by Hans Fallada
They exchanged fearful looks. Then Trudel suddenly broke into a smile. “Well, good-bye then, Karli!” she said, and gave him a hug. “I hope things get better. It was stupid of us to quarrel! You never know what’s round the corner!”
Inspector Laub cleared his throat threateningly. They kissed, and Hergesell walked out.
“Why did you just take leave of your husband like that, Frau Hergesell?”
“I wanted to make up with him; we’d just had a quarrel.”
“What did you quarrel about?”
“About an aunt of mine coming to visit. He didn’t want her to come; I did.”
“And the sight of me was enough to make you concede? Strange, you don’t seem to have a very clean conscience. Wait a moment now! Stay where you are!”
She heard him talking to Karli in the kitchen. Karli was bound to say the quarrel had been about something else, and this thing had got off to the worst possible start. She had thought right away of Quangel. But it wasn’t like Quangel to give someone away…
The inspector came back. Rubbing his hands with satisfaction, he said, “According to your husband, your quarrel was about whether to adopt a child or not. That’s the first lie I’ve caught you in. Now don’t you worry, in the next half hour there’ll be plenty more from you, and I’ll catch you out in all of them! So, you had a miscarriage?”
“Yes.”
“I expect you probably helped things along a bit, eh? So that the Führer doesn’t get any more soldiers?”
“Now you’re lying! If I’d wanted to do something like that, I would hardly have waited till I was in my fifth month.”
A man came in, bearing a piece of paper.
“Inspector, Herr Hergesell tried to burn this in the kitchen a moment ago.”
“What is it? A checked-baggage ticket. Frau Hergesell, tell us, has your husband deposited a suitcase in the station at Alexanderplatz?”
“A suitcase? I’ve no idea; my husband never mentioned it to me.”
“Bring Hergesell in here! I want a man to drive to Alexanderplatz right away and collect the suitcase.” Another man led Karl Hergesell in. The whole flat was jammed with policemen—and they had simply blundered into it.
“What’s this suitcase you’ve left in storage at Alexanderplatz?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen inside it. It belongs to an acquaintance. He said there were sheets and clothes in it.”
“Highly likely! And that would be why you tried to burn the receipt once you noticed there were police around!”
Hergesell hesitated, then, with a swift look at his wife, he said, “I did it because I don’t trust my acquaintance. There might be something else inside it. The suitcase is very heavy.”
“And what do you think it might actually contain, then?”
“Maybe printed leaflets. I always tried not to think about it.”
“Tell me about this strange acquaintance of yours, who can’t leave his things in left-luggage by himself? His name wouldn’t be Karl Hergesell by any chance?”
“No, his name is Schmidt, Heinrich Schmidt.”
“And how do you come to know him, this—Schmidt?”
“Oh, I’ve known him a long time, ten years at least.”
“Why did you think the suitcase might contain printed matter? What sort of man is this Emil Schulz?”
“Heinrich Schmidt. He was a Social Democrat or a Communist, even. That’s what made me think they might be printed papers.”
“Where were you born, Herr Hergesell?”
“Me? In Berlin. In Moabit.”
“And when?”
“On the tenth of April, in 1920.”
“I see, and you’re claiming to have known this Heinrich Schmidt for at least ten years, and to have been aware of his political views? You would have been around eleven at the time, Herr Hergesell! You mustn’t play me for a fool, because then I get angry, and if I get angry, chances are you’ll feel a sudden pain somewhere!”
“I wasn’t playing you for a fool! Everything I said is true!”
“Name Heinrich Schmidt: lie number one! Never seen inside the suitcase: lie number two! Reason for giving it up: lie number three! No, my dear Herr Hergesell, every sentence you’ve spoken to me is a lie!”
“No, everything is true. Heinrich Schmidt was on his way to Königsberg, and because the suitcase was too heavy and he didn’t need it where he was going, he asked me to hand it in for him. That’s the whole story!”
