’s Erich?’
‘Gone!’
‘Didn’t you tell him to say goodbye to me? I particularly asked you.’
‘He’d already gone when I went upstairs.’
‘And – do tell me, Ottchen – what about Father’s room?’
‘Everything’s all right, Mother.’
‘Thank God.’ She was relieved. ‘I always said that Erich was sometimes inconsiderate but never wicked. No, our Erich isn’t wicked.’ She waited for confirmation from Otto but that was too much to expect. He spoke at last, however. ‘But he’s smashed the lamp in the girls’ bedroom.’
She was astonished. ‘Why should Erich have smashed it? Don’t be silly, Ottchen. Doris did that, obviously, when she was cleaning up, but never mind, I’ll deduct it from her wages on the first.’
‘Heinz told us Eva kept her savings in the counterweight of the lamp.’
‘Heinz? How does Heinz know? In the weight? You can’t keep anything in that.’
‘The weight’s hollow. It can be unscrewed.’
‘But …’ Still she did not understand. ‘Why did he break the lamp?’
‘I have to take the horses to the blacksmith’s,’ said Otto. ‘Erich has taken Eva’s money and while he was about it the lamp must have come down and smashed.’
‘I’ll give it back to Eva,’ cried his mother. ‘Eva can’t have had much, a few pence out of the household money! There’s no need to make a row, tell her that immediately, Ottchen.’
‘I must take the horses to the smithy, Mother. And Eva had over two hundred marks, so Heinz said …’
With that Otto went.
§ XV
Eva had not been in a hurry about the fresh herrings. Past the Schloss, where people were standing in large groups waiting for the Kaiser, she had dawdled along enjoying the fine June morning … Fools, decided Eva. Why, the Imperial standard wasn’t to be seen; His Majesty was on a cruise in the North Sea – people could stand there till they took root!
Passing down Unter den Linden, she turned into the Friedrichstrasse and sauntered on till she came to Wertheim’s Stores. Eva had only the one mark with her, so she had no intention of buying anything there, but she went in and looked round nonetheless. Her eyes shone. This abundance of silk and velvet, this great wealth, intoxicated her. Up and down stairs she went, as her fancy took her. It was all the same whether she looked at dresses or china, at Thermos flasks or hats; she wasn’t so much carried away by the sight of any one object as by the profusion and rich magnificence – seven hundred pictures, hundreds of china services.
Finally she wandered into less crowded regions, into the dimly lit Jewellery Department where the contents of showcases gleamed and sparkled. Catching her breath, she leaned over them. The glimmer of gold, the green and blue flashes of diamonds – oh, to possess such things! Rows of gold watches of delicate workmanship – and so tiny! Slender rings set with a single stone larger than a pea, and trays of silver – you could almost see how heavy they were. And she, with all her cunning, could only make twenty pfennigs at the most on the herrings. She sighed.
‘Well, Miss,’ said an impudent voice at her elbow. ‘Nice stuff, what?’
She looked up with the rebuff instinctive to every girl in a large city when unexpectedly accosted. But at once she became uncertain. The young man with the black moustache standing beside her might be a salesman. He wore neither straw hat nor panama, and in 1914 all men wore a hat or at least carried one. ‘I’m not buying,’ she said distantly.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the young man in his impudent voice, which repelled her but not altogether unpleasantly. ‘Costs nix to look and you get a kick out of it. Miss,’ he went on persuasively, ‘tell yourself I’m fat old Wertheim – course he’s fat – and you’re my intended. An’ I say ter you: “Choose, my darlin’, choose your heart’s desire.” What’d you choose then, me dear?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Eva. ‘How dare you speak to me?’
‘But, Miss, I told you I’m fat Wertheim an’ you’re me young lady. I’ve got to talk to me young lady.’
‘You must have drunk a lot of ginger beer to be gassing so much. What’s upset you?’
‘Me, upset? Not on your life. It’s the others who’ll be that. Well, Miss, what about some sparklers, a diamond necklace with a pendant and a diamond clasp?’
‘That’s for some old trout,’ said Eva, amused, although she sensed there was something odd about this young man. ‘No, I’d like a diamond ring like that one in the case there.’ She walked past a salesman who, since it was clear that these two were not going to buy anything, was inspecting his fingers in a bored way. ‘See, a ring like that …’
‘Quite nice,’ agreed the young man patronizingly. ‘But, Miss, if you was my young lady I’d give you something better than that rubbish.’
‘Yes, you would,’ laughed Eva. ‘And you’d have to pay a fortune for it.’
‘Oh, would I? Lemme tell you, Miss, you know nothin’ about diamonds. That stone’s a dud, it’s paste. Get me?’
‘Don’t talk rot!’
‘I’ll show you the real goods, Miss. Look here, those are genuine in that case there. Look at this one, the yellow one I mean. When you look at it from the side it turns red. That’s seven carats all right and flawless! And this one here.’
‘Don’t get so het up about them,’ said Eva teasingly, but impressed by the young man’s enthusiasm.
‘And that one – Lord, Miss, if you an’ me could get our claws on what’s in this case …’
‘But we can’t. And we won’t either.’
‘Don’t be so sure of that, Miss. Things turn out quite diff’rent sometimes … You’ve got a nice shoppin’ bag, holds qui
te a lot, I see. And if you have to make a dash for it, you make it as hard as you can …’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Eva suspiciously. ‘I believe you’re tight.’
‘You see that salesman, Miss,’ asked the man quite hoarse with excitement. ‘He’ll drop off in a mo. Take a peep at the clock over his head. What’s the time by it? My peepers are a bit weak. No, plant yourself here if you want to see the clock …’
His excitement was infectious. Almost against her will Eva placed herself as he told her. Actually she couldn’t see the clock very well and had to strain her eyes … There was a crash and a clatter nearby. She saw the salesman start and she too swung round …
‘Run, girl, run!’ cried the hoarse voice beside her …
As in a dream she saw the smashed showcase, the hand clutching the jewellery.
‘Run, you fool!’ and the young man pushed her against the advancing salesman, who tried to grab her. Without realizing what she was doing she hit out at him and ran. Other people rushed up, she dodged round a showcase, stumbled up five or six steps, threw open a swing door …
Behind her voices were shouting: ‘Stop thief!’
A bell shrilled.
She was in the crowded Food Department. Startled faces regarded her and somebody tried to seize her, but she evaded him, pushed behind a fat woman, found herself in another corridor and ran behind a stack of tinned goods. Here there was a staircase. She pushed the door open and hurried downstairs – one floor, two floors, lower …
She stood still and listened. Were they coming? Was she being pursued? Why had she run away? She hadn’t done anything. That loathsome fellow – what impudence to use her of all people as a screen. The thief! If ever she saw him again she’d scream, attract a crowd, and the policeman would handcuff him; then she’d laugh in his impertinent face. To involve her, an innocent girl, in this dirty business! It was unheard of.
A heavy step was coming slowly down the stairs and she fled again, pushing open a swing door, walking as if casually through a department or two and approaching the exit. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with fear. She would undoubtedly be recognized; her description must have been phoned already to every exit and they knew she was carrying a shopping bag of black American cloth. Why was that salesgirl looking at her like that?