Iron Gustav

by Hans Fallada

  For a while silence reigned between them. The doctor slowly dried his hands, went towards the nurse, lifted her head with its sobbing face, looked her in the eyes and said softly: ‘Sister, do you think that’s why a great people goes to war, so that – what is your name?’

  ‘Sophie Hackendahl.’

  ‘– so that Sophie Hackendahl no longer feels superfluous in life?’

  ‘How do I know?!’ she shouted, almost out of control, impatiently freeing her head from his hand. ‘But what I do know is that I am now twenty-one years old and have never for a moment felt that I’m of any use!’

  ‘Well,’ said the doctor thoughtfully, ‘perhaps this war has also come so that people once again feel that they are of some use. Perhaps.’ He looked at the nurse. ‘I’ll see what I can do with your senior nurse. I gather you are not exactly in her good books. But now I know that, on this at least, you are of precisely the same opinion.’

  The doctor smiled. Sophie too smiled weakly, nodded her head in thanks, and left.

  The senior doctor resumed his place at the basin.

  § XI

  Eva, the other Hackendahl sister, had hurried her parents and siblings along to get home as soon as possible. Now she sat, empty and exhausted, in her room. No, there was no sign of Eugen. No desk had been broken into, the crazy little parlourmaid Doris had not been attacked or raped. Everything was exactly as it should be.

  And that was the worst of it! That Eugen hadn’t done anything yet, that was the worst of it. That he could still do everything and that the threat was still there, that one still had to wait – that was the worst of it!

  Eva sat listening through the open window to her father talking with Rabause in the stable, and thought: yes, Father has nothing to complain of. He has his business, his stable and cabs. But I …

  She heard her mother talking eagerly to Doris in the kitchen; Mother had nothing to complain of, either. Otto, whose lot had been the worst of all, had left, and he was now a respected, an honoured man, one who had something to do in life. And Sophie too had a job. She might carry it out grudgingly – that was just like her – but she had her job. And Heinz had his school and Erich was always up to something new, something different. But what had she herself got? A mere existence, shabby and common – Eugen waiting at the street corner, whistling on his fingers – for her. She belonged to him now. That was her job.

  When the day before yesterday he had forced her to drink and she saw he would not relent, that he meant to have her at all costs and immediately – not because he wanted her but merely to make it clear she belonged to him in that way also, and had nothing left of her own – then an idea had occurred to her, a last hope which might tide her over the next terrible hour. She had asked: ‘Eugen, won’t you have to join up too?’ (Because she had seen the war as liberation, just like her sister. Eugen would have to go, and when he returned – if he ever did! But people like him shouldn’t ever return. Otherwise, what would be the point of war?)

  He had looked at her oddly and sneered. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetie?’

  ‘Of course not, Eugen. But all the young men have to go …’

  ‘You see, my sweet, they won’t have me. I’m exempted. My Fatherland loves me too much.’

  ‘Exempted? But all the young men …’

  ‘You needn’t worry, Evchen, I shan’t leave you.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Yes, you’d like me to go to the Front, wouldn’t you? Nothin’ doing! Let the other mugs get shot to bits if they want.’

  ‘But if you don’t report, you’re a deserter. And then …’

  ‘You’re slow on the uptake, what? I’m not a deserter, I tell you – I’m indispensable. My Fatherland don’t want me taking part in the war. You still don’t savvy? Well, you fool, I’ve lost my civil rights, ain’t got them.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ She hadn’t understood at all.

  ‘Yes, dearest, when they put me in jug they pinched my civil rights for three years. An’ now I’m not allowed to wear my Kaiser’s uniform and you’re pretty down about it, from what I can see.’ He leaned across the table, grinning. Remembering him made her shudder. Not that she was particularly sensitive about such things, but that someone could be proud of his own disgrace!

  He must have read her thoughts, because all at once he became angry and threatening. ‘Ashamed, are you? Ashamed of your Eugen, eh? Get on your back, and I’ll show you what I mean by shame – civil rights and all.’ And he grinned again.

