by Hans Fallada
No, she knew enough. He did not need to say anything, nor to torment himself with explanations and apologies.
“It doesn’t matter, Wolf,” she said quickly. “Money never meant anything to us.”
He looked at her, grateful that she could have spared him this explanation. “Of course,” he said, “I shall make up for it. Perhaps this evening.”
“But,” she replied, for the first time insistent, “we have to go at half-past twelve to the Registry Office.”
“And I,” he said quickly, “have to take your clothes to Uncle. Can’t the registrar marry you as someone seriously ill in bed?”
“You may have to pay for invalids as well,” she laughed. “Surely you know that not even death is free.”
“But perhaps invalids can pay afterward,” he said, half smiling, half reflectively. “And then if he doesn’t get his money, well, a marriage is a marriage.”
For a while both remained silent. The vitiated air in the room, ever hotter with the climbing of the sun, felt unpleasantly dry to the skin. The noise of the tin-stamper seemed louder. They heard the tearful voice of Frau Thumann gossiping with a neighbor in front of their door. The over-crowded human hive of the house buzzed, shouted, sang, chattered, screamed and sobbed with multifarious voices.
“You know, you needn’t marry me,” said the girl with sudden resolution. And after a pause: “No human being has done so much for me as you.”
He looked away, a little embarrassed. The window glistened in the sun. What have I really done for her? he thought, bewildered. Taught her how to handle a knife and fork—and speak correct German.
He looked at her again. She wanted to say something more, but her lips trembled as if she were struggling with tears. Her dark glance was so intense that he would have preferred to look away.
But she had already spoken. “If I thought that you only felt you ought to marry me, I wouldn’t wish it.”
He shook his head slowly.
“Or to spite your mother,” she continued. “Or because you think it would please me.”
He shook his head again. (Does she know, then, why we are marrying? he wondered, amazed and lost.)
“But I always feel that you would like it, too, because you feel we belong to each other,” she said suddenly, forcing the words out with tears in her eyes. Now she spoke more freely, as if the most difficult part had been said. “Oh, Wolf, my dear, if it isn’t so, if you marry me for some other reason, don’t do it—please don’t do it. You won’t hurt me. Not so much,” she corrected hurriedly, “as if you married me and we didn’t belong to each other after all.”
“Oh, Petra, Peter, Peter Ledig!” he cried in his den of selfish solitude, overwhelmed by her humility and her loveliness. “What are you talking about?” He took her, embracing and rocking her like a child, and said laughingly: “We haven’t got the money for registrar’s fees, and you talk about one’s deepest feelings.”
“And am I not to talk about them?” she murmured, lowering her voice, nestling her head on his breast. “Am I not to talk about such things because you don’t talk about them? Always, every moment, every day, I think, even when you hold me in your arms and kiss me, as you are doing now, that you’re very far away from me—from everything.”
“Now you’re talking about gambling,” he said, and his embrace relaxed.
“No, I’m not talking about gambling,” she denied hurriedly, and leaned closer to him. “Or perhaps I am. You must know that I don’t know where you are or what you are thinking about. Gamble as much as you like—but when you don’t, couldn’t you be with me a little? Oh, Wolf,” she cried, and now she had moved away, holding him above the elbows and looking firmly at him, “you always think you ought to apologize about the money or explain something. There’s nothing to explain and there’s nothing to be sorry for. If we belong to each other, everything’s all right; and if we don’t, then everything is wrong—with or without money, marriage or no marriage.”
She looked hopefully toward him, she yearned for a word; if only he had held her in his arms in the right way, she would have understood him.
What does she really want of me? he had been thinking. But he knew. She had given herself to him entirely, right from the start, from that first morning when she had asked whether she could come with him. Now she begged him to open for once his dark, remote heart. But how can I do that? he asked himself. How am I to do it? He felt a sudden relief. That I don’t know how shows she is right: I don’t love her, he thought. I merely want to marry her. If I hadn’t staked on zero there would have been money for the registry office; there wouldn’t have been this discussion. Of course, now I know it, it would be better if we didn’t marry. But how am I to tell her? I can’t retreat. She’s still looking at me. What am I to tell her?
