by Hans Fallada
Then there was another chap, called Marwede, beside whom Heinz didn’t want to stand. ‘Morning, mate. You know Pries, the little fellow who’s been here a long time, used to be with the Transport people, you know him, don’t you? Done himself in! Took Lysol. They took him to hospital but everything was already burnt out. Yes, mate, he’s taken the plunge but we haven’t yet …’
Marwede looked at Heinz Hackendahl. ‘Painful to hear isn’t it. But that’s how it is! Suicide or crime – that’s our way out. There’s nothing else.’
‘Things can pick up again,’ said Heinz.
‘How? Why should they? Tell me that. And even so they won’t want us. There are so many younger. We’ve got out of the way of work – I had a go the other day. No good – after two hours I was taken ill.’
‘You’re undernourished.’
‘I suppose you think we’re like boilers – another shovel of coal or another slice of bread and dripping and your brain’ll work again. No, your brain don’t want to, it’s fallen asleep, it wants to be left in peace. Suicide or crime, mate, no other prospect!’
‘Well, you still have the dole for the moment,’ said Heinz, unnecessarily angry.
‘Yes, for the moment. You don’t know, mate, how I sometimes feel in the morning. I lie there, I don’t undress at night because you never know whether you’ll feel like dressing again in the morning, and tell my buttons – suicide, crime, dole.’
‘They must be funny buttons if they always end up in favour of the dole.’
‘That’s because I’m a coward. There’s no need to sugar the pill. Man’s a coward above everything else, a coward! You, me, all of us.’
‘So don’t squabble here about suicide and crime.’
‘Rather say nothing! Suddenly such things happen. You know, every evening I have a Tauentzienstrasse bar on the watch. A fat man comes every evening with a huge thick wallet … And at about one o’clock he goes in the half-dark across the Wittenbergplatz …’
‘Stop your drivel!’ cried Hackendahl, furious. ‘You’re making it all up.’
‘Don’t get angry. You probably thought of something similar to be angry about. But of course you’re as much of a coward as I am.’
‘If you don’t shut your mouth, Marwede!’ – and Heinz Hackendahl threatened him with his fist.
After this sort of conversation Heinz arrived home utterly worn out. Then he would look at his son Otto who, curiously enough, cried very little. He had been lying in that small bed when his father first went on the dole; his father was still on the dole when he had made his first attempts to walk; by the time he had learned to chatter, his father was still on the dole. Perhaps in a little while the son would be able to accompany his father to the unemployment office and, later still, the two could have their cards stamped together, father and son.
Thus could one think sometimes, and then words as drastic as suicide or crime came to mind.
‘You, Irma,’ he would then say, ‘aren’t you fed up having an unemployed husband?’
‘In a bad mood?’ she asked. ‘Don’t worry. Good times will come back … Cheer up! Things will get better, you’ll see. Things can change very quickly when you’re hopeless and don’t expect it.’
‘Then it will have to be quick, say in about the next three minutes … No, it won’t happen, but what I want to know is if you haven’t had enough.’
‘Oh, no! A real Berliner doesn’t lose heart anything like so easily. Go to Mother. She wanted to see if she could get some pickled herring for us. But hurry along!’
‘Herring pickler!’ he said, but went all the same.
But Heinz also knew days of exhilaration. The sky need not be blue – it could rain if it liked – but the heart beat differently, full of hope, full of energy. He jumped out of bed with both legs.
‘I’ve got a feeling, Irma, that something will happen today. Something pleasant, of course. And don’t keep any food for me, I’m going to see Sophie.’
‘Good,’ she said, ‘and best of luck!’
On optimistic days like this, queuing for the dole was only unpleasant if it lasted long. Marwede was just a joke. ‘So, still no murders? No suicides? My dear colleague, you’ll be celebrating your golden jubilee here yet. You’ll be an honorary unemployed, with the dole card round your neck!’
At which Marwede again exploded.
