by Hans Fallada
‘Herr Hackendahl, please be quiet. You’re always coming into my shop …’
‘Stop annoying Mother, Heinz. Since she’s given me permission to go …’
‘I haven’t, no, I’m not permitting it, Irmchen. Oh God, if something happened to you! At least put on your winter coat – no, you can’t, the moth holes aren’t mended yet. And put on a scarf …’
‘Bye-bye, Mother, give me a kiss. Don’t be so worried about – Heinz. I can look after him.’
‘Animal! Unruly slave! – Please, Frau Quaas, I’d like to have my nibs. I don’t want you to say I only come to your shop to see Irma.’
‘Of course you do and of course I say so! And it’ll bring some misfortune …’
‘What sort of misfortune? Yes, what sort, Frau Quaas? There you are! You can’t tell me. But you turn red – the older generation’s depraved notions! We rise superior, isn’t that so, Irma?’
‘Show-off! Don’t get annoyed, Mummy. You ought to know Heinz by now. All those grand words of his go to his head.’
‘And yours too,’ quavered the widow.
The fourteen-year-old Irma looked at her small, worried mother. ‘What are you worrying about, Mummy? As if we hadn’t any sense! I’ve got eyes in my head, I know what men are up to!’
‘Excuse me, Irma, I know you want to lay down the law about men, but I’d like to point out that according to an unconfirmed rumour there’s shooting going on in town,’ said Heinz.
‘Off we go, then. Bye-bye, Mother. If I’m late I’ll tap on the window.’
‘Oh, Irma! Herr Hackendahl!’
But the pair were already outside.
§ III
‘Dawdle-walk or fast walk?’ Irma had asked, and been told, ‘Fast, but sedate.’
Taking two or three at a time, they rushed breathlessly up the station steps and jumped into a moving train.
‘The wretch didn’t even shout “Stand back!” ’
‘Perhaps for a moment he had other worries, O breathless one,’ replied Heinz, himself huffing and puffing.
They sat opposite each other, true offspring of the four years of scarcity and hunger. Pretty tough, utterly miserable, but in general completely reliable in important things.
They were dressed so badly as can only be possible when a suit of decent material is simply impossible to find. Heinz wore a suit assembled from the best items in his brothers’ wardrobes and much too short at the wrists and ankles, besides being a good deal patched. Irma, under a thin, shabby coat, wore a faded dress, a patch here and there indicating the original colours; the skirt barely reached her knees. Her cotton stockings had been darned repeatedly. But what looked most wretched of all were their shoes, which they themselves had repaired again and again with strips of leather stitched or glued on chaotically, and the soles were of wood – the clatter they made with them could be deafening … As it was at this moment, without any consideration for their only fellow passenger – their feet were very cold, the train was not heated, the windows were broken.
‘Damned cold,’ said Irma. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Only a wretched tradesman with nothing to sell. He’ll be wondering if he can’t sell the holes in the cheese. Hey, you, fellow human!’
The sleepy man gave a violent start. Then he said threateningly: ‘If you see someone having a nap and you wake him up, then you’re a dirty dog and deserve to have your block knocked off.’
‘One-nil to him, darling,’ cheered Irma.
‘I only wanted to know if the train’s going right through to the Potsdamer Station,’ protested Heinz.
‘Why shouldn’t it?’
‘Because there’s shooting in town.’
‘Oh? Well, if they’re shootin’ you’ll soon find out, and if the train don’t get there you’ll find that out, too,’ said the man, leaning back in his corner.
‘A philosopher of the gutter,’ remarked Heinz, far from quietly, ‘see telephone directory under mystic.’ He yawned. ‘D’you notice, Irma, that the train’s gaping with emptiness?’
‘Well, what do you think, if there’s shooting! You’re pretty bright today, Heinz. Didn’t have enough lunch, what?’
Heinz slapped his belly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for years. Hunger Everlasting.’
‘And they kept on telling us we should have as much to eat as we liked when peace came. Baloney! A fine youth they’ve given us.’
