by Hans Fallada
Only, the foreman was just the kind of man utterly obnoxious to him, treading on those below, bending the knee to those above. He cringed before the Rittmeister, spewed out a flood of half-German, half-Polish words praising the strength and efficiency of his men, and then kicked a girl’s behind unexpectedly when she didn’t get through the door quickly enough with her bundle.
Incidentally, when the Rittmeister wanted to get a party ticket, it turned out that the foreman had brought with him not fifty but only thirty-seven hands; and in reply to the Rittmeister’s questions he again poured out a welter of confused phrases which became more and more Polish and less and less intelligible. (Eva was quite right, of course. He should have learned Polish, but he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so.) The foreman seemed to be affirming something; he tensed his upper-arm muscle and looked laughingly, coaxingly, with his small, mouse-quick eyes at the Rittmeister. In the end Prackwitz shrugged his shoulders and bought the ticket. Thirty-seven were better than none, and in any case they were trained agricultural workers.
Then came the noisy departure to the platform; the boarding of the waiting train; the abusive guard who wanted to push into the carriage a bundle which was blocking the door, although it was being pushed out again, together with the girl who carried it; the quarrel between two lads; the wild gesticulations and cries of the foreman who meanwhile was incessantly addressing the Rittmeister, asking, demanding, begging his thirty dollars.
At first the Rittmeister was of the opinion that twenty were sufficient, since a quarter of the people had not turned up. Hotly they bargained and finally, when the last man had found a place in the train, the Rittmeister, tired of the argument, counted out three ten-dollar notes into the foreman’s fist; who now brimmed over with gratitude, bowed, hopped from one foot to the other, and finally contrived to snatch the Rittmeister’s hand and kiss it fervently. “O Lord, holy benefactor.”
Somewhat disgusted, the Rittmeister looked for a place in a second-class smoking compartment right in front. Sitting down comfortably in the corner he lit a cigarette. All in all, he had done a good day’s work. Tomorrow the harvest could begin in real earnest.
Rumbling and puffing, the train got under way, steamed out of the sooty, neglected hall with its broken windows. The Rittmeister was waiting for the guard to pass, as he then intended to have a nap.
At last the man came, punched the ticket and gave it back. He did not go, however, but stood as if expecting something.
“Well?” asked the Rittmeister sleepily. “Rather hot outside, what?”
“Aren’t you the gentleman with the Polish reapers?” asked the guard.
“Certainly.” The Rittmeister sat up.
“I only wanted to report,” said the guard with a trace of malicious joy, “that they all alighted at Schlesische Bahnhof. Made themselves scarce.”
“What?” shouted the Rittmeister and leaped toward the compartment door.
VI
The train gathered more speed. It dipped into the tunnel; the lighted platform was left behind.
Pagel sat on the fire extinguisher box in the overcrowded smoking carriage and lit a Lucky Strike from the packet he had just bought with the proceeds of their goods and chattels. Splendid! He had last smoked on his way home from gambling the night before; therefore this cigarette tasted all the better. “Lucky Strike,” it was called. If his school English had not quite forsaken him it meant that this fortunate cigarette ought to be an omen for the rest of the day.
The fat man over there snorted angrily, rustled his newspaper, looked around restlessly—all that won’t help, Pagel thought; we know it already: the dollar is valued at 760,000 marks, an advance of over fifty per cent. The cigarette merchant, thank God, didn’t know it or else he couldn’t have afforded this cigarette. You too have backed the wrong horse, fatty; your snorting gives you away, you’re furious. But it won’t help you. This is an ingenious, entirely modern postwar invention; they rob you of one-half of the money in your pocket without touching the pocket or the money. Yes, brilliant brains, brilliant brains. The question now is whether my friend Zecke has backed the right or the wrong horse. If he’s backed the wrong one he may be rather hard of hearing, though this isn’t certain; but if devaluation has suited his purpose he won’t mind parting with a handful of 1,000,000-mark notes. Even 2,000,000-mark notes had been current for a day or two; Pagel had seen them in the gambling club. For a change they were printed on both sides and looked like genuine money, not like those scraps of white paper printed on one side only. People were already saying that these 2,000,000-mark notes would forever remain the highest denomination; and because of such a fairy tale the fat man snorted, having perhaps believed in fairy tales.
