by Hans Fallada
‘But I have no Health Insurance card for her,’ said Otto.
‘Health Insurance card? I’m not asking for Insurance cards. I’ve got so many that I could paper my flat with them. No, I want to talk with the young woman about women’s affairs, which you men don’t understand. So out you go, soldier!’ He ushered Otto out of the room.
The interview was rather a long one. Once more, he was in the waiting room among all the women, only able to keep the child quiet with difficulty. Then Tutti appeared – at last.
She took his arm affectionately, she seemed very happy.
‘What did he say, Tutti?’
‘Oh, nothing special. That I should take care of myself and go into hospital for a couple of weeks. Only to have a rest, nothing serious, you know.’
‘And what else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He wouldn’t have sent me out just for that.’
‘Oh, Lord, Otto, he examined me – my chest and back, and he probably thought it would be embarrassing for me in front of you – because of my back. And it would have been embarrassing too, Otto. You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘And nothing else?’
She laughed. ‘What else could there be, Otto? No, nothing else, really.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘But Otto!’
‘Then it’s all right.’
He had the feeling, however, that she had not told him everything. It was a quite certain feeling. The thought came to him to return to the doctor again behind her back. But he let it be. Tutti would tell him the truth in the end. She’d never lied to him.
And he was right. He learned the truth in the end – she didn’t lie to him.
§ XVII
They had gone much too early to the station, unnecessarily so, he thought. But Gertrud had been so urgent. ‘You can’t wait to get rid of me, Tutti?’
Her only reply had been a smile. Often in recent days, instead of answers she gave a lovely smile, gentle, as if she were lit up from inside, as if her happiness were inexpressible.
The boy had been left at home. Unaware that his father was going away, he was happy with a chunk of bread.
The station hall was badly lit. The train looked comfortless – the soldiers who were returning to the Front looked comfortless too. Hardly speaking, they stood among their families, who kept their eyes fixed on the departing men and nodded eagerly whenever they said a word. Father was going to the Front again; perhaps it was the last time they would see him …
Crushing misery descended on Otto – he too was going to the Front. During the first days, the memories of the trenches had haunted him painfully, but then daily life had followed – Tutti, the child, the arguments with his father, the search for Eva, the expeditions for food. It had been two weeks, for eleven days of which he had hardly thought of the Front.
In a flash, standing by the unheated, grimy train, it all came back to him – he saw the entrance to the dugout, the earth steps which, although reinforced with boards, were nevertheless deep in mud. He could smell the air, musty and yet cold as ice, the rotten straw of the beds, the stale smell of spirits, the bad tobacco; and the utter joylessness of the life to which he was returning overwhelmed him. The fortnight at home, filled with cares though it had been, was a blissful dream compared with that.
‘We shouldn’t have come so early,’ he said. ‘This damned train!’
‘Now you’re already on your way, Otto,’ she said tenderly, ‘but you should be here with me.’
He looked at her. ‘You know, Tutti, it’s difficult …’ he said slowly and was ashamed.
‘Do you remember when you left last time?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, happy to be distracted from his thoughts. ‘The whole family came – Father, Mother, brothers and sisters. You stood at the back by a pillar. I wasn’t supposed to know you, you or Gustäving …’
‘Today we’re by ourselves, Otto. It’s better this time, isn’t it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, worse – because you know what’s in store for you.’
‘Last time I didn’t believe I should ever see you again,’ she said, looking at him steadfastly.
‘I, too – and this time …’
‘This time I know for certain you’ll come back.’
His eyes seemed to implore her – for a moment he was again the old irresolute Otto.
And she helped him. ‘Yes, Otto,’ she nodded. ‘You can be sure of it. You’ll come back.’
‘Nobody can say that. Once you’ve been out there and know what it’s like …’
‘Never mind about that – you’ll come back, Otto.’ She looked at the station clock. Another five minutes. She took his hand. ‘I want to tell you something, something I concealed …’
‘Yes?’ he asked softly.