  Then … it happened.

  She sat quite still. Father was still talking in the stable. One heard the pails clatter. Mother was still in the kitchen. Bubi was whistling.

  Suddenly she remembered Fräulein Gudde as she had been standing on the platform, a little crippled creature holding a healthy child by the hand, and shuddered at the thought that she too might have a child, by a fellow who was outwardly sound but inwardly corrupt … the little cripple had something from life that she would never have, because for Eva it was all over.

  Taking a length of material from a drawer, she wrapped it up in paper and shouted out to Heinz: ‘If Mother asks, tell her I’ve gone out for an hour.’

  ‘Tell her yourself,’ shouted Bubi, with maximum fraternal politesse. ‘I’m not your message boy.’ But she didn’t want to tell her mother herself that she was going to the dressmaker, because her mother would immediately think she was going for that reason. But that wasn’t why she was going. She was going for herself.

  Is she walking there? No, she’s almost running. And she’s running as fast down the street as is becoming for a young girl in a long dress in 1914. In the street she kept on looking round to see if Eugen were following her; he was a nightmare, an ever-present danger. But she reached the quiet little side street unmolested. She crossed the yard and climbed the steps.

  Fräulein Gudde answered the door at once. Her eyes were red and she looked almost hostile. The child was holding onto her skirts. He couldn’t be more than two.

  ‘Excuse me, Fräulein Gudde,’ said Eva, somewhat put out by the unfriendly glance, ‘I saw you just now at the station and that reminded me I had this material. It’s a summer fabric and if I don’t have it made up now it will lie about for another year.’ She gave a feeble giggle, quite disconcerted.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Fräulein, no! I can’t accept this work. No!’ The negation, so bitterly repeated, increased Eva’s confusion.

  ‘But, Fräulein Gudde, what’s the matter? You’ve always worked for us.’

  ‘I saw at once,’ said Fräulein Gudde passionately, ‘that you had guessed. But he’s my child, our child. You can’t interfere there, you Hackendahls. No. My child! If Otto wasn’t good enough for you …’

  ‘Otto!’ cried Eva, dumbfounded.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Yes, Otto, my Otto, not yours, not the Otto you turned him into, you Hackendahls, you and your father! Iron Gustav! So I should think!’ And with a sudden change of mood: ‘He’s just gone to the Front and I’m worried about him already. But when he comes back I’ll see that he frees himself of everything Hackendahl. Then I’ll bless the war, bless, bless …’ She let her head fall against the door frame and wept in a heartbreaking manner.

  Eva had listened wide-eyed to this outburst; now she timidly reached out a hand to the weeping woman. ‘Fräulein Gudde, please, please don’t. Think of the child!’ For the little boy was standing there, trying to embrace his mother. ‘Mummy, dear Mummy, don’t.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s over, Gustäving. Mummy’s laughing. She’s laughing again, Gustäving. Fräulein Hackendahl, now you know what you wanted to know and you can go home. What letters you’ll all be writing to him now! Not even at the Front will he be left in peace.’

  ‘Nobody suspects Otto, believe me, Fräulein Gudde. We wouldn’t have thought him capable of such a thing.’

  ‘No, you never thought him capable of anything.’

  �
�And nobody will hear about it from me. You shall have the child all to yourself. I understand, I do indeed, I understand how you hate everything belonging to the Hackendahls. I’m a Hackendahl myself and – I’m just as unhappy as Otto.’ Now it was Eva’s turn to weep, but she soon recovered. ‘You see,’ she said to the silent woman, ‘I’ve no little one – and mustn’t have, ever. That’s my fate. That’s why I came, because I saw you with such a fine, handsome child. I’ve always wanted to have children and so I couldn’t help being envious when I saw you. You must understand that.’

  Gertrud Gudde looked at her for a moment. Then she said: ‘Come in, Fräulein Hackendahl.’ Holding the child’s hand, she led the way. ‘Give me the material, Fräulein.’

