by Hans Fallada
‘That’s no explanation,’ countered the other. ‘Come with me and we’re sure to find a police constable in the Frankfurter Allee.’
‘But,’ shouted Hackendahl, ‘I’ve got my ID. I’ve got my papers!’ And he hit his pocket. ‘I was here for the horse inspection. I’m the hackney carriage man Hackendahl.’
‘Let me see!’ The bearded man looked through the papers. ‘That’s all in order – forgive me, please, Herr Hackendahl.’
‘But, but, he’s—’
‘Thank you very much, but I have my papers too and am going to the inspection. I am the teacher Krüger.’
Some laughed, others mumbled earnestly.
‘Apologies to you too, teacher Krüger. So neither of you were spies. Shake hands.’
‘Herr Hackendahl, I’m very sorry.’
‘Herr Krüger, you only did your duty.’
‘Let’s go back together.’
And they did. All were satisfied, and even a little elated. Only Heinz dragged his feet unhappily behind. It really upset him that it was not a spy after all.
§ IX
When Hackendahl arrived home he found awaiting him a slip of paper with the message: ‘We leave today at two o’clock from the Anhalter Station. Otto.’
Extremely agitated, his wife was laying the table herself, a thing she hadn’t done for years – she wanted them to be ready in time. Eva was busy in the kitchen.
As they were all sitting down to table, in came Erich who had spent the entire morning calling at one barracks after another, where he had waited for hours on end and been everywhere rejected: we can’t deal with any more men. Come again in two or three months’ time.
‘Good, and in the meantime you’ll be able to pass your final examination,’ said Hackendahl.
But Erich did not want ever to see the school again. The weeks at the lawyer’s had changed him. He felt he’d grown up. It seemed impossible for him to sit on a school bench again. ‘Somebody told me that they’re organizing a reserve battalion at the cadet academy in Lichterfelde. I’ll try there tomorrow morning.’
‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Erich,’ begged the mother. ‘Perhaps the war will be over in three months and something might happen to Otto.’ This sentence was a little confused but everyone understood. Erich busily hummed a popular song.
‘You shouldn’t think of such things, Mother,’ expostulated Hackendahl. ‘If a soldier was to think like that he couldn’t fight.’
‘I was leaning out of the window this morning at ten o’clock,’ she wailed, ‘and when the horses came back, only five out of our thirty-two beauties and the grey’s head drooping so miserably again, I couldn’t help thinking – that’s how all the horses will look when they return. And what about my sons, too?’
There was a moment’s embarrassed silence. Then Hackendahl rapped on the table with his knife. ‘Be quiet, Mother! If you get into a state like this we won’t take you to the station.’
‘I’m not in a state,’ she cried, wiping her eyes. ‘I just couldn’t help thinking of it when the horses came back. But I promise I won’t cry at the station. Take me with you, Gustav!’ And, with a touching attempt to smile, she looked at the others.
‘All right, Mother. But we have to hurry now. Anhalter Station – that means France.’
But at the last minute it turned out that Eva didn’t want to go; with tears in her eyes she said she really couldn’t, she had a raging headache. She felt ill.
‘Won’t do!’ said Hackendahl. ‘You’ll kindly go to the station when your brother is leaving for the Front. On such an occasion one can’t have headaches or be ill.’
Weeping, Eva assured him that she really couldn’t go; she’d fall down in the street … But, just as her mother shouldn’t have gone to the station because of her tears, Eva had to go despite them.
‘Just you stop that, girl!’ Hackendahl, remembering Bubi’s remark, had a sudden suspicion. ‘Perhaps there’s some fellow, eh? You’ve been behaving in a very strange manner lately. Wait till we get back and we’ll have a word or two.’
Out of humour, the harassed family marched off and Eva saw Eugen waiting at the street corner where she was to meet him; she could do nothing but make a despairing gesture. He seemed to threaten her, and was then lost to sight.
She remembered that the flat was now only under the care of the maid. And Eva would credit Eugen with doing anything – anything! Even breaking into her parents’ flat. At best she would like to have gone back, but what good would that have done? If he were really in the flat, not even her presence would have held him back from stealing. She had no power over him at all, but he had complete power over her.
