by Hans Fallada
Such was the talk when the promotional letters were sent out. It was clear then that Herr Hoppe wanted the custom only of the inexperienced and unimportant, which needed signify nothing more however than that he thought it worthwhile catching the small fry ordinarily disdained by the big banks. Many a mickle makes a muckle. With regard to the promotional letters, though, Herr Hoppe did not like his employees taking personal interest in them. They came from the printers set out in a fount deceptively similar to typescript and with very handsome headings. Herr Hoppe could not prevent employees who had to insert name and address at the top from reading them, but …
‘Herr Menz! Herr Menz!’
‘Yes, Herr Doctor?’
‘May I point out politely but firmly that you’re here to get letters ready for the post, not to pass the time reading them? I’m not paying fifty per cent more in overtime for the sake of evening classes. Please, gentlemen, this batch of a thousand has to be posted tonight.’
In spite of this supervision a few things leaked out, however. Herr Doctor hadn’t got eyes in the back of his head; when his attention was distracted the young fellows simply pocketed a letter to read at home. Perhaps Herr Hoppe came to realize this or he may have understood that his employees had to cope with the clients at the counter; whatever the reason, he gradually became more informative.
‘I could tell at once by the faces of you lads,’ he said grandly, ‘that you were taken aback when I promised the clients three per cent interest a month, yes, in some cases even four and five per cent. You immediately thought there must be something shady. Am I right, Dahlhacke?’
Embarrassed at thus being singled out, Heinz said: ‘To tell the truth, Herr Doctor Hoppe, I don’t understand …’
‘Of course you don’t understand, that’s why I’m telling you, because you don’t understand. But actually you ought to understand. You come from a big bank, you ought to know that sometimes, and not infrequently, a transaction crops up which yields fifty, a hundred, even two hundred per cent.’
‘Rarely, almost never,’ said Heinz.
‘But it does occur, doesn’t it? It can happen, Krambach, can’t it? Speak, man!’
‘Oh yes, naturally, in the course of thousands of transactions …’
‘But it’s not net profit; one has to set against it all the deals which yield nothing or even a loss,’ objected Heinz Hackendahl.
‘With the big banks, naturally,’ said Herr Doctor Hoppe contemptuously. ‘Ten good and ten thousand average transactions is what they have in a year and that’s why they can’t give more than one or one and a half per cent interest. But when a man comes along, a simple Dr Hoppe, who makes only one transaction but that a very profitable one – what interest can he pay then, eh?’
They looked at him silently, expectantly, suspiciously.
‘Lüneburg Heath!’ continued Herr Hoppe. ‘We struck lucky in seven places on Lüneburg Heath.’ He took a deep breath, then said carelessly: ‘I’m boring for oil in Lüneburg Heath and I’ve got it. But we need capital – concessions, derricks, pipelines, refining plants, roads, railways – so I apply to the thrifty for it, giving in return, as no bank does, a generous share of the profits. I can do that because I save the enormous petrol duty.’
‘And our bank’s engaged in nothing else?’ asked Krambach.
‘Nothing,’ said Herr Hoppe firmly. ‘One first-class investment only – nothing else.’
‘Do you know,’ said Menz to Hackendahl later, as they went home together, ‘of course it can be as the old boy said. It’s possible. But it’s also possible that it isn’t. That’s a possibility too. What I noticed is that he never says what he really thinks, and the stupidest thing he said was when he spoke about oil.’
‘Yes,’ said Heinz. ‘If good business really is to be made with oil, which could be true, I’ve already read about borings on the Lüneburg Heath. Then he can naturally get money anywhere, and not for thirty-six to fifty per cent, as he promises, but for ten to twenty per cent. I don’t know, but Herr Hoppe doesn’t really look to me like someone who would make a present to the little man of twenty or thirty per cent royalties just for love.’
‘That’s correct! As long as he just uses the little man and strictly rules out anyone with banking experience?’
‘You’re in deep water, my friend!’
They walked for a while silently side by side.
‘Two hundred bucks are not pig’s shit,’ said Menz thoughtfully – ‘and being on the dole is damned hard on the feet.’