‘Peace! This isn’t peace. You’ve heard …’
‘… that there’s shooting in town, yes. Perhaps you’ll now tell me why it is they’re shooting.’
‘No idea. But if it’s a real revolution maybe the army won’t join them …’
‘What’s a real revolution?’
‘No idea. You had the French one at school – guillotine – king, emperor, minister – off with their heads!’
‘But the Kaiser’s gone.’
‘Well, have a look at the East.’
‘Alexanderplatz?’
‘No, stupid – Russia, Lenin!’
‘And who’s our Lenin?’
‘No idea. Maybe Liebknecht …’
‘D’you like him?’
‘Don’t be silly! Know nothing about him. Except they locked him up for running down the war.’
‘Have they let him out?’
‘Couldn’t say. But I suppose that’s the essence of revolutions – those who are out get locked up, and those who are in come out.’
‘Potsdamer Station! You see, the train got here all right. But, Heinz, suppose you’ve spent all that good money on fares and there’s nothing doing?’
‘Don’t waffle, daughter of Quaasin. Act first, questions later. Come!’
Side by side they went through the almost empty, very dirty suburban station – alert, thirsting for life, half frozen, shabbily dressed and, whether as a result of the war soap or their own lack of interest, not very well washed. Both looked sickly, yellowish, with coarsened skins; their noses were bony and they had dark rings round their eyes. But each had the same direct, clear and disillusioned gaze. They had been starved of almost everything and so retained an insatiable appetite for all that surrounded them – beauty, ugliness, the high, the low. In them was embodied the indestructibility of life.
They went towards the Potsdamer Platz next to each other, keeping step without wanting to – without even thinking of going arm in arm, without a hint of tenderness.
Cold, but full of light! Models of irrepressible life.
§ IV
‘There!’ said Heinz, stopping abruptly.
Out of the Dessauer Strasse came a big lorry camouflaged with dabs of paint and packed with sailors in their blue uniforms and wide trousers, with bared chests and the ribbons on their bonnets fluttering in the wind. They were armed with rifles and revolvers and in the lorry stood a machine-gun ready for action; overhead waved a red flag. They were singing but their song was drowned in the general tumult. Heinz could see their lips moving in unison, and their eyes, clear and cold.
A thrill ran down his spine. Excitedly he nudged Irma. ‘Can you see?’
She nodded. ‘First-rate.’
Behind the lorry marched an endless procession. Many of the marchers were wearing field-grey and those who were not looked nonetheless grey. They shuffled onwards, men and women, soldiers, workers, a man in a frock coat. One young fellow had his arm round a woman carrying a child. In the middle an errand boy pushed his handcart along. On they shuffled, out of step; some singing, some gazing fixedly into the distance.
But above them flags streamed in the wind, huge red draperies looted from some shop or other, small flags hastily nailed to broomsticks, long sheets tied to poles. Placards swayed overhead, some of roughly daubed cardboard, others carefully lettered and spanning the procession. These demanded ‘Peace!’ ‘Freedom!’ ‘Bread!’ ‘Out of the Workshops!’ ‘General Strike!’ ‘Down with Militarism!’ ‘Bread! Bread!! Bread!!!’
Thus they marched towards the Potsdamer Platz, calling out to the p
eople gazing from the pavements: ‘Come on, Liebknecht is speaking.’ Some joined the procession eagerly, others with hesitation, and there were people who pretended not to have heard or turned away embarrassed.
‘Shall we go, Heinz?’ asked Irma.
‘Yes, but keep to the pavement. It seems a bit tame. Let’s see if we can get up to the front, with the sailors, and the music.’
‘Great!’ agreed Irma, and they hurried along the procession, up towards the front.
But suddenly they were blocked. On the pavement in the opposite direction came two or three soldiers – NCOs – carrying cardboard boxes and no doubt going from one railway station to another, only passing through Berlin. They kept close together, without looking at the sailors in the lorry, as if with a bad conscience.
From the head of the procession a young man now detached himself – a smart young man in riding breeches and expensive tunic, an officer for certain, but without badge or medal and distinguished solely by a red armlet. And when Heinz saw this young man’s pale, rather handsome, rather impudent face going towards the three NCOs, he seized Irma’s arm and whispered excitedly: ‘There, that’s Erich!’