Meanwhile, time had passed so quickly that they were on Alexanderplatz. They had to go, otherwise they’d miss the train. Erich light-heartedly suggested to his father that they take a motor taxi, and was rudely shouted at for doing so. And when Mother suggested a cab, that was also rejected as too expensive. Fortunately a horse-drawn omnibus came by, with enough room. Jolting and shaking, it got under way.
The town was as full of bustle as on the first day of mobilization. Cars stopped in the street, boys threw bundles of newspapers among the crowds, and passengers boarding omnibuses brought the news that war had been declared on France, and German troops had crossed the Belgian frontier … A momentary hesitation and shock. Belgium? Why Belgium? But this was no time for consideration – people were already starting to sing: ‘Victoriously we will conquer France.’ And amid approving laughter old people hummed:
Who’s hiding in the undergrowth?
Bonaparte, I take my oath.
What right’s he to hang about?
Come on, comrades, chase him out.
The bus could make no headway through the crowds so the Hackendahls descended and pushed forward in a column. The station! They had to get to the station.
‘Pardon me, sir, if I kicked you but my son’s going to the Front.’
‘A pleasure, my dear sir.’
Thank God, the station at last! Only another minute …
Through the hall, up the stairs. Crowds on crowds. A brass band somewhere. One minute past two. ‘The train should have left, but as long as the band isn’t playing “Muss i denn” it’s not too late,’ panted Hackendahl.
So large was the crowd that they went through the barriers without taking platform tickets; the collector shouted after them but Hackendahl yelled ‘France! Paris!’ and laughed. Many joined in.
How long the train was! Men dressed in field-grey were looking out of the windows; their spiked helmets had field-grey covers with the regimental number in red. How serious were all their faces! Many women, pale and serious too, were on the platform, with flowers, yes, but flowers in trembling hands. And innumerable children, their faces also serious, some of the smaller ones weeping …
Military music played, but faces remained serious, talk was quiet.
‘Do write, Father!’
‘I’ll send you a picture postcard from Paris.’ A pitiful little joke saved up for the last moment. A faint smile in reply.
‘And keep well.’
‘You too – and the children.’
‘Don’t worry about the children – I’ll look after them.’
‘Where’s Otto?’ They hurried along the train. Suddenly it had become very important to see the unimportant Otto, to shake him by the hand, to tell him to look after himself.
‘Look, there’s Gudde, the dressmaker. You know her, Father, she altered my black dress. – With a child! – How long has she had a child? Why, she’s a hunchback. – It must be a neighbour’s child.’
‘Who are you seeing off, Fräulein Gudde? What’s your name, sonnie?’
‘Good afternoon, Frau Hackendahl. There’s Otto – I mean Herr Hackendahl.’
They rushed forward – Fräulein Gudde was forgotten. Till the train departed, the despised Otto was the central figure.
‘Good luck, Otto!’
‘Write sometimes, Otto!’
&nb
sp; ‘I’ve brought you something to eat, Ottchen.’
‘And if there’s trouble, Otto, think of your father. It’d be a proud day if you got the Iron Cross.’
‘Have you heard if there are to be any Iron Crosses in this war?’
Otto was standing at the compartment window, his face greyer than his uniform. He spoke mechanically, he shook hands, he put the parcel of food on the seat where her parcel was … And his eyes were forever seeking hers, the only person he loved with all the tenacity of a faint heart and who loved him with a strength that forgave all. Glowing and tender, she looked at him without reproach and without claim, standing by the pillar holding the boy’s hand. ‘Don’t cry, Gustäving. Papa’s coming back.’
Otto could read from her lips the words he could not hear. ‘Coming back.’
No, he might not come back, but that prospect, strangely, did not alarm him. He was going to war, to battle, to hand-to-hand fighting, wounds and lingering death, but these did not alarm him. I shan’t be a coward there, he thought. And yet I’m too cowardly to tell Father about …
He’d like to understand why, but is unable to. He looked at them helplessly, under his compartment window, the old familiar faces, and then he looked quickly over to the pillar, to that dearest, unique face … No, he can’t understand.