‘I kept it so you should take it with you to the Front. Otto, I believe we’re going to have another child.’
‘Tutti!’
‘Yes. Oh, I’m so happy!’
‘Tutti, why didn’t you tell me this before? I’d have … I could have …’
‘And you’ll come back, Otto, now you know this. Almost nine months to go yet. The war’ll be over by then. When the child comes you’ll be with me for ever.’
‘Get in! Take your seats!’ shouted the porters.
‘Oh, Tutti, Tutti, why didn’t you tell me before? Why only at the last moment? Oh, I’d like to …’
‘Get in! Hurry up!’
‘You’ll come back, Otto. Otto dear, dear Otto, you’ve made me so happy.’
‘Oh, Tutti, I must talk to you … Do you mind if I have the window, comrade? Thanks! – Tutti, take care of yourself. Will you get enough to eat? A woman expecting a child …’
‘I’m to go every month to the doctor’s. He’ll look after me all right.’
‘I’ll send everything I can from the Front. Sometimes we capture marvellous English tinned food …’
‘You out there, me here – we’ll only think of the baby and that’ll bring you back, Otto.’
The whistle!
The train started to move, parting their clasped hands. She tried to run alongside, her lips forming the word ‘Happy!’ again and again.
‘I must come back!’ he said, and shut the window. ‘I’ll come back. Because she needs me! Happy – yes, happy! Yes, I’ll come back.’
§ XVIII
At noon the next day Corporal Otto Hackendahl was wounded by a shell splinter on his way into the trenches held by his company and died a few hours later, after much suffering. He died in that same dugout the vision of which had appeared to him at the railway station. If his eye perceived anything during his last moments it was the squelching muddy steps leading into the dugout; the last breath he drew was from the close yet icy-cold air inside, stinking of spirits and bad tobacco. He died on the rotting straw of his bed.
Otto Hackendahl had nothing for his comrades, who had looked after him, to give to his wife. The splinter from the shell had hit him in the abdomen. He could only cry out and groan. Even the two strong morphine injections the medical officer had given him one after another did not deaden the pain. By then, he was hardly any longer a conscious being. This existence, with its warm sympathy for women and children, and its clumsy questions as to why and what – it had all passed him by even when he was alive.
The company commander, informing his parents (Otto’s recent marriage was not known to him), wrote that Otto Hackendahl had died an honourable death, in action. It would be a consolation to his parents that he had not suffered – death was instantaneous.
‘They say that about them all!’ sobbed old Frau Hackendahl.
And old Gustav Hackendahl, Iron Gustav, asked very gently: ‘Mother, what else can they say? That he suffered terribly? Why not believe them – now he can’t suffer any more.’
Gertrud Hackendahl learned only relatively late of her husband’s death. After her initial inability to believe it, and a prolonged, raging pain,
all her efforts were devoted to obtaining news of Otto’s last hours. She simply couldn’t believe that he had left her no word, no message …
In the end, she learned the following: men on leave from his regiment – some twelve or fifteen of them – knew already by the time they’d reached their assembly point that the trenches had been under heavy fire for days. That night there had been numerous attacks resulting in heavy casualties. The regiment had suffered terrible losses.
People marched to their positions as quickly as they could. They did so to the ever-increasing thunder roll of the guns – and came back silent, morose, but very quickly. All were busy with their own thoughts.
Then, when they had nearly reached their destination, they discovered that the trench leading to their position had been completely blasted away. It had been almost flattened and lay open to enemy fire.
They waited for hours in a half-destroyed dugout for the firing to die down. They were undecided, discussed whether they should risk it, and went on waiting.
None of them now thought of home any more. They thought only of the trenches, about their exhausted, battered and worn-out comrades there, and about the attack that must follow this preparatory artillery onslaught. And that they would fail.