The silence had become heavy and oppressive. She still held his arms, but loosely, as if she had forgotten she was holding them. “Peter!” He cleared his throat.
The outer door creaked, and the shuffling of Frau Thumann was heard.
“Quick, Wolf, shut the door,” said Peter hurriedly. “Frau Thumann’s coming and we don’t want her now.”
She had let go of him. But before he could reach the door of their room the landlady came in sight.
“Are you still waiting?” she asked. “I’ve told you: no money, no coffee.”
“Listen, Frau Thumann,” said Wolfgang hurriedly. “I don’t want any coffee. I’m going immediately with our things to Uncle’s. In the meantime give Petra rolls and coffee. She’s half dead with hunger.” Not a sound from Petra. “And with the money I’ll come at once and pay you everything, keeping only what I need for my fare to Grunewald. I’ve an old army friend there, Zecke is his name, von Zecke, who’ll certainly lend me some money.”
He risked a glance into the room. Petra had sat down quietly on the bed, sat there with bent head; he couldn’t see her face.
“Is that so?” the Thumann woman replied, half a question, half a threat. “The girl shan’t lack for breakfast, not today nor tomorrow—what about the wedding, though?” She stood, an overflowing form in shapeless garments, the chamber pot in her hand—the sight of her was enough to destroy anybody’s desire for weddings and respectability forever.
“Oh,” said Wolfgang lightly, and recovered himself. “If Petra’s breakfast comes along, the wedding will come along as well.” He glanced at the girl, who did not move.
“You’ll have to stand in line at the pawnshop and Grunewald’s a long way,” said the Thumann woman. “I’m always hearing about the wedding, but I’d prefer to see it.”
“It’s all right,” cried Petra and got up. “You can be sure about the money and about the wedding, too. Come, Wolf, I’ll help you pack the things. We’ll take the small suitcase; then the man will only have to glance at it to see everything is there as usual. He ought to know it well by now.” And she smiled at him.
Frau Thumann looked keenly from the one to the other, like a wise old bird. Immensely relieved, Wolfgang cried: “Peter, you’re splendid. Perhaps I can really get it through by half-past twelve. If I find Zecke at home, he’ll certainly lend me enough to take a taxi.…”
“Certainly,” replied the Thumann woman for Petra. “An’ then she gets out of bed and into the registry office with a man’s overcoat on and nothing beneath. We’re very clever, aren’t we?” she flashed out. “I’m tired of hearing about it, and what’s worse, there’s no end to the silly little geese who believe you fellers when you tell such yarns. And I know the girl. She’ll sit about the kitchen pretending to help me, but she won’t want to help me, not a scrap; only wants to keep an eye on the kitchen clock, and when half-past twelve comes she’ll say: ‘I feel he’s coming, Frau Thumann.’ But he won’t turn up; he’ll probably be with his high-born pal, and they’ll be having a quiet drink an’ smoke. If he’s got it in his head at all, it’ll be: ‘They marry people every day, anyhow.’ And what don’t happen today needn’t happen tomorrow by a long cha
lk!”
And thereupon the Thumann woman shot a devastating look at Wolfgang and a contemptuous, pitying one at Petra, made a flourish with the chamber pot which was period, exclamation and question mark combined, and closed the door. The two stood there, hardly daring to look at each other, for, however one might regard the landlady’s outburst, it was not pleasant.
Finally Petra said: “Never mind, Wolfgang. She and all the others can say what they like; it doesn’t affect the issue. And if I was in a tearful mood a moment ago, forget it. Sometimes one feels quite alone, and then one is afraid and would like to be reassured.”
“And now you don’t feel alone, Peter?” asked Wolfgang, oddly moved. “Now you don’t need reassurance?”
She looked at him, forlorn and confused. “Oh, you are with me.…”
“But,” he urged, “perhaps Madam Po is right. At half-past twelve I’ll be sitting and thinking: ‘One can be married any day.’ What do you think?”