He was silent. Heinz Hackendahl was as well.
‘And all that amounts to nothing,’ continued Menz. ‘You can’t run to the police and the law with anything like that.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Heinz Hackendahl. ‘The whole thing could backfire, and involve charges of slander and professional damages.’
‘Exactly! We know nothing.’
‘But we’re careful.’
‘And when …’
‘Then!’
‘It’s a deal!’
‘Despite two hundred bucks!’
‘And the dole.’
‘Goes without saying.’
‘It’s only logic.’
‘Well then!’
‘Well then, indeed! Till tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight.’
§ VII
They were both young, Hackendahl and Menz, like all the employees of Hoppe & Co. – perhaps Herr Doctor Hoppe had good reason for engaging the young – and were therefore naturally pleased with an undertaking which went so smoothly; where others believed, they too were ready to believe, succumbing to faith, to success, to the general opinion. While things had only been preparing, with circulars going out and merely a trickle of money coming back, they had been critical, doubtful, unenthusiastic.
But there came a time when people thronged the counters, when no more circulars were sent out and yet the stream did not diminish; a time when Herr Doctor Hoppe no longer saw all his clients and the young men themselves had to do this – be persuasive, explanatory, paint rosy pictures. And what is repeated many times with zeal and conviction ends inevitably by creating its effect. Heinz Hackendahl had so frequently explained the point about the petrol duty, he had mentioned so many times the borings on Lüneburg Heath in seven, in ten, in fifteen places, he had shown so many photographs of the derricks and had given so many technical elucidations, had for so long talked people out of their doubts and converted them to faith in Herr Hoppe, that in the end he had talked away his own doubts too and was now numbered with the converted.
And what security was offered the investor! Any day anybody could call back his money without notice and yet be entitled to his three per cent monthly interest. But one who let his money stand for more than a month received four per cent, if for more than six months, five per cent. ‘Here’s your money and your interest – if you should feel disposed, visit us again.’
‘Never let yourselves be offended, gentlemen,’ Herr Hoppe begged his employees. ‘Don’t take suspicion amiss. People entrust us with their hard-earned money and they have a right to be suspicious. Always stay polite and obliging, and in cases of doubt side with the small investor rather than with the bank.’
It was really surprising how they came, how trusting they were, how much money they brought. Yes, they trusted neither the government, nor captains of industry, they suspected banks and savings institutions – but here they had confidence. They would stand hesitantly in the hall, looking at those in front of the counters and those behind. They would study the piles of banknotes stacked beside the cashiers. And when they asked for information they were irritable, suspicious. But suddenly they would say: ‘All right, I’ll put in a hundred marks.’
They came with the most trifling of sums, ten-mark notes, five-mark pieces, Rentengroschen; not the smallest deposit was to be refused – on that point Herr Hoppe was emphatic. The meanest client had to be treated as politely as the largest. It wasn’t as though he came out of
his office only when well-to-do clients were at the counter – no, Herr Hoppe paid equal if not more attention to workmen handing over ten marks out of their wages, talking with them, spluttering his ‘Ha ha’ into their faces.
Of course, the reason all these people were suspicious was that they had bad consciences. Banks and savings banks were offering their depositors ten and even twelve per cent interest, but here they were to receive thirty-six per cent, yes, up to sixty per cent interest a year, which was impossible in the ordinary way, so that there must be something wrong. Greed waged war with suspicion; greed won and they brought along their money. But on the way home suspicion returned. No doubt they sat up all night, remembering how they had been done out of their savings before, and how they had vowed never to trust anyone again; for on the following day they were back at the earliest possible moment, mumbling apologies for changing their minds or lying about a wife taken suddenly ill and their needing the money for an operation.
Whereupon they got their money, with interest for one day, amounting perhaps to a few pfennigs only. And they with their bad consciences were met by cheerful smiles. ‘Certainly! It’s your money after all. If you want to deposit it again, please come along.’
One shaggy-haired man in a green overcoat came every other day. The cashier in charge of his account was quite out of his head about it. ‘Pays in a thousand marks, takes it out (interest to be calculated), pays it in, takes it out (interest to be calculated again).’
