Iron Gustav

by Hans Fallada

  It seemed incomprehensible that they could all live by begging, that an impoverished nation preoccupied with its own troubles could every day provide money enough to make it worthwhile for each one to sit there. Of course, those were best off whose wounds were unique, that is to say, were the most horrible – and therefore had the most powerful effect on the passers-by.

  And it was in front of such a uniquely wounded man that the lad had stopped. This man might have been young, but there was no means of saying; the whole face was an immense scar with terrible black edges running into each other like the frontier lines on a map. Of the lips there was hardly any trace; the nose looked as if burnt black; most horrible, however, were the shrivelled eyeballs without pupils.

  The beggar, leaning against the wall of a house, kept his face to the passers-by and, as if that and his placard (‘War-Blinded’) were not enough, at regular intervals, without altering the pitch of his voice, or any accusation, he said over and over again the one word: ‘Blind. Blind. Blind. Blind …’

  And in this word ‘Blind’ there was something terrible, something more terrible than a lament – it was like the soulless ticking of a clock. The word seemed drowned in the street noises and yet people in a great hurry, in a very great hurry, stopped and put money into the hand held open against his chest.

  Never a word of thanks did the man say nor was a sign given that he felt the money in his palm. Uninterruptedly he called: ‘Blind. Blind. Blind. Blind.’

  Even now, when his messenger stood beside him whispering, he went on as if this word ‘Blind’ were spoken without his being conscious of it, something automatic, like breathing or a beating heart. ‘Blind.’

  Heinz crossed the road and stopped in front of that terrible face. He took no notice of the lad looking at him in terror, but said in a low voice: ‘Hackendahl.’

  The scarred face, more ghastly than ever at close quarters, did not change; the burnt mouth continued its speech. ‘Blind. Blind …’ But the lad’s face was distorted with pain. He was trying to run away but could not; the blind man’s foot was pressed down on his foot. Inescapable, agonizing.

  And on seeing this Heinz Hackendahl knew the man to be Eugen Bast, Eugen Bast as Eva had described him, the tormentor whose sole response was to punish the boy without enquiring whether betrayal had been intentional or not. Eugen Bast the destroyer of Eva, and her victim – Heinz now saw the result of that shot.

  Emotion akin to hatred rose in him. ‘Take your foot away,’ he ordered, trembling with rage.

  ‘Blind. Blind. Blind,’ said the man, his foot remaining where it was.

  ‘Take your foot away,’ repeated Heinz. And, nothing happening, he placed his own foot on the beggar’s.

  ‘Blind. Blind. Blind.’

  Money rattled in the blind man’s hand. People looked at the terrible face, not at the foot. The coins were swiftly stowed away and the hand was out again. ‘Blind. Blind.’ The foot remained where it was.

  It grew obvious that this man would never give way; he would rather let his own foot be crushed. So Heinz withdrew his. Unmoved, the beggar went on with his ‘Blind … Blind’, but a minute or two later the lad was released. He looked ill with pain, yet he uttered no sound, nor did he flee – and it seemed so easy to flee. It must be some nameless, indefinable fear which bound this lad to his tormentor, a fear mixed with strange hankering, the fear to which Eva had succumbed.

  Heinz was young and inexperienced; he had no idea how to deal with a man like this – he had thought the matter quite simple. He would, once Eugen was discovered, threaten him with the police and penal servitude; then the fellow must soon realize that it would pay him to leave Eva in peace. But – here stood Eugen Bast and Bast had immediately made it clear that he was not to be threatened. He would always only behave as the evil in him told him to, even when he harmed himself.

  ‘Blind. Blind.’ It went on and on …

  What am I to do? thought Heinz in despair. Even if I fetched a policeman … I used to think it would do Eva no harm to be in prison a year or two. But as soon as she saw his face at the trial she’d fall under his influence again and try to get him off by taking the blame on herself … Eva was correct. Flight is her only hope. But in that case she’ll drink herself to death. Would Sophie give her money? Sophie’s sure to have some.

  ‘Blind. Blind.’ Coins rattled, the hand went into the pocket, was held out again. ‘Blind. Blind.’