After yet another fruitless discussion, Otto Hackendahl suddenly said: ‘It can’t be helped. They’re waiting for us. We must go on.’
He ran in front of the others. All reached the trenches unwounded. Only then, almost at the entrance of his dugout, was he hit.
This was all that Gertrud Hackendahl discovered. But it was enough. The words, ‘It can’t be helped. We must go on’ seemed to her to sum up the whole of Otto Hackendahl as a man: patient acceptance of a grievous fate, but with courage.
She tried to live her life, and bring up her children – Gustav and Otto Hackendahl (born eight months and nineteen days after his father’s death) – in difficult times in the spirit of these last words of Otto Hackendahl.
It can’t be helped. We must go on …
There was something in these words, but there was something, too, in little Gertrud Hackendahl, née Gudde, born on the island of Hiddensee. There was something in her, too.
FOUR
Peace Breaks Out
§ I
When Heinz, now seventeen, and now still called ‘Bubi’ only by his mother, got up from the midday meal to go out, old Hackendahl raised his head. Sitting there in the kitchen, he had been to all appearances asleep – the local newspaper lay on the floor next to him.
‘Where are you going?’
Heinz reflected. That he wanted to walk the streets a bit, and see what was actually going on; he daren’t tell his father.
The paternal hand lay heavy on the youngest and sole remaining child at home. All the more readily therefore did the lad seek refuge in dissimulation.
‘To Rappold’s,’ he answered, after thinking briefly. ‘Swotting up some maths. Trigonometrical equations – parallelepiped …’
The father looked at his son suspiciously. ‘Where are your books?’
‘Don’t need ’em – Rappold’s got them all.’
‘Exercise book?’
‘In my pocket.’ Heinz showed the shiny black cover. Had his father had the slightest suspicion that this exercise book contained not mathematics but verse, the conversation would have taken a very different turn. As it was the old man merely growled, ‘Don’t go into the town. They’re shooting there.’
‘I shouldn’t dream of it. Got to swot maths. Why are they shooting?’
‘How do I know? Probably because they’ve got used to it, and they can’t shoot at the English and French any longer. No doubt they want to blow to smithereens what little scrap of business we’ve got left.’
‘A few days’ rest won’t do the grey any harm, Father,’ said Heinz consolingly.
‘The grey? She’s only fit for sausages.’ The old man looked gloomy. Then he added deprecatingly – as if ashamed of thinking about himself in the general collapse: ‘Do you suppose my War Loans are still worth anything?’
Heinz looked uncertainly at his father. Hackendahl had never spoken to his children about his financial affairs but Heinz knew from his mother that twenty-five thousand marks in War Loans, the heavily mortgaged house in the Wexstrasse, the grey and the cab were all that was left of his father’s fortune. The old man must really be worried to death, thought the son with a momentary uprush of pity – driving his cab day in, day out just to bring home a few marks. Yet everything Heinz required at school was always provided and the fees were paid without the least grumble.
‘Your War Loans are as safe as houses, Father. Guaranteed by the German Empire.’
The father had his dark moments. He didn’t smile. ‘But the Kaiser’s abdicated. He’s crossed the Dutch frontier.’
Heinz grinned in contempt. ‘Did you ever expect anything different from “Lehmann”? He’s cut no ice with us at school for a long time. D’you think he was a guarantee for your money? He’s not the German Reich!’
‘Have you read the armistice conditions? The French want to come as far as the Rhine. There’s shooting in town. Soon there may no longer be a German Reich!’
The son patted his fearful father paternally on the shoulder. ‘It’ll happen, you can be sure of it. Now it’s our turn!’
‘You!?’
‘Of course! Isn’t everything finished now. Who’s supposed to build it up again? You old people?’
‘You mean, you?!’
‘Who else?’
‘Get on with your homework,’ the old man suddenly shouted. ‘You must be crazy. You! – when we didn’t win? Scum!’