‘Well, well,’ said Herr Hoppe soothingly, ‘he’ll end by giving in, Krambach. And with a round sum like that he makes the calculation of the interest damned easy for you, ha ha!’
‘But today he was back for the eleventh time,’ complained Krambach. ‘I hate the sight of him. And I just can’t stand his smell at all. The fellow must live on garlic, Herr Doctor.’
‘Garlic is said to be good for you,’ said Herr Hoppe. ‘Ask him why he takes it. A question like that gives people more confidence.’
But the green coat showed no increase in confidence, on the contrary. One day he paid in his thousand marks at nine o’clock in the morning and fetched them the same evening, demanding a day’s interest.
‘We’re sorry, Herr Lemke,’ said Krambach regretfully, ‘but this time no interest is due. We’re exceedingly sorry.’
‘But I have a right to the interest,’ cried Herr Lemke excitedly, smelling even more strongly of garlic. ‘I entrusted you with my money.’
‘But you must leave it with us, Herr Lemke, at least twenty-four hours, you see, your money hasn’t done any work for us yet …’
‘Work!’ Herr Lemke’s voice filled the hall, a thing that had to be prevented at all costs. ‘My money work for you! You have to work for me. I was promised interest. I entrusted you with my money!’
‘Are you dissatisfied?’ gently enquired Herr Hoppe. ‘What is it, Krambach?’
Krambach explained the case excitedly, interrupted even more excitedly by Herr Lemke.
‘Give the gentleman his interest,’ said Herr Hoppe.
‘But the paying-in day is the same as the paying-out day,’ protested Krambach. ‘How am I to enter that?’
Herr Hoppe looked gravely at Krambach’s chest, so gravely that Krambach began to think that, inadvertently, he was wearing a tie of the forbidden red.
‘We wish to satisfy our clients, Herr Krambach,’ said Herr Hoppe, adjusting his own tie, Krambach doing the same with his. ‘Debit my private account with Herr Lemke’s interest. Confidence is a tender plant.’
For a week Herr Lemke brought his thousand marks in the morning and fetched them in the evening plus interest. ‘No decent joint would put up with this,’ said Heinz Hackendahl to Erich Menz. ‘It’s a fraud!’
Then, one morning, came Herr Lemke, paler and shaggier than ever. With trembling but resolute hands he paid in ten thousand marks. And did not draw them out again. When he appeared next time he brought with him a fat, apple-cheeked woman who paid in three thousand marks.
Herr Lemke had changed from Saul into Paul; he had turned evangelist for Hoppe & Co. Sometimes he stood at the counter, a dirty slip of paper in his hand, having his interest worked out and checking the cashier’s figures by his own calculations.
‘Don’t you want to withdraw your money?’ his old enemy Krambach would jeer. ‘Just to see it’s still there?’
But Herr Lemke shook his head. ‘You’re all right,’ he said, almost reluctantly. ‘And as for your chief, he’s a real sly dog.’
§ VIII
Heinz sometimes spoke with Irma about his reservations; in fact he often spoke about them with her. ‘The place can’t be above board, Irma,’ exclaimed Heinz. ‘A man who runs after clients like that for the sake of their deposits isn’t straightforward.’
‘None of your business. Be glad you’ve got a job.’
For even the young Hackendahls had lost some of their optimism. Unemployment was spreading like a plague, sweeping away whole trades with it, and Irma was no longer so certain that Heinz would get a post whatever happened. And then, in a few more weeks – the baby! And Irma was in favour of establishing order for the baby.
‘But the whole show may crash, Irma. And I’d be involved. As an accomplice or something.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. There are fourteen of you. Why should you be picked out?’
‘Well, there’s something wrong, Irma. We see the money paid in but no one has the faintest idea what happens to it. That is Herr Hoppe’s business. I’ve tried to pump my colleagues.’
‘You seem to be trying to lose your job,’ she exclaimed, exasperated. ‘Remember you’ll soon be a father.’