  Oh, once upon a time Heinz Hackendahl had thought that life was quite simple. But, either life was much more difficult and dangerous than before, or he himself was useless. He was through with Erich, just managed to scrape through his Abitur, and again done nothing for Eva.

  ‘Blind, Blind …’

  Heinz gave a side glance at Eugen Bast. He would have liked to clear off, throw the whole thing up; he had bitten off more than he could chew. And yet something kept him there. He couldn’t go away like that. It would mean losing all self-respect, all confidence in his own powers; he had the feeling that he would never get anywhere in life if he fled now without having carried out his task. He must do something.

  While he was thus brooding and spurring himself to action the repetition of ‘Blind … Blind’ ceased as if a clock had stopped. What was happening? Did Eugen Bast always go away in the mornings between eleven and twelve, just as the rush of traffic and pedestrians started? For Eugen Bast was certainly leaving. He had placed his hand on the boy’s arm and, without Heinz being able to notice any communications pass between them, the boy now led the blind man away – Heinz following – down the Friedrichstrasse. Although they were just in front they paid no attention to him – even the boy never once looked round – nor did they speak. Obviously it was their custom to leave at this time.

  Suddenly it occurred to Heinz that he could at least give Eva the news, and he retraced his steps. Should he ever want Eugen Bast he could always find him, though there would be little need for that now. For he was able to tell Eva that Eugen Bast was no dead man, no haunting ghost, but a beggar whom she had blinded. No need to tell her how terrible he looked; the thing to emphasize was how helpless he had been rendered through his blindness and how easily she might avoid him. And he would assist her to move again, with more precautions this time, so that she could live in peace from his threats; it was ridiculous to be blackmailed by a blind man. Ashtray indeed! Even if he were in the same room she could laugh at that. All she had to do was to walk out.

  Heinz was suddenly sure of victory; his task was accomplished. He did not consider how readily he had given up trailing a man whom he had sought for weeks, nor did he remember that in Eugen Bast’s presence everything had appeared hopelessly insoluble. No – away from Eugen Bast all was well. He wandered up the Friedrichstrasse again. About to cross Unter den Linden, however, he bethought himself that this was an inconvenient time to call on Eva, being the hour when the girls, always late risers, began to gather in one another’s rooms. It would be better to wait a while. Then he could speak with her alone …

  So he went along Unter den Linden, through the Brandenburger Tor, into the Tiergarten. It was April. In spite of the devastation and neglect there was still some greenness to be seen in the park. Not all the turf had been trodden into slush. And though the flower beds were empty, Heinz in one corner discovered, half hidden under a bush, a few crocus blooms.

  He knelt down beside them and saw that some were yellow, some blue and white, just as before the war. So there was something as it was before – these crocuses! People have changed; no one can be the same. But the flowers have remained. There was something comforting about this stupid thought – stupid, he thought, but comforting all the same. It was like the promise of the impossible – that people could also be the same as they were before. While looking at the crocuses Heinz thought briefly of Eva, and for longer of Irma. Had Irma – he tried to recollect – had Irma ever possessed a yellow or blue or white dress? Then he admitted that this was all nonsense, not worth the least
thought, and that he only wanted to kill time to delay talking with Eva.

  He sighed and stood up. He would have liked to take a flower with him, but it somehow didn’t seem right. Not that he particularly respected the Tiergarten, which for many had long been the place for collecting firewood. No, he just didn’t want to appear before Eva with a flower at that moment, which would have immediately made him think of Irma. So he went without a flower.

  Thus it was that, entering Eva’s room, he found someone had stolen a march on him.

  There sat Eugen Bast on the chaise-longue, his fingers clutching the boy’s arm as if he were about to march off at any moment. In no way did he give the impression of being as helpless as Heinz had imagined.

  With a white face Eva looked up from the trunk she was packing, glanced at her brother, compressed her lips and went on with her work.

  The blind man, hearing the door open, had turned his head to listen. Once again he seemed not to receive any information from others. ‘Your brother, you whore!’

  ‘Yes, Eugen,’ said Eva – and by her tone Heinz knew he had lost what little influence he had.