‘Otto, why, you’ve got flowers,’ called out Bubi. ‘Who gave you them? A girlfriend, eh?’
Everyone laughed at the idea that Otto, the shy Otto, could have a girlfriend. And Otto too screwed up his face into a miserable smile.
‘Where is she, then?’ Laughing, they all looked round for Otto’s girl. ‘The one in the blue dress? Looks smart but she might be too smart for you. She’d take the very butter off your bread.’
Again Otto smiled miserably.
‘The Gudde woman’s still there,’ whispered Frau Hackendahl. ‘Who does she belong to, Otto? Have you seen her?’
‘Who?’
‘Fräulein Gudde, our dressmaker. You know!’
‘Yes … I … That’s to say I …’
They all looked at him. He turned red. But they were not suspicious.
‘Didn’t you see who she’s with?’
‘No … no. I saw nobody.’
And now the band began to play ‘Muss i denn’, the train gave a jerk and started, handkerchiefs came out, hands were shaken a last time.
The solitary figure beside the pillar pulled out no handkerchief, neither did she wave. She was standing there as if for ever, patiently waiting till he returned. His eyes filled with tears.
‘Don’t cry, Otto,’ said Father Hackendahl. ‘You’ll be back soon.’ And very loudly, for the train was moving off fast now: ‘You’ve always been a good son.’
Bubi ran alongside Otto’s carriage the longest, right to the end of the platform. He saw the train disappear, all the handkerchiefs waving, a bend, the round, red disk on the last wagon – and away!
Heinz returned to his family.
‘Now, be quick!’ said Frau Hackendahl. ‘I must see that I can still catch Gudde. It’s interesting to see who exactly she is and who she saw off.’
Gertrud Gudde, however, had already disappeared, with her Gustäving.
§ X
The head of the surgery department stood, tired, in his consulting room and washed his hands, as he always did when he was exhausted. Out of pure habit, he scrubbed his nails with a hard little brush, washed them with disinfectant, rinsed and dried his hands.
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, went to the window and looked, deep in thought, seeing nothing, at the hospital garden. Tired and exhausted, he’d been on his feet for eleven hours, and still couldn’t see the end of it …
But, he thought, this is just the beginning. Just the beginning … he thought slowly, and without being very upset or despairing. This is just the beginning …
Four days’ mobilization had cost him three-quarters of his doctors. They’d gone. ‘Good luck!’ they said, and went. Three-quarters of the doctors gone, not to speak of the nursing staff, and more would be required. So this was just the beginning …
He put his cigarette in an ashtray. He’d only taken one draw. Without thinking, he went back to the basin and began for the thousandth time the ritual washing and scrubbing of his hands. He didn’t know he was doing it. Sometimes a colleague pointed it out to him, or a surgical nurse said: ‘Herr Professor, you’re washing yourself again. You were at the basin only two minutes ago.’
But now no one was there who could remind him. Carefully, he brushed his nails …
‘Good luck!’ they’d said, and went. But how could one have luck with barely a quarter of the normal number of doctors? It would have to be done badly, eyes closed, neglecting the worst faults …
It would cost lives, he thought sadly. As long as he had practised his profession, and stood around so many sickbeds, he’d never lost the sense that people’s lives were at stake, not medical cases: mothers whose children at home were crying, and fathers on whose lives depended the fortune and welfare of little communities.
It’s going to cost lives, he thought. But nothing will be as cheap as human life in the immediate future. And it will not only be the sick, the exhausted and the old who will die. The young will have to go too, the young and the healthy. The strength of the people will be systematically reduced, day by day, week by week, perhaps for months … And here I stand complaining that I’m half an hour late for a burst appendix!
He looked around and listened. Once again he stood at the basin and washed his hands. His cigarette burned in the ashtray, but that didn’t bring him to consciousness. Gradually he became aware that someone might have knocked on the door, and when he said ‘Come in’, the door really did open and a nurse entered, rather embarrassed.