  And Eva handed it to her and the dressmaker fetched fashion books and made suggestions and asked: ‘Would you like it this way?’ and said: ‘I shouldn’t have leg-of-mutton sleeves, Fräulein Hackendahl, I’d have quite a small puff.’

  And Eva gave the right answers, just as she would have done with any other dressmaker, and even began to be a little interested. The blue material with its white dots was really pretty and would make up quite well.

  But suddenly the other said: ‘One moment!’ and went into the adjoining room, to return carrying something very carefully. ‘Look at this crucifix he carved. Isn’t it beautiful?’ And without waiting for a reply: ‘I could have sold it ten times over, but I wouldn’t part with it. All the other things I took to the shop. They don’t pay badly and the proprietor says he has it in him to become a proper artist, he only needs training and materials. But nothing will come of it,’ she added with her former hostility, gently putting the crucifix down. ‘He has to groom horses and clean out stables.’

  Eva looked helplessly at Fräulein Gudde.

  ‘Of course I’ve never talked to him as I’m talking to you. I always said: “Do what your father says, Otto.” I realize that he’s weak and that he’d only be unhappy if I encouraged him to quarrel with his family.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll come back a different man, stronger,’ said Eva carefully. ‘You can’t be for ever on your own here with the child, and if Otto’s so gifted … Father has enough money.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can be. I can quite well stay here alone with my child and wait for him. Then I’ll have the child to myself and him too, even if it’s only for a short time. As for money – I don’t want a penny of your money. You people think money gives happiness, but all it’s done is to make all of you unhappy.’ She was looking angrily at Eva again. But seeing how pale and tired the girl looked she softened at once. ‘No, I won’t scold any more. You say you’re unhappy like Otto. But you don’t know how unhappy Otto is.’

  ‘Nor do you know how unhappy I am,’ replied Eva. She took herself in hand, however. ‘When can I come to be fitted? Or would you prefer me not to come again? I won’t say a word at home.’

  ‘You can come every day – if you wish to see Gustäving.’

  ‘And,’ continued Eva, ‘it’s possible Mother may send for you or come herself. She’s very inquisitive. You mustn’t give yourself away in that case – Mother won’t ever be connecting you with Otto. You can say Gustäving is a relative’s child.’

  ‘I tell a lie about Gustäving? Never! I’ll tell her that he’s my child. She can’t ask me who the father is.’

  ‘I’ll go now, then,’ said Eva, with a last glance at the little boy playing at the other end of the room.

  Gertrud Gudde noticed the glance. ‘Give him a kiss,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy with you now.’

  But Eva merely made a gesture of rejection, whispered, ‘No, no’ and went like a hunted woman across the passageway to the door, without saying goodbye. She opened the door, and only when she was on the threshold, said. ‘Perhaps I’ll come again tomorrow.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gudde and nodded her head.

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Eva, bending down to see the name on the bell, ‘what your first name is. I see – Gertrud. I’m Eva.’

  ‘He calls me Tutti …’ said Gudde quietly.

  ‘Goodbye, Tutti,’ waved Eva.

  ‘Goodbye, Eva,’ said Gudde.

  Then Eva went – back to the street.

  § XII

  Gustav Hackendahl had had an exciting day, a great day, a proud day. That morning there had been the imposing exodus of his thirty-two horses, and the curious faces of people turning round at the clatter of hoofs on the road. Then there had been the muster itself and the officer who had praised his animals. One could even look back at the somewhat unexpectedly unsuccessful spying adventure with a little pride. And in the afternoon he had been one of the very first to send a son to fight for the Fatherland. In a few days a second son would be wearing uniform, too … Yes, it had been a proud day: there were not many men today in Berlin who had given as much to the Fatherland as he had. But then he had come home – to home and stables, forever his pride, and it felt so strange, deserted, empty …

  For quite a while he stood in the stable holding a conversation with Rabause or, more exactly, describing in detail his recent experiences. Rabause naturally had a lot to do; now that only five of the thirty-two horses were back the whole stables had to be rearranged, and the old man was running here and there, toiling furiously with meaning looks at his employer, who did once or twice lend him a hand. But Hackendahl found it irksome. It was, he realized suddenly, a very long time since he had done any sustained manual work. Now he would have to join in occasionally. He’d have to learn how to do it again. It would probably even do him good. Would it really be necessary, though? With only five horses there was hardly work enough for one ostler. And Rabause had been thinking along similar lines. ‘In the winter the stables will be too cold for just five horses, Governor,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to build a partition.’