  ‘You got anythin’ to tell your brother, whore?’ said Eugen (and Heinz was frightened at the false amiability of that whisper).

  She looked at her master with helpless anxiety.

  ‘Eva,’ said Heinz, took her by the chin and turned her white, forlorn face towards him so that she had to look at him. ‘Come with me, Eva. Don’t do what he wants. All he wants is wickedness, he’s wicked; tell him to go. You can live anywhere. I promise I’ll get the fare today to Leipzig or Cologne – wherever you like. Don’t forget he’s blind. He can’t follow you.’

  Eva did not stir. It was impossible to tell whether his words had had any effect.

  The blind man on the sofa nodded. ‘Brainy, your brother,’ he said kindly. ‘Brainy! Didn’t get it from you, you tart! Chap’s right, I’m blind – so clear out.’ He sat there screwing up his helpless mouth, as though that were his laughter. Suddenly he shouted: ‘Clear out, fool. I can’t follow.’

  Eva drew back from her brother. ‘You’re not to abuse Eugen,’ she muttered. ‘I’m going with him, Heinz. I’ll stay with him.’

  ‘Will you?’ sneered Eugen Bast. ‘Thank your brother for it, Evchen. He’s brought us together again. Say “Thank you”, stupid.’

  ‘Thank you, Heinz.’

  ‘Don’t hang about then, get ready. Yes, brother-in-law, I was going to let her go. She’s too much of a bloody fool, your sister. An’ now that she’s taken up shootin’! … I’d have milked her a bit every month, so as to keep her on the jump, jus’ to ginger her up in her profession like …’

  ‘Eva,’ begged Heinz, ‘please come. Go with me to the police – it won’t be as bad as you think; the judges will realize that you couldn’t help it, it was he who made you. A year or two in prison, with nobody there to torment you as he does, and then you’ll be free, you can start afresh …’

  There was no reply. As if she had heard nothing his sister went on packing. Eugen Bast spoke, however. ‘Well, when you was standing next to me, brother-in-law, with your beetle-crushers on mine I thought to meself, well, what’s wrong with having a girl to look after me, eh? The other blind men have got dogs. Well, I’ve got the sister of the young gentleman who’s exercising himself on my plates o’ meat. I bet that’ll please the young feller when he sees his sister making herself useful …’

  ‘You hear,’ cried Heinz, ‘you hear how wicked he is? Eva, he’ll torture you to death!’ At these words she shot a penetrating glance at him. What had she once said, in the beginning? Either he dies through me or I through him. Was that her hope?

  ‘Young feller,’ said Eugen Bast, ‘don’t talk such drivel! Me wicked? I’m the best-natured sod in the world. You find another chap who’d let himself be shot in the dial like me, with me blinkers gone – and not a hard word.’ He passed a hand over his face, exploring his wound. ‘The rest tell me I’m no longer a beauty an’ I used to be quite the good-looker. Well, she made a proper job of it, so I shouldn’t even see me lost looks, what, Evchen? That was yer sense of humour, what?’ He laughed.

  A moan from her. The blind man turned his head. ‘Come here!’

  She came, she stood before him, she gazed on the terrible face.

  ‘Tell yer brother – am I handsome in your eyes or am I ugly?’

  ‘Handsome,’ she whispered.

  ‘Still fond o’ me? Still love me? Out with it!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him.’

  ‘I still love you, Eugen.’

  ‘Show yer brother – gimme a kiss!’

  She bent over the blind man, and Heinz Hackendahl no longer saw them … He saw himself with Tinette, and Tinette looked good – but if what looked good was good, as the ancient Greeks said, she was as ugly as Eugen Bast. He saw his own enslavement, his own masochism. Once more he was humiliated, once more felt his own shame.

  ‘Eva!’ he begged.