‘Well, sister, what’s happened?’ he asked distractedly and dried his hands on the towel. ‘I’m about to go on a round. Or is it a new patient?’
The nurse shook her head and looked at him. She had strange eyes, a little shy, yet defiant. She also had a pleasant face, young but bright. She probably hadn’t had an easy life.
‘I’ve a personal request, Herr Professor,’ said the nurse quietly.
‘If that’s the case, you’d better go to your superior, sister. You’re aware that you are under her.’
‘I’ve already been to her,’ said the nurse quietly again, ‘but she refused me. And then I thought, Herr Professor …’
‘No, sister, no,’ said the doctor emphatically. ‘First, I never get mixed up in the affairs of the nursing staff. Second, I really have so much on my plate.’
He looked at the nurse as if in conclusion, sighed, rolled up his sleeves and went to the basin.
‘Herr Professor had just finished washing when I came in,’ said the little nurse bravely. (His obsession was naturally known throughout the hospital.)
‘Thank you, sister,’ said the professor. ‘You can tell the operation nurse – you know, Sister Lilli – that I’ll be beginning again in ten minutes.’
And he let the water run over his hands.
‘Yes, Herr Professor.’ She looked at him hesitantly, with a worried look. ‘Herr Professor, forgive me for bringing it up again … Earlier today they decided who can go to the Front … And I – I’m not allowed.’
The senior doctor gestured angrily. ‘Not everyone can go!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s work here too, a lot of work, and necessary work.’
‘But, Herr Professor! I must go. Tell the staff nurse that I can. You only have to say the word, Herr Professor …’
The senior doctor turned around, looked furiously at the young nurse and shouted angrily, ‘For this nonsense you disturb my few free minutes! You should be ashamed, sister! If it’s adventures with young men you want, you don’t have to be a nurse! You can do that at every street corner. But that would probably be too boring for you – a whole lot of old women … Oh, leave me in peace, sister!’
But if the senior doctor expected the nurse meekly to
withdraw after this strong and decisive put-down, he was mistaken. Sister Sophie stood her ground, without flinching or hesitation. Perhaps she had even lost some of the shyness from her expression, which was stronger and more defiant. The doctor observed this not without interest.
‘It’s not because of young men that I want to go,’ she said determinedly. ‘The staff nurse has just moved me down to the old people precisely for that reason, because I’m not suited to the male wards. I don’t like men …’
‘Sister,’ said the professor quietly, ‘you shouldn’t give me lectures on your preferences. I’m not interested. Just go to your ward.’
‘Yes, Herr Professor,’ she replied with unyielding determination. ‘But, Herr Professor, I’ve got to get out of here, and you’ve got to help me …’
‘In heaven’s name, sister!’
‘Herr Professor, I’ve never been able to stand other people. I’ve never been fond of anyone – neither my parents nor my siblings. Nor the patients here either …’
‘Wonderful, sister,’ said the doctor sarcastically. ‘Excellent!’
‘No, I’ve never been able to like anyone, and no one has been able to like me either. I’ve always thought I was completely useless … And now suddenly – please, Herr Professor, listen to me a moment longer – suddenly war is here. I don’t understand politics, Herr Professor. I don’t know the how or the why. But I suddenly started thinking that I could perhaps be of use after all, and do some good and not be in the world for nothing.’
She looked at him for a moment.
‘Perhaps the Herr Professor doesn’t understand what I mean. I don’t myself. But I think the others, the women, my sister and so on – they think they’ll one day have children, and a man they are fond of. But I’ve never had anything like that, Herr Professor! I’ve never been able to imagine why I was in the world. My father—’
She broke off. Then: ‘Herr Professor, don’t think that I think of holding young soldiers’ heads all the time, and giving them water … No, I think of marching, and doing work which disgusts me from morning till evening, to destruction and further. And then, Herr Professor, perhaps I’ll feel that I’m not in this world in vain.’ And then, almost sobbing: ‘It’s better to have been a bit more than a nothing in one’s life …’