It was unlikely that Zecke had backed the wrong horse. As long as Pagel could remember Zecke had always backed the right one. He had never made a mistake in summing up a teacher; he had had a hunch as to what questions would be asked, what themes would be set, in the examination papers. In the war he had been the first to organize a magnificent system of leave in order to distribute Salvarsan in the Balkans and in Turkey. And when this business became precarious he was again the first who, before he gave it up entirely, filled the Salvarsan packages with rubbish. Then he had exported sixth-rate singing and dancing girls to the Bosphorus. A choice fellow, all in all; a fool in some respects, in others as sharp as a needle. After the war he had gone in for yarn—what he now dealt in, Heaven alone knew. It didn’t matter to him—he would have made a corner in bull elephants had there been any money in them.
Really, when one came to think of it, there was no reason why this so-called friend should give away his money—Pagel admitted it. He had never hitherto attempted to touch him. But another feeling dwelt also in Wolfgang Pagel’s breast—the feeling that Zecke was now “ripe,” that he would undoubtedly do what was expected of him. A gambler’s instinct, so to speak: a hunch, the devil knew why. He would certainly give the money. There were such moments. Suddenly you did something which you would not have done yesterday at any price. And out of that automatically followed something else—for instance, this evening you would win a tremendous sum—and again everything was suddenly changed. Life would run at right angles to its hitherto straight course. One could buy twenty tenement houses in the city (the hovels were to be had for next to nothing) or open a giant super bar (eighty girls behind the counter)—not a bad idea, indeed; or for a change you need do nothing at all, sit and twiddle your thumbs, take a real rest, eat and drink well and enjoy Peter. Or still better, buy a car and travel with Peter all over the world. Show her everything—churches, paintings, everything; the girl had potentialities—of course. Did anybody deny it? He didn’t, in any case; a splendid girl, never awkward! (Or hardly ever.)
Retired Second Lieutenant Wolfgang Pagel alighted at Podbielskiallee and sauntered down a street or two to the Zecke villa. In the heat. Lazily and leisurely. Now he stood in front of the house; that is to say, in front of the front garden, the laid-out grounds, the park. And not directly in front of it; there was, of course, a wrought-iron railing and some hewn stone (let us say limestone) in the form of pillars. And a very small brass plate was also there, inscribed with nothing else but “von Zecke,” with a brass bell-push. Well polished. One couldn’t see much of the house—it was hidden behind bushes and trees; one only got an impression of big shining windows and of a gracefully designed housefront, not too tall.
Pagel took a look at the whole bundle of tricks; there was plenty of time. Then he turned round and had a look at the villas on the other side. Pompous. So here dwelt the grand folks who could not under any circumstances live in a backyard off Alexanderplatz. Himself Wolfgang Pagel considered capable of both; at one time Dahlem, at another Alexanderplatz; he didn’t mind which. But perhaps he was living not in Dahlem but in Georgenkirchstrasse just because he didn’t mind.
He turned round again and eyed the name plate, bell-push, flowerbeds, lawn, house-front. It remained a puzzle
why Zecke should burden himself with such stuff, for after all it was a burden, owning a house, a huge villa, almost a palace, which eternally demanded something of you: either to pay the taxes or have it done up or see about electric current failing or the coke that had to be bought. Zecke, in any case, must have changed a good deal. Formerly he, too, would have thought it a burden. The last time he saw him Zecke had had two very elegant bachelor rooms in Kurfürstendamm (with girl-friend, telephone and bath)—and that was more in keeping with him. Not this.
Possibly he was married. Any incredible change in a friend was explained by the fact of his having married, of a woman being there. Well, one would probably see her, and she would guess immediately that this old friend of her husband’s wanted to touch them for some money. Whereupon she would treat him with a mixture of annoyance and contempt. But for all he cared she could do as she pleased; the man who in the evening prowled about as the unwanted gambler was proof against female moods.
He was just about to ring the bell—one had to do it sooner or later, however pleasant it might be to stand lazily in the sun and think of the nice sum of money which he was going to lift from Zecke presently—when he remembered in time that he still carried nearly a hundred thousand marks in his pocket. To be sure, there was the saying that money is attracted by money, but this proverb was not properly worded. It ought to run—a lot of money attracts a lot of money. And that hardly applied to the sum Pagel was carrying. In the circumstances it would be better if he stood before Zecke utterly penniless. One pleaded for a loan much more convincingly when one hadn’t even got the fare home. For his hundred thousand he could get, say, two small cognacs, and these would add weight to his application for a loan.
He sauntered down the street, went to the right, then the left, again right, and to and fro; but it proved difficult to convert his money into alcohol. In this very smart residential district there seemed to be neither shops nor taverns. Everything, of course, was brought to the door; such people kept wine and schnapps by the cellarful.