‘Who? Where? Erich? Who’s Erich?’
‘My brother – and we thought the chap was still in France.’
Irma and Heinz and a good many others pushed towards the little group of soldiers before whom Erich had stopped. Two sailors jumped down from the moving lorry, flourishing revolvers – their wide trousers flapped as they advanced a little unsteadily towards the now ever-growing group of soldiers. Eagerly the people made room for them, casting admiring glances at the heroes of the revolution.
Erich Hackendahl, the young man in smart field-grey, touched the foremost NCO on his shoulder strap. ‘That would be better off, eh, comrade?’ he said in an undertone. ‘All that stuff! It’s finished with now.’
The NCO looked uncertainly at the young man, realizing he was, or had been, an officer. ‘We’re leaving by train right away,’ he muttered, struggling to get the words out. ‘From the Anhalter Station. All the same, I’d like to take it home – I earned it in action, comrade, and honestly.’ But he mistook the young man, who was not as nice and handsome as he looked.
Without hesitation Erich Hackendahl seized both shoulder straps and tugged at them with such force that the seams gave way and the man staggered back. ‘This rubbish is finished with,’ he shouted. ‘No more superiors! No more distinctions! No more militarism!’ And after every ‘No more’, he gave the man a hard new blow.
To one side, having for some time extracted themselves from the fight as passive onlookers, stood Heinz and Irma.
‘Perhaps it’s inevitable?’ said Heinz grimly. ‘If all are equal … ? He looks miserable. And that it has to be Erich!’
‘Can’t you say something to him?’ urged Irma. ‘He’s your brother, after all.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Heinz, and took a step or two towards the fight.
And with that the incident was at an end. Some started running to catch up with the demonstration, others fled into the side streets, their faces expressionless. On the ground lay one of the NCOs. Over him bent another, and the third stood with lowered head, wiping the blood from his face.
‘Erich!’ shouted Heinz. His brother was walking on, between the two sailors.
Erich wheeled round and stared. First, his face expressed rejection, showing he hadn’t recognized him. Then it went dark red, and he knew it was his brother, that it really was his brother at this very moment.
‘You, Bubi?’ he asked slowly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘And what are you, for that matter? Those poor devils from the trenches! So they have to come home to get what they missed at the Front?’
‘Your little brother, eh, Hackendahl?’ said one of the sailors jeeringly. ‘Hasn’t seen any blood yet, what? Come with us, young ’un, and you’ll soon learn.’ Laughing, he held out his hand to Heinz.
‘I’m against converting people with pistol butts. And I detest force.’
‘That’s what I used to say when my father gave me a hiding.’ The sailor laughed. Those who won’t listen to reason get their knuckles rapped.’ And he looked mockingly at the three soldiers who were moving off – without their shoulder straps.
‘Well, what about it, Hackendahl?’ asked the other sailor. ‘Schloss or Reichstag? Give us the truth!’
‘Reichstag,’ said Erich. ‘Liebknecht’s speaking there.’
‘No kidding, or you’ll be sorry for it, my lad,’ threatened the sailor.
‘Reichstag,’ said Erich firmly.
‘All right, let’s go,’ shouted the other sailor, and both jumped on the footboard of a passing car, said something to the driver and sped after the procession. Reluctantly Heinz had to admit that he had never seen such carefree men.
Erich seemed relieved. ‘They’ll get a surprise,’ he grinned. ‘Liebknecht’s speaking at the Schloss.’
‘And you’re sending them to the Reichstag?’
‘Of course – Liebknecht is more or less a rival firm – and people basically couldn’t care less who they hear.’
‘What are you then?’ demanded Heinz. Irma stood right next to him, her eyes moving sharply from one brother to the other.
‘My dear boy, I can’t possibly explain here in the street the present rather confused political situation,’ said Erich with all the superiority of an elder brother. ‘In any event it would be better if you went home now and did your school work. After all, there’s bound to be an occasional shot or two. Your parents will be worried about you.’