“And he puts himself to the trouble of traveling out to Erkner to pick up the receipt, when he could carry it around quite comfortably in his pocket! Very likely, Herr Hergesell! Well, let’s leave it there for the moment. We’ll have occasion to return to it, I think, and you’ll be kind enough to accompany me back to Gestapo headquarters. As far as your wife is concerned…”
“My wife doesn’t know anything about this suitcase business!”
“Funny, that’s what she says, too. But I’ll get a chance to hear what she knows and doesn’t know. But while I have you two lovebirds together—you’ve known each other from the time you worked in the uniform factory?”
“Yes…” they said.
“Well, and what was that like, what did you do there?”
“I was an electrician…”
“I cut uniform tunics…”
“What good, hardworking people you are, to be sure. But when you weren’t snipping material and pulling wires—what were you up to then, my pretty ones? Could it be that you formed a nice little Communist cell, the two of you, plus a certain Jensch, known as Babyface, and one Grigoleit?”
They looked at him and the blood drained out of their faces. How could he know? They exchanged bewildered looks.
“Yaha!” jeered Laub. “That’s got you rattled, sure enough. You were under observation, all four of you, and if you hadn’t broken up as soon as you did, I might have made your acquaintance before now. You’re still under surveillance in your factory, Hergesell!”
They were so bewildered, it didn’t even occur to them to contradict the man.
The inspector looked at them thoughtfully, and suddenly he put a question. “So which of them did the suitcase belong to, Herr Hergesell?” he asked. “Was it Grigoleit or Babyface?”
“To, uh—it hardly matters given you know everything—it was Grigoleit who gave it to me. He was going to pick it up in another week, but that’s some time ago now…”
“He will have gone AWOL, your Grigoleit! Well, I’ll catch up with him—if he’s still alive, that is.”
“Inspector, since my wife and I left the cell, we have not been involved in any political activity. We even caused the cell to wind up before it could do anything. We realized that we weren’t cut out for that sort of thing.”
“Hey, I realized that, too! Me!” jeered the inspector.
But Karl Hergesell went on: “From that time, we’ve only thought about our jobs, and we haven’t undertaken anything against the state.”
“Except to look after the suitcase; don’t forget about the suitcase, Hergesell! Keeping Communist pamphlets, that’s high treason, that’ll cost you your neck, my dear fellow! Hey, Frau Hergesell! Frau Hergesell! What are you getting so hot about! Fabian, will you detach the young lady from her husband, but be sure to be very gentle, Fabian, for Lord’s sake don’t hurt the little poppet. She’s recently had a miscarriage, the poor thing, she was so anxious not to give the Führer any more soldiers!”
“Trudel!” begged Hergesell. “Don’t listen to him! There might not be leaflets in the suitcase at all, I just sometimes thought that’s what it might be. There might be just sheets and clothes in it. Grigoleit wasn’t necessarily lying.”
“That’s the way, young sir,” praised Inspector Laub. “Give the young lady a bit of courage! Is that better, sweetheart? Can we carry on with our conversation? Well, let’s change the subject from Karl Hergesell’s treason to that of Trudel Hergesell, née Baumann…”
“My wife knew nothing
about these matters! My wife has never done anything against the law!”
“No, no, quite, you were both good National Socialists, right?” Suddenly Inspector Laub was seized with fury. “You know what you are? You’re cowardly Commie swine! You’re rats! But I’ll expose you, I’ll drag you both to the gallows! I want to see you both swing! You with your suitcase full of lies! And you with your so-called miscarriage! You jumped off the table till the bell rang! Isn’t that right? Isn’t that right? Tell me!”
He had seized the half-conscious Trudel and was shaking her.
“Leave my wife alone! Take your hands off my wife!” Hergesell grabbed hold of the inspector. He was struck on the jaw by Fabian. Three minutes later, handcuffed and guarded by Fabian, he was sitting in the kitchen and knew—wild despair in his heart—that Trudel was in the hands of her tormentor and there was nothing he could do.
And Laub continued to torment Trudel. Already half demented by worry for her Karli, she was now ordered to talk about Quangel’s postcards. Laub didn’t believe in the chance encounter on the street: no, she had remained in contact with the Quangels, cowardly Communist conspirators that they all were, and her husband, her Karli, had been in on it too!