  Hackendahl grunted. He was an enemy to all building – it ran away with so much money. ‘By winter the war will be well over and then I’ll get my horses back from the military.’

  ‘We’d better not be so sure that the war will be over by the winter, Governor,’ contradicted Rabause. ‘In 1870 it went through the winter and we had only one foe then.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Rabause,’ said Hackendahl angrily. ‘What do you know about war?’ And he left the stables abruptly; the prospect of working for months with no more than five horses was extremely mortifying. This isn’t a hackney cab business any longer, he thought. Why, it’s not much more than a day and a night cab. I might just as well clap on my top hat and wait on the stands myself.

  Irresolutely he walked up and down the yard. If only the cabs would return! Then he’d have something to do. But he at once remembered that only five were left, that he could polish off the accounts with his eyes closed, and there were no night cabs to get ready …

  There he stood, a man who had never doubted himself and did not do so now, but who felt very empty all of a sudden. Had he in fact lived only in the lives of other people, and not they in him, as he had always thought? He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought about it. He only knew that suddenly life had gone sour. Look at the children! Up till now they had been his; he had brought them up and made them familiar with the virtues of punctuality, hard work and obedience; he had bawled at them or been nice according to mood or circumstances. But now they had gone; they could manage without him. There was still Heinz, but Heinz wasn’t easy to order about. Heinz was very independent – he never talked about what he did at school, for instance.

  And, of course, there was Eva … Why, he had told her that very day that he was going to have a serious talk with her. Just as well he hadn’t forgotten. Hackendahl hurried upstairs, he had found something to do. But a disappointment awaited him – Eva wasn’t at home. That was another thing he’d have to talk to her about. He wasn’t going to have this continual running off the premises. Children had to say where they were going and why – that was only right … And now he stood there once more at a loss.

  ‘What are you doing
, Bubi?’

  ‘My Latin scriptum, Father.’

  Hackendahl looked in a puzzled way at the copybook. ‘Can’t you write better than that? That’s a terrible scrawl.’

  ‘Pooh, Father, our Latin coach scrawls much worse; he can’t read his own writing. We have to help him.’

  ‘Never mind, Bubi, you yourself must write neatly.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  And that was that. Nothing more to be said. Hackendahl cast another glance at what Heinz was now doing – the writing didn’t seem to have improved much since he had spoken. It was no use arguing with the boy, however.

  Hackendahl went into the kitchen.

  His wife sat there drinking coffee.

  Hackendahl sniffed. Not malt coffee but bean coffee, which he had forbidden except on special occasions, forbidden a hundred times, and he now forbade it for the hundred-and-first time, breathing fire and fury – he wouldn’t have it, he didn’t find money lying on the ground … And for the hundred-and-first time Frau Hackendahl had at least half a dozen valid reasons for her transgression. Otto had had to go away that afternoon; the heat had given her a headache; hurrying to the station had upset her; she had only had five beans in with the malt coffee; and so on and so on.

  Somewhat refreshed by his outburst, Hackendahl went to his room. On the desk lay a file containing papers relating to the requisition, and it occurred to him that among them was an army warrant for a considerable sum. He looked at his watch; there was still time to go to the bank. The file under his arm, he marched off.

  It looked rather empty behind the counter, but the clerk who usually served him was there and greeted him with his customary quiet politeness. ‘Well, Herr Hackendahl, have you come to fetch a little money?’ And in a whisper: ‘It has just come through. Banknotes no longer redeemable against gold.’