“That I trust you,” she cried and lifted her head and looked at him confidently. “And even if I didn’t, what difference would that make? I can’t tie you down. Marriage or no marriage—if you want me everything is all right, and if you don’t …” She broke off, smiled at him. “Now you’ve got to hurry, Wolf. Uncle closes at twelve for lunch, and perhaps there’s really a line.” She handed him the suitcase, she gave him a kiss. “Good luck, Wolf.”
He would have liked to say something, but could not think what.
So he took the case and went.
Chapter Three
Hunters and Hunted
I
At Neulohe Manor the little bailiff Meier, nicknamed Black Meier, was so tired out by eleven or twelve in the morning that he could have fallen into bed as he was, in coat and leggings, and have slept till next day. He sat, however, and nodded drowsily in the long dry grass at the edge of a rye field, well hidden from view by a group of pine trees.
He had been up since three o’clock that morning, handing out the fodder in the steaming stables, supervising the feeding, watching the milking, looking to the cleaning of the cattle. At four o’clock he had got in the rapeseed, which must be carted in the morning dew, so that it does not droop. At a quarter to seven, standing, he had swallowed a cup of coffee and some food. And from seven onward the usual routine. Then a message had come from the rye field that both reaping and binding machines had broken down. He had hurried thither with the smith, had tinkered with the machines; now they were rattling again; still rattling—how tired he was! He was tired not only because of yesterday: now he was also tired from today. How he would like to drop asleep, bask in the sun! But before twelve he had to be in the sugar-beet field to see whether the overseer, Kowalewski, and his gang were doing the hoeing properly and not scamping the work.
Meier’s bicycle lay in the ditch a few yards away. But he was too lazy to get on it; he simply couldn’t. His limbs and especially his throat felt as if they were smothered by a thick layer of fatigue. When he lay quite still this fatigue rested more lightly on him, so to speak, but if he moved only a leg, it irked as if made of bristles.
He lit a cigarette, puffed at it contentedly and gazed at his dirty and worn-out shoes. He needed new ones, but the Rittmeister was an unapproachable man, and 500,000 marks was an unheard-of salary for a bailiff. If he waited for the dollar rate on the first of the month, perhaps he would not even be able to have the shoes soled. There were many things needed on Neulohe Estate—two more on the staff, for instance—but the Rittmeister was a great man and had discovered that he could do everything himself. The hell he could! Today he had gone to Berlin to fetch harvesters; in any case he couldn’t rout a poor bailiff out of his morning nap. One was curious what sort of people he’d bring back with him. That is, if he brought any at all! Oh, damn—!
Meier lay back, his cigarette slipped into the corner of his mouth, and he pushed his trilby hat over his eyes as protection against the burning sun.… The women in the beet field could pickle themselves with their Kowalewski, for all he cared; they were a cheeky lot. Kowalewski, though, had a smart daughter; one would not have thought it of him. She ought to come from Berlin here for a holiday again; he could manage her all right. How warm it was! As hot as an oven. If only there was no storm! Otherwise all the crops, would get soaked, and he would have to clear up the mess. They ought to have got them in before, of course, but the Rittmeister was a great man and a weather prophet besides. “It won’t rain, don’t bring in the crops, selah!”
Thank God, the reaping and binding machines were still clattering, and he could go on lying here. But he mustn’t fall asleep or he wouldn’t wake up before evening, and the Rittmeister would hear about it at once and tomorrow he’d be thrown out. That wouldn’t be too dreadful; at least one could sleep one’s fill for once.
Yes, indeed, that Kowalewski girl wasn’t bad; she was sure to be up to her tricks in Berlin. But Amanda, Amanda Backs was by no means a back number either. Little Meier turned on his side, at last having repressed the uncomfortable thought that the Rittmeister had not actually said that the crops should not be brought in, but rather that one should be guided by the weather.