‘I’ll ask Hölscher about War Loans,’ said Heinz, unmoved. ‘His father’s employed by the Deutsche Bank.’
‘You ought to be doing your lessons, your homework. I can look after my own concerns,’ growled the father threateningly.
‘Well, shall I ask Hölscher or not?’
Hackendahl growled – uncertain what to say.
‘Besides, Erich may come home any day now – our lieutenant, the shining light of the family. Not forgetting the pious Sophie.’
‘You’re to be back at six!’
‘Might be a bit later, Father,’ explained Heinz. ‘The parallelepiped is damned tricky!’
‘At six, you hear!’
‘As I told you, tricky! See you later, Father. Don’t eat all the bread if I’m a little late.’
And having thus prepared the way for an unpunctual return, Heinz ran down the dark stairs and across the courtyard.
§ II
He had, of course, not the faintest intention of going to Rappold’s to study, and seeing Hölscher about the War Loans did not appear urgent either. For a moment he looked down the Wexstrasse, which on this November day seemed particularly gloomy and cheerless, with people queued up in front of the food shops, and somewhere among them his mother no doubt. Nothing had changed, and yet: ‘They’re shooting in the town.’ The words rang in the ears of the seventeen-year-old lad. One ought to have a look.
However, as was his habit, he took the turning to the right, then went straight on for two blocks before turning to the left and crossing the road – to halt in front of the stationer’s shop kept by the Widow Quaas.
Heinz put his hand in his pocket; yes, he still had the mark wheedled out of his mother that morning, which would enable him to purchase two steel nibs (price five pfennigs) or five sheets of blotting paper (also five pfennigs). No great purchase, perhaps, but it did serve to keep up appearances.
The bell gave a feeble tinkle – how pleasant and familiar was the sound! The interior of the shop might be dusty, empty and cold, but to Heinz it was one of the most agreeable places in the world. The widow was a shrivelled little woman, depressed and helpless-looking, with the sunken eyes of those who have been through starvation and war; but the sight of her to Heinz was incredibly pleasing. ‘Two Bremen-Change nibs,’ he said as loudly as possible. ‘Er, the very pointe
d kind – you know, Frau Quaas.’
‘Heinz! Herr Hackendahl! I’ve asked you not to come so often,’ said the widow helplessly.
‘But I really need the nibs, Frau Quaas,’ Heinz assured her in a respectful and yet over-loud voice. ‘I must immediately make a fair copy of an essay on bird flight in the dramas of Euripides. I haven’t come because of Irma.’
‘Herr Hackendahl, you’re only seventeen and Irma is barely fifteen.’
‘Two Bremen-Change, EF, very pointed, Frau Quaas. We’re not talking about Irma, that’s not interesting.’
‘What are you burbling about to me, Heinz? What’s up?’
‘Hello, Irma. Two Bremen nibs, sharp points!’
‘Stop that nonsense! You’ve got more nibs than we have here in the shop. What’s up?’
‘They say there’s shooting going on.’
‘Ripping! We going to see it?’
‘Well, we’ll have to take the train or the fun’ll be over before we get there.’
‘Mother, can you let me have half a mark? You can deduct it from my pocket money on Saturday.’
‘Irma, under no circumstances will I allow you to … There’s shooting! Herr Hackendahl, you ought to be ashamed of yourself …’
‘Plan: capital A, Frau Quaas: in the first place, they won’t shoot. Second: capital B: if they do shoot, we don’t go in. Alpha: where they shoot. Beta: If they don’t shoot. Third: capital C: do I have the fare – Alpha: for myself, Beta: for Irma …’
‘Herr Hackendahl, I beg you, don’t start to speak so terribly to me again! It makes me quite giddy. Irma can’t possibly …’
‘Can’t? I can give you on the spot three to seven good reasons, Frau Quaas, why she can. Firstly, as a question of free will; that is, even if we suppose it to be more a spontaneity than an act of volition …’