But no one minded. Hardly was the dole register over, everyone ran free. You were full of pep, altogether elated. In the newspaper offices you at once got the newspapers you wanted, saw immediately the advertisements at all promising. And your elation, self-confidence, hope carried you into strange offices, where you surveyed rival applicants with a grin, enchanted the staff managers and drew a smile from the grumpiest employer. You were able to do everything: not only book-keeping by double entry, Italian and American accounting (and first-rate, of course, at striking a balance), but also typewriting, shorthand, English and French correspondence. Decorate shop windows? Of course, nothing easier … On such days you hardly minded when they ended by saying: ‘We’ll let you know.’ The confirmation never came. Or, ‘All vacancies filled. Sorry, we could have done with someone like you. We’ll make a note of your name.’ And you hardly winced when you were told: ‘What, that advertisement? We handed it in six weeks ago. Those chaps keep on inserting it simply to have a Situations Vacant advert in the paper. We’re very sorry. Perhaps you could make a fuss there about it.’
No, you hurried on. If not here, then elsewhere; that was almost certain today. You had had that feeling on waking up.
And when after all you had been everywhere in vain – what did that prove? You went and saw Sophie.
‘On the hunt again?’ she would enquire coolly. ‘Good that you’re not losing courage. Of course you can use the duplicating machine. But clean it properly when you’ve finished. The last time you left the rollers dirty.’
Even this did not upset you, although the machine had been left spotless. But who knew how many others were duplicating their testimonials? The demand for such machines was enormous these days.
‘Have you had your lunch?’ Matron Sophie asked. ‘Oh! Well, I don’t believe you but I won’t force you. Set to, then. You know what to do. Oh, and by the way, if you must smoke I’ll leave some cigarettes here. Do take these, please. Yours smell so horrible – the office is unusable afterwards.’
She went. Was she really like that or had she only adopted that manner? A person who has to keep order in an establishment where there are a lot of females can’t be gentle or amiable. Sophie, therefore, was not gentle or amiable. Never had been.
Despite being a little annoyed, Heinz got his duplicator working. However, its rhythm gradually overcame his mood. Since he wanted only tip-top copies to send out, the ink a deep black and not at all smeary, he had to take great care – the first impression, the look of an application, was so tremendously important. Actually he had very few testimonials – the bank’s apprenticeship certificate and the leaving reference; for a young man in the middle twenties it was damned little. Looked as if the fellow had never worked.
However, Heinz Hackendahl had improved the document. In the first place, he had added his Abitur certificate. Later he had added, because it was also very good, his One-Year Voluntary Service certificate.
To have a back-up, his curriculum vitae would also be copied, though some required such documents to be handwritten. Others again had nothing but contempt for handwriting, and wouldn’t even consider them.
He tried to imagine the position he might obtain on the basis of his application. No, he didn’t expect much – a normal income, and the boss or department head need not be particularly amiable. And his colleagues? Well, colleagues here, colleagues there! He’d be able to live and let live. Nothing fantastic, just decent work, something with a bit of life: ‘Hackendahl, please fix that for me quickly. Stay an hour longer today, otherwise the work won’t get done.’
To think that there was once a time when you wo
rried that a job didn’t get done – when there was too much work! Nowadays, one stretched the work out, so that it provided for many. Short-term work was invented. (In the war heavy workers were invented. Destructive war was a better employer than the construction they called peace.)
Sometimes his stomach grumbled, and he thought of his sister, Sophie, the Matron. She had asked if he had had lunch, but he had said he didn’t want any. Anyone else would have perhaps brought him some lunch, or at least a plate of something. This was, after all, a clinic – a place in which there was always something to eat.
However, Sophie was not like that. Thank you! Lunch is over. No one’s forced to eat!
Now and then she looked in the office but not in connection with food – most probably to keep an eye on the duplicator. And make sure too that he wasn’t smoking any of his evil-smelling cigarettes. Not that she referred to them. That matter had been settled – she had expressed her wishes and no more was required. What she said was: ‘Can you spare me any of your time this evening, Bubi? Good! I’ve a little dispute with the financial authorities about the turnover tax. You could make out a statement from the accounts.’ She nodded and went.