“How many postcards did you drop then? What was written on them? What did your husband have to say about it?”
And so he went on tormenting her, hour after hour, and all the while Hergesell sat in the kitchen, with hell in his heart.
And finally: the return of the police car, the suitcase, the opening of the suitcase.
“Will you tickle the lock open for me, Fabian!” the inspector said. Karl Hergesell was back in the parlor, under guard. At opposite ends of the room, the Hergesells looked at one another, pale and anguished.
“A bit heavy for sheets and a change of clothing!” the inspector sneered, while Fabian jiggled a wire in the lock. “Well, we’re about to see the treasure! I’m afraid it might not turn out too well for you, eh—what do you think, Hergesell?”
“Inspector, my wife didn’t know anything about the suitcase!” Hergesell proclaimed once more.
“Yes, and I suppose you didn’t know anything about her dropping treasonable postcards in various staircases about town for Quangel! Each little traitor on his own! Call that a marriage!”
“No!” yelled Hergesell. “You didn’t do that, Trudel! Tell me you didn’t!”
“I’m afraid she’s already confessed to it!”
“Just once, Karli, and it was pure chance…”
“I’m not having you talking to each other! One more word, Hergesell, and you’re going back in the kitchen! All right, at last—now, what’s inside?”
He and Fabian stood in front of the suitcase so that the Hergesells were unable to see inside. The two detectives exchanged whispers. Then Fabian pulled out the heavy contents. A small machine, shiny screws, springs, gleaming blackness…
““Well, if it’s not a printing press!” said Inspector Laub. “A pretty little printing press—for Communist pamphlets. Well, that takes care of you, Hergesell. Once and for all!”
“I had no idea what was in the suitcase,” Karl Hergesell said, but it sounded utterly feeble.
“As if that mattered! You were obliged to report your meeting with Grigoleit, and to hand over the suitcase! That’s enough, Fabian. Pack up. I know more than I need to know. I want the woman cuffed as well.”
“Farewell, Karli!” cried Trudel Hergesell with a strong voice. “Farewell, my darling. You made me terribly happy…”
“Will you shut that bitch up!” yelled the inspector. “What do you think you’re playing at, Hergesell?”
Hergesell had broken away from his guard when, on the other side of the room, a punch on the mouth silenced Trudel. Even though he was handcuffed, he managed to knock over Trudel’s abuser. They rolled about on the floor.
The inspector gestured to Fabian. He stood over the pair on the floor, watched for his moment, and then struck Karl Hergesell three or four times on the head.
Hergesell gave a groan, his limbs twitched, and then he lay still at Trudel’s feet. She looked impassively down at him, her mouth bleeding.
During the long drive back to the city, she hoped in vain that he would come round so that she could look into his eyes again. But no, nothing.
They had done nothing. But they were doomed…
Chapter 53
OTTO QUANGEL’S HEAVIEST BÜRDEN
Of the nineteen days that Otto Quangel spent in the basement of the Gestapo headquarters before being handed on to the examining magistrate at the People’s Court, the interrogations of Inspector Laub were not the hardest thing he had to bear, even though Laub used all of his not inconsiderable resources to break, as he put it, Quangel’s resistance. This meant, more or less, doing everything he could to turn the prisoner into a panicked, gibbering wreck.
Nor was it his steadily growing, tormenting anxiety about Anna that affected Otto Quangel so. He hadn’t seen his wife and never heard anything directly about her. But when Laub in his interrogations dropped the name of Trudel Baumann, or rather Trudel Hergesell, he knew that his wife had been intimidated or outwitted, and that a name had escaped her lips that should never have been mentioned.
Later, as it became clearer that Trudel Baumann and her husband had been arrested, had given statements, and were caught up in the ongoing investigation, he spent many hours in his mind quarreling with his wife. It had always been a source of pride to him in this life that he was an island unto himself, not needing others, and not a burden on them either, and now through his fault (because he took responsibility for Anna) two young people had been drawn into his affairs.