‘Irmchen, do stop criticizing. You yourself wouldn’t want us to live by defrauding the poor.’
‘Please stop that now! You’re defrauding no one. You get your two hundred bucks, and go to work.’
‘But …’
‘Tell me, did they inform you at your last bank what they did with their clients’ money? Don’t be funny, Heinz. Everybody has to think of himself.’
‘But …’
He had many buts, about only thinking of yourself as well. He considered it wasn’t right. To him, if everyone merely thought of themselves, things were bound to go wrong. However, Heinz Hackendahl conceded that Irma was now too preoccupied with the baby to make a correct judgement. Heinz Hackendahl was soon to be a father, but he was still on his own.
He was following events in the banking house of Hoppe & Co. very anxiously, for in his heart it wouldn’t have pleased him at all to obtain clear proof that the business was dishonest. He watched Herr Hoppe as if he himself were a detective and his employer a criminal, and established with relief that Hoppe hadn’t changed any of his habits. He wore the same suits and smoked the same cigars. He didn’t smell of alcohol, and he didn’t disappear at midday to an official Stock Exchange ‘breakfast’. Punctually every morning at nine o’clock – irksome example to all unpunctual employees – Herr Hoppe appeared at his bank. No seductive feminine voice ever enquired for him on the telephone.
No, Heinz Hackendahl found nothing out of the way, nothing extravagant or villainous about the sandy-haired Doctor. Neither did Erich Menz, to whom he would sometimes whisper his doubts. Menz had begun to think they should let sleeping dogs lie. ‘Be glad you’ve got a cushy job. Being on the dole’s no fun.’
But an inner voice gave Heinz no rest. It was a very tiresome voice, and he would much rather it had been silent. Things would have been easier. It was the same voice that had made him prevent Tinette’s seduction, and had forced him to visit Widow Quaas’s stationery shop once more, until he’d made his peace with Irma. At a time of egoism, godlessness and lack of conscience, it was the voice of conscience itself, somewhat imperious in a lone young man – a voice which told him neither to rest nor to indulge himself, without first asking where his food came from.
Then came an afternoon when Herr Doctor Hoppe seemed quite changed. Restlessly he wandered through the bank, not he
aring the questions addressed to him, vanishing hurriedly into his holy of holies, dashing out again immediately for no apparent reason – good-humoured, noisy, buttonholing everybody, spluttering his ‘Ha ha’ into each face – then abruptly gloomy, taciturn, almost bad-tempered. One might have thought he had had a drop too much, but it wasn’t that.
‘Today I accept no deposits,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Gentlemen, decline all custom. No more money.’
The employees stared at each other, perplexed.
‘But what are we to tell the clients?’ whispered one.
‘Never mind what you tell them,’ shouted Dr Hoppe. ‘I’ve had enough of it. I don’t want any more money. Tell them,’ he said, suddenly calmer, ‘that at the moment we have no profitable investment. Perhaps tomorrow.’ And he vanished into his office.
‘Cracked!’ whispered Erich Menz.
The doubtful Heinz shook his head. And, doing so, saw a man come in through the revolving door. Heinz ducked and almost disappeared behind his desk.
The man spoke in an undertone with a clerk at the barrier, who looked hesitatingly towards the private office. Then the visitor whispered something soothing and the clerk let him through.
Heinz, as mentioned, had hidden himself. It wouldn’t have been pleasant to be recognized by his brother Erich – Erich, fat and puffy but very elegant, almost too elegant in his top hat.
After a quarter of an hour Herr Hoppe came out, escorting his visitor to the door. This time Erich was carrying one of the bank’s attaché cases.
And as he came back to the counter Herr Hoppe remarked cheerfully: ‘I’ve received good news. Three more borings have struck lucky. Gentlemen, we accept deposits again!’
§ IX
From the moment Heinz Hackendahl saw his brother Erich in the main hall of the bank, leaving with an attaché case belonging to the boss, his suspicions almost crystallized into a certainty. Hoppe & Co. was a shady business! Erich was involved, and up till now he had only known Erich to be involved in businesses that were shady. The business must be shady if Erich was in it.