If Heinz had not been in such a good mood he would have been annoyed. That was typical of her. Well, hadn’t she placed at her brother’s disposal a duplicator free of charge, a complicated apparatus with rollers and wheels which, of course, had no more than a certain life and was brought nearer to its end every time it was used – all free of charge, as mentioned above, in spite of wear and tear and the consumption of ink? And in return the brother could well give three or four hours that evening to looking over the accounts. Was she mean? Perhaps only very careful. She wished to give nothing away. Nobody, after all, had ever given her anything, no, she was against giving things away.
At first Heinz had thought that at the conclusion of such a tax consultation she would press a sisterly five-mark coin into his hand, but he was determined to reject it. However, she said: ‘Many thanks, Heinz. You know I’m not permitted to give you money when you receive unemployment relief and are prohibited from subsidiary employment.’
Funny! Earlier she had been sharp, sour and flat-breasted.
Sophie came in again, sat at the desk, took one of her cigarettes (without of course commenting on his having taken none) and smoked for him, so to speak. Then she began to talk. She had done so much for Father. She had given him a new rig-out and bought him a cart as well as a carriage; she was even willing to buy a new horse. ‘But Father’s so difficult. You’re supposed to have some influence with him, according to Mother. Do speak to him, Heinz.’
‘How is he difficult?’
‘Well, for one thing he doesn’t treat the patients politely enough … After all, they’re sick people and mostly well-to-do, so one has to adapt oneself to their wishes, even if they are a bit liable to grumble. Well, you know, he really did recently snub the factory owner Otto, of the big accumulator factory, in the middle of the street, and told him to get out of his carriage.’
‘Father’s old.’
‘He’s always saying that he’s of iron. Let him show it! Herr Otto is bound to be bad-tempered, but I always get on with him. And then about the money. Father maintains that I’m not paying him enough. He says he earns more with his cab. But he must take into consideration that I supply everything, the vehicles and his clothes; what is he after all but a coachman here? I’ve asked Mother how much they need a week to live on and that’s what he gets. He’s not meant to grow rich out of it.’ She looked at her brother thoughtfully; the cigarette was finished. ‘All right then, you’ll speak to Father about it. He must realize that I could hire dozens, even hundreds, of people for a small weekly wage. And that it isn’t pleasant for me when he tells all the patients that he’s the oldest driver in Berlin and that the Matron is his daughter.’
Heinz industriously turned the handle of his machine and made no reply. And she didn’t seem to expect any. She had said what she wanted to him, and now she was going.
Naturally, Heinz wouldn’t talk about it with Father. If she wanted to start a fight with Father, she didn’t need Heinz. Life was complicated enough without that.
When enough copies were ready, he sat down at the desk and started with the applications, in his conventional book-keeper’s hand. He had actually wanted to do that at home, but as he still had to do Sophie’s books in the evening, it wasn’t worth going back. He hoped Irma wouldn’t make anything of his absence.
And so he began with his impersonal, sweeping, accountant’s handwriting. ‘Dear Sirs.’ He had made a note of five or six advertisements which stipulated ‘Applications to be made in own handwriting’. If he continued, and Sophie didn’t interrupt him too much, he should be able to finish by the evening. Perhaps if he posted the letters on his way home he would have replies the day after tomorrow, and at this thought there came more flourish into his writing and a fluency into the extolling of his merits and qualifications, always a difficult business. If self-praise could easily be overdone, modesty on the other hand was equally foolish – applications written in that vein always sounded so empty. Something of the lively tempo of the morning came back to him; hope rose again. As he got up, he thought, today it’s going to be all right! Now he thought, it will be all right the day after tomorrow – perhaps.
It had diminished since the morning, but hope was still there, and life is a hundred times easier even with only a little hope. This little makes a huge difference. Without it there is nothing but despair; with it life is bearable.