But the quarrel did not go on for very long, because soon his grief and worry for his wife came to dominate his thoughts. When left alone, he would dig his nails into his palms, shut his eyes, summon up all his strength—and think of Anna, try to imagine her in her cell, and transmit streams of energy to her to give her fresh courage, so that she would not lose her dignity, not humiliate herself in front of that miserable wretch Laub, who had so little that was human about him.
His worry for Anna was hard to bear, but still it wasn’t the heaviest thing.
Nor was it the almost nightly incursions into his cell by drunken SS men and their officers, unleashing their rage and sadism on their helpless victims. They would tear open the cell door and teem in, wild with alcohol and intent on seeing blood, the twitching of humans in pain or death, the desire to feast their eyes on the weakness of the flesh. This too was very hard to bear, but it wasn’t the hardest thing.
The hardest was the fact that he was not alone in his cell, that he had a cell mate, a fellow sufferer, someone guilty as himself. Worse, this was a person who caused Quangel to shudder: a wild, demented animal, heartless and cowardly, trembling and crude, a person whom Quangel could not so much as look at without feeling revulsion and yet was forced to be pleasant to, because the man had far greater physical strength than the old foreman.
Karl Ziemke—Karlchen to the warders—was a man of about thirty, with a Herculean build, a round, mastiff’s head with tiny eyes, and long hairy arms and hands. His low, lumpy forehead under its fringe of matted hair was always creased with horizontal furrows. He spoke little, and what he did speak was crazed and murderous. As Quangel soon learned from the warders, Karlchen Ziemke had once been a prominent member of the SS, he had been given fairly spectacular missions to accomplish, and the number of people those hairy paws had killed would never be ascertained, as Karlchen hadn’t bothered to keep count.
But for the professional killer Karl Ziemke, even these murderous times hadn’t sufficed, and when he had no official employment he had taken to killing freelance. Though he never neglected to rob his victims of money and valuables, robbery had never been his motive, but rather the sheer love of killing. In the end he had drawn attention, as he had been unwise enough to kill not only Jews and undesirables but also impeccable Aryans, among them a member of the Party
. He had been consigned to the basement, and it was as yet uncertain what would become of him.
Karlchen Ziemke, who had sent so many others to an unnatural death, had become fearful for his own precious life, and in his brain, which was not much larger than a five-year-old boy’s, only infinitely more depraved, the idea had surfaced that he might save himself from the consequences of his actions if he pretended insanity. His idea was to act like a dog—or this had been suggested to him by some comrades, which was likelier—and he played the part with considerable tenacity.
Usually he scrabbled around the cell on all fours, completely naked, ate out of his dish like a dog, and repeatedly tried to bite Quangel in the leg. Or else he demanded that the old foreman toss him a brush for hours on end, which he would then fetch in his jaws and be petted and praised for doing so. Or else Quangel would have to swing Karlchen’s trousers round and round like a skipping rope for Karlchen to jump over.
If the foreman didn’t show sufficient enthusiasm for these entertainments, the “dog” would jump him, knock him to the ground, and go for his throat, and there was always the possibility that the game would turn serious. The warders took deep delight in Karlchen’s antics. They would stand by the cell door for hours on end, spurring him on and making him angry, and Quangel had to take the consequences. But when they came to take their drunken fury out on the prisoners, then they would throw Karlchen to the ground, and he would spread his arms, begging them to kick the guts out of his bare body.
It was with this man that Quangel was condemned to share his life, day after day, hour after hour, minute by minute. He, who had always lived self-sufficient, now no longer had a quarter of an hour to himself. Even at night, when he sought the consolation of sleep, he wasn’t safe from his tormentor. Suddenly the “dog” would be squatting by his cot, with his paw on Quangel’s chest, demanding water or a place on Quangel’s bed. He would have to move aside, disgusted by the unwashed body, hairy as a beast’s but without an animal’s purity and innocence. Thereupon Karlchen would begin to bark quietly, and lick first Otto Quangel’s face and then, by and by, the rest of him.