No, Meier did not want to think of that now; he preferred to think of Amanda. He felt more alive, drew his knees up and grunted with pleasure. This caused the cigarette to drop out of his mouth but it didn’t matter; he didn’t need a cigarette, he had Amanda. Yes, they called him Little Meier, Black Meier—and when he looked at himself in the mirror he had to admit they were right. Big, round, yellowish owl’s eyes looked from behind thick lenses; he had a flat nose, blubber lips, ears that stuck out and a forehead hardly two inches high—as far as that goes, the man himself was hardly five feet.
But that was just it: he looked so odd, so grotesque, had such a comically ugly mug, that the girls were all keen on him. When he had been still quite new at Neulohe and Amanda and her girl-friend had passed him, the friend said: “Amanda, you’ll need a step to reach up to him.” But Amanda had replied: “That doesn’t matter, he has such a sweet kisser.” That had been her way of declaring love; the girls here were like that, impudent and of a divine casualness. Either they were keen on you or they weren’t, but in any case they didn’t make a fuss about it. They were grand.
Look at yesterday evening when Amanda had climbed through his window—as a matter of fact he wasn’t keen himself, he was too tired and the mistress had rushed out of the bushes! Not the Rittmeister’s lady—she would only have laughed, being herself not a bad sport—but the old lady, the mother-in-law, from the manor house. Any other girl would have shrieked or hidden herself or called on him for help; not so Amanda. He could remain out of it and be amused. “Yes, madam,” Amanda had said quite innocently. “I only want to check up the poultry accounts with the bailiff; he never has any time during the day.”
“And you climb through his window for that!” the old lady, who was very pious, had shrieked. “You shameless creature.”
“But the house is already locked up,” Amanda had replied.
And as the old lady still hadn’t got her bellyful and couldn’t see that she was no match for the young of today, even with the help of religion and morals, Amanda had simply added: “This is my free time, madam. And what I do in my free time is my own business. And if you can find a better poultry maid for such low wages—but you won’t find one—then I can leave, of course; but not till tomorrow.”
And she had insisted that he shouldn’t shut the window. “If she wants to stand there and listen, let her stand there, Hans dear. It’s all one to us, and perhaps she gets some pleasure out of it. After all, she didn’t get her daughter in solitary prayer.”
Little Meier sniggered and pressed his cheek against his arm as if he were feeling the soft but firm body of his Amanda. Such a sport! She was just the right sort for a poor devil and bachelor. No soft stuff about love, faithfulness and marriage, but good at her work and ready with her tongue; so downright and free-spoken that sometimes she mad
e you wince. But this was not surprising when you came to consider that she had grown up in the four years of war and the five years afterward.
“If I don’t snatch my food myself I don’t get any. And if I don’t smack you, you’ll smack me. Always stand up for yourself, young man, even against that old woman. She’s had her good times—why shouldn’t I have mine, just because they started a potty war and an inflation? It’s enough to make a cat laugh. After all, if I die, then as far as I’m concerned the world’s at an end. And she’ll have to squeeze out the tears which she’ll shed over my grave as a good girl; and as for the tin wreath which she’ll slap on my worm-chest, I shan’t be able to buy myself anything with it, and therefore we’d better be happy while we can. What do you say, Hans dear? Be sorry for the old woman and gentler with her? Well, who’s been kind to me? They were always boxing my ears, and if my nose bled, so much the better. And when I cried a bit I was told: ‘Shut up or you’ll get a few more where that came from.’ No, Hans, I wouldn’t say anything if there was any sense in it, but it’s just as silly and idiotic as my hens who lay eggs for our pleasure and then in the end are thrown into the stewpan. Not me, thank you! If you like it, do; but don’t ask me.”
The girl was right. Little Meier laughed once more and fell into a deep sleep and would have slept on till the evening dew—blow the work, blow the Rittmeister—if it hadn’t suddenly become extremely hot and even suffocating.
Starting up—no longer with a weary movement but leaping onto both feet—he saw that he had been lying in the midst of the excellent beginnings of a forest fire. Through the voluminous stinging smoke he saw a figure jumping about and stamping and beating out the flames; and he himself was jumping now, and stamping and beating them down with a fir branch, shouting: “It’s burning nicely.”