And so he sat and wrote. For every letter he took a fresh nib and blew on the paper, since a speck of dust could disturb the evenness of his penmanship; and he used a ruler. Before starting to write, he mentally set out in paragraphs all he had to say; a job application must not be too detailed, but it mustn’t look too thin either. What creative joy was left him went into these applications for work. His was a mind not devoid of common sense and memory, and common sense could have told him that all these letters were useless. With two million unemployed the odds against him were tremendous. At the unemployment office they said that the single insertion of an advertisement often brought two or three thousand replies, among them offers to work for half, even a quarter of the standard wage, a mere pittance. So that the chances of success were exactly nothing, not worth the postage. Should he write: ‘Dear Sirs, I am the first of May, Summer is on the way,’ his letter would have infinitely better prospects of being considered.
As for memory, that could have told him he had already dispatched dozens, even hundreds, of such applications. And what had been the result? Memory replied without hesitation. Some hundreds of letters had remained unanswered; as regards about ten letters he had been notified that his application was being considered and he would receive further particulars later, particulars he never received of course; five or six times he had been invited for an interview. (Sorry, but the vacancy has been filled.)
Yet he still wrote, still hoped. Once upon a time they had gone on at the dole office about the right to work. But that hadn’t been mentioned any more for a long time.
Now he had only the hope of work – spurts of hope. So he went on looking, writing and applying.
Until once again hope slowly left him and its place was taken by an endless despair which made him feel that it was almost impossible even to go to the unemployment office.
§ XIV
During this long period of unemployment fortune smiled twice upon Heinz – twice he found work. On the first occasion he was temporarily engaged at a bank, for the yearly balance; glorious to sit again in a real office and do the old familiar work! Not altogether familiar, though. New ideas had been introduced. The cloth-bound ledgers where the first page was traditionally inscribed, in many a flourish, with the words Cum Deo had been abolished. Book entries were made on index cards; the book-keeping machine had been introduced; there was no opportunity to mention God even in print.
All thi
s was new to Hackendahl and it was new to have to ask younger people for advice and information; in the days of steady employment he had been one of the youngest. But even more surprising was to discover that he no longer seemed capable of concentrated labour and that it was difficult to sit for eight hours with work, and nothing but work, in front of him. The jobless days resulted in a painful restlessness in him. He was plagued by a desire to jump up and move about. The fact that one had to do the same thing for eight whole hours was so difficult to take in.
In the recent long months, it had always seemed that he could at any point have been doing something else. He had helped Irma with some work, and had suddenly said, ‘Just a moment! I’m just going to get a few cigarettes!’ and gone into the street.
By the time he was back, Irma had generally already finished, and he played for a bit with the little one. Then he got tired of that too, and went down to the street again to look at the newspapers on free display. Then he came back to the flat.
He was not at the time really conscious of how much his joblessness affected him. However, now, with the prospect of work again, he did feel it, and he wanted to jump up and down and run about all the time – and not in a particular place, or to do anything in particular. He just felt like running free.
Although he took care not to give way to this craving, once or twice he had to put up with a reprimand to the effect that he was going far too much to the lavatory and could never be found in his place. It became clear that, in spite of all the efforts he made, he would get no permanent situation at this bank.
The second spell of temporary employment was at a big textile mail order firm. For weeks on end hundreds of thousands of printed items were dispatched in a huge publicity campaign on the American model, to buoy up the ever-flagging sales – the right sort of work for unemployed people, a dozen of whom sat together, men and women. They had to fold printed matter, insert enclosures, add an order card, write the addresses, put the letters in envelopes, and cart it all off in laundry baskets to the post. This meant one could move about freely and change one’s work all the time, now doing a little folding, then unpacking bundles of publicity matter, now typing addresses, and then taking the baskets to the post three streets away; all this amid laughter and talk, for the feeling of having work and earning a few marks cheered up even the grumblers.