  With her lips touching the dark-grey scar, she looked at him – a quick look, almost a smile. A soul in torment. It will pass, her smile seemed to say. Pain passes just like pleasure. In the end, when it’s all over, it doesn’t matter what’s happened to you. Pleasure or pain …

  No! no! he thought. I don’t …

  Eugen Bast pushed her away. ‘That’s enough of acting,’ he said. ‘Get ready. And you, young feller, you c’n go straight to the police – we’ll be here for quite a while. They c’n come an’ fetch us if they like. But you take it from me that yer sister’ll be in quod just as long as I am. I’ll see to that, an’ so will she. An’ when she comes out, say in ten years’ time, then she’s goin’ to have a life of it – what she’s got now is heaven compared with it. You can depend on that, young feller.’

  ‘Eva,’ begged Heinz once more.

  But she shook her head.

  ‘And now hop it, young feller,’ cried Eugen Bast in a very different voice. ‘You’re not wanted here. Every minute you stay here, I’ll pinch your lady sister a bit harder … Eva, come here to me … Give us your arm … no, the thick part of your upper arm … So, young man; can you feel it, Eva … ?’

  Heinz rushed out of the room. He fled, running faster and faster through the streets. He ran away from the terrible Tieckstrasse house, from the images it conjured up, from his own shame, his own disgrace.

  Eventually he found a bench somewhere. He sat there for a long time, his face between his hands; it was still broad daylight. He let his tears run between his fingers – tears of pain, or sympathy – but above all tears of fury over his own helplessness, his cursed weakness …

  I must be strong, he thought. If only I could change. I must change. Just to be sympathetic is only weak, cowardly. The world has to be changed – and for that you have to be strong!

  Such thoughts went feverishly through his head. He imagined a future in which he was strong and capable of destroying Eugen Bast. Only gradually did he calm himself down. When he got up, a sympathetic soul had placed a groschen on the wooden bench beside him.

  He looked at it for some time. Strange! On the same day he had seen Eugen Bast go begging, he himself was given money too.

  He took the coin and threw it in a bush far away. No! No more gifts. By his own strength! Only by his own strength!

  XVI

  The National Assembly had repeatedly and uncompromisingly said ‘No’ to a dictated peace. There had been thousands of protest meetings throughout the Reich. The speakers had shouted their ‘Nos’ and the crowds had agreed with them.

  Then a delegation was appointed to accept the enemy’s peace conditions in Versailles.

  But a simple delegation was not enough. The enemy demanded ministers, senior civil servants. So they were nominated and went to Versailles.

  The people waited; perhaps things would not be as bad as they feared? Perhaps the enemy would show mercy?

  With eighty members, accompanied by fifteen representatives of t
he German press, the German delegation arrived in Paris. They were almost treated as prisoners. No one was allowed access to them. They were allowed to go nowhere. Their base was a strongly guarded hotel. They made them wait eight days, like humble petitioners in a rich man’s waiting room, until they were vouchsafed the terms whereby Germans confessed to being a convicted criminal and promised to be enslaved to the others for ever …

  They left with a document of humiliation and made it public. Again the people shouted ‘No’. Again there were protest demonstrations. They exchange views. The hand that signed this treaty should wither. They ring up Wilson, the American President. They ask experts, they beg, they appeal, and even threaten a little. ‘Unacceptable,’ they say and make counter-suggestions. The German Social Democratic Party unanimously declares itself against this dictated peace. But nothing changes. Opinions are exchanged in vain, the protests die away. Versailles is merciless: ‘There will be no negotiations!’

  Suddenly the National Assembly says ‘Yes’. Those who just said ‘No’ now say ‘Yes’. If the others don’t give way, you must give way yourself. If the others insist Germany is guilty and denial achieves nothing, you can only plead guilty. Firmly united, the Social Democrats vote ‘Yes’. Firmly united, the Centre Party says: accept …

  They make a few qualifications a few exceptions …

  But – ‘No negotiations’ … is repeated.

  Then, on 23 January 1919, the National Assembly declared its agreement with the unconditional signing of the peace treaty, its members solemnly assuring each other that they acted equally patriotically whether they voted Yes or No …

  Two German ministers signed the peace agreement in the Hall of Mirrors of the Palace of Versailles. They had been led like prisoners through barbed wire, watched by a silent and gloomy crowd. When they returned, loud curses were heard. Stones were thrown and empty bottles …