‘Excellent, my Red brother!’ said Heinz, who easily resumed his rough schoolboy tone when handing out a fraternal warning. ‘But the old chief’s been sitting for a long time with his squaw in his wigwam. When can I tell him that my Red brother has found his way back to the warpath?’
Erich had gone very red. The Red brother really had gone red.
‘Stop this nonsense, Bubi,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’s best if you say nothing – I’ve no time. I’ll be coming back soon, perhaps very soon.’
‘Not near me!’ countered Heinz. ‘A lie has never sullied my tongue.’
‘At least you needn’t tell Father my story. He wouldn’t understand it.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Now listen, Bubi …’ And Erich suddenly smiled, his friendly old self again. ‘Your girlfriend? Won’t you introduce me?’
‘Irma Quaas,’ said Irma immediately.
‘Erich Hackendahl! Pleased to meet you. Look, Bubi. I’ve absolutely no time now. I’ve got to go to the Reichstag … one of us has got to speak there …’
‘One of you …’
‘… to the people. You should come and listen too, now that you’re here. Then, perhaps at about seven o’clock, we can have a good talk. Come to the Reichstag – I’ve a room there.’ He said it casually, but it was easy to see how proud he was of that room. ‘I’ll explain everything there. Here’s a pass, to get in …’ He gave Heinz a stamped piece of paper.
‘So you’ve been here in Berlin quite a while already,’ said Heinz suspiciously.
‘Not really – not long! So, see you in the Reichstag around seven! I must go and sort out my things.’
Erich laughed. To Heinz it sounded arrogant. Then Erich ran for a tram, climbed aboard, waved once more and was gone.
§ V
Both stared after him, as if struck dumb. Then Irma took a deep breath and said: ‘False coinage – no value for me.’
Upset, Heinz took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘What are you talking about, paper-shop baby! False coinage? Do you mean my brotherly love?’
‘So say I! What beautifully dishonest eyes the fellow has! How he stared at me when he finally deigned to look at me! He thinks he merely has to look, and all girls will immediately want a child from him.’
‘Irma! Behave properly! Think of your grey-haired mother who firmly hopes that you still believe in the stork! But you’
re right. He is dishonest, and has got worse since he was at the Front.’
‘He’s definitely never been at the Front!’
‘Well, in the rear then.’
‘I’m inclined to believe that more. Heinz, he only wanted to get away from you. If we ask for him in the Reichstag, no one will know a thing.’
‘I don’t actually believe that. He was extremely troubled about Father. He really had to work at us a little as far as reports to Father were concerned.’
‘Show me the piece of paper he gave you!’
They both inspected it. The smudged, typewritten text, reproduced in multiple carbon copies, announced that the owner had the right to enter the Reichstag building. Signed: ‘People’s Representative, on the orders of …’ with an unreadable scrawl. But the stamp read: ‘Workers’ and Soldiers’ Council, Berlin.’
‘Looks genuine,’ concluded Irma. ‘We can try.’
‘I tell you, he’s under pressure because of Father. And what shall we do until seven?’
‘Let’s listen to the speech. I would like to understand what is going on.’
‘Me too – so, to the Reichstag!’
The square in front of the Reichstag was black with people and fresh processions were continually arriving, to wait patiently beneath their fluttering red flags till they were moved to and fro by the stewards, and were eventually seamlessly absorbed into the crowd, silent, grey, but determined.
But there was no need for Irma and Heinz to wait. With all the agility and cunning of the Berlin child they pushed on through the demonstrators, using their elbows freely, complaining of being trodden on, calling frequently to a lost mother whose hat they always saw in front, slipping laughingly under a steward’s arm and landing breathless, their clothes rumpled, at the foot of Bismarck’s monument – both in very good spirits. Somewhere in the distance they could hear a voice shouting.
A moment later they were on the monument itself, several metres above the crowd, Irma sitting on the globe representing the world, while Heinz was balanced on the shoulder of a bronze female. And, as always when somebody climbs up something, those left below were not displeased, but nodded approvingly.