Pagel came across a newspaper seller, but he didn’t want to invest his money in newspapers. No, thanks, he didn’t want to have anything to do with them. When he read the headline: “Trade Barriers Lifted in the Occupied Territory,” it didn’t matter to him. Do what you liked about it, it was bosh anyway.
Next he came across a flower girl selling roses at a bus stop. The idea of appearing with a miserable bunch of roses before Herr von Zecke, who had a whole garden full of them, was so attractive that Pagel almost bought some. But he shrugged his shoulders and walked on. He was not quite sure whether Zecke would see the funny side of it.
The money must be got rid of, however. So much was certain. He would most have preferred to give it to a beggar—that always brought luck. But here in Dahlem there were no beggars; they found it better to sit in Alexanderplatz among the poor, who always managed to spare something.
For a time Wolfgang followed an elderly skinny lady whose worn short jacket, with its faded lilac facings and black bugles, gave him the impression of a poor woman ashamed to beg. Then he gave up the idea of pressing the money into her hand. It would be the worst possible omen if he did not rid himself of it at the first try, but had it thrust back on him.
Finally the dog turned up. Pagel was sitting, enjoying himself in a quiet way, on a bench, and he whistled to a stray brown-and-white fox terrier. The dog was brimming over with whimsical energies; he barked at the cajoler defiantly; challengingly; then, suddenly becoming amiable, he put his head scrutinizingly on one side and wagged his stump of tail. Wolf had almost got him when, in a flash, he was yelping joyfully on the other side of the ornamental gardens, while a maidservant swinging a leash hurried after him, calling in a despairing voice: “Schnapps, Schnapps.”
Confronted by the choice between the peacefully smoking man and the excited girl, the terrier decided in favor of the man. Beseechingly he pressed his nose against Pagel’s leg, and in his eyes could be read an invitation to a new game. Wolf shoved the notes under his collar just as the girl approached, hot and indignant. “Let our dog go,” she gasped.
“Ah, Fräulein,” said Wolfgang, “we men are all for Schnapps. And,” he added, for in the fresh summer dress there was a pleasing girl, “and for love.”
“Oh, you!” said the girl, and her annoyed face changed so suddenly that Wolfgang had to smile. “You’ve no idea,” she went on, trying to put the dancing, barking terrier on the lead, “what a lot of trouble I have with the dog. And gentlemen are always speaking to me—but what’s this?” she asked, surprised, for she had felt the paper under the collar.
“A letter,” said Pagel, departing. “A letter for you. You must have noticed that I’ve been following you every morning for a week. But read it later, when you’re alone. It explains everything. So long.”
And he went hastily round the corner, for her face was shining too brightly for him to wish to see her discover the truth. And round another corner. Now he could probably slow down, safe. He was sweating again; as a matter of fact, however slowly he walked, he had been sweating ever since alighting at Podbielskiallee. And suddenly it struck him that it was not the warmth of the sun which made him so hot; at any rate, not the sun only. No, it was something different, something quite different. He was agitated, he was afraid.
With a start he stopped and looked round. Silently in the midday light the villas stood within the shelter of the pines. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner was humming. Everything he had done up to now to delay pressing the bell had been inspired by fear. And the fear had started much earlier than that; otherwise he would not have bought his Lucky Strike cigarettes instead of breakfast for both. Had it not been for fear he would not have let the pawnbroker have their things. “Yes,” said he, and went slowly on, “the end is at hand.” He saw their situation as it really was—in debt, with nothing for the following day, Petra almost naked in a stinking den, he himself in the wealthy quarter in his shabby field-gray tunic, and not even the fare home in his pocket.
I must persuade him to give us money, he thought. Even if it’s only a very little.
But it was lunacy, utter madness, to expect a loan from Zecke. Nothing that he knew of Zecke entitled him to expect him to lend money—with very little prospect of getting it back. Suppose he said no? (And he would, of course, say no, Wolfgang needn’t worry himself about that.)
The long, rather wide avenue, at the end of which Zecke’s villa was situated, opened before him. He went along slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, as if he were running down a steep hill toward his fate.
He must say yes, Pagel thought. Even if he gives ever so little. Then I’ll finish with gambling. I can still become a taxi driver—Gottschalk has definitely promised me his second car. Then Petra will have an easier time, too.
Now he was quite close to the villa; he saw again the limestone and railings, brass plate and bell-push. Hesitatingly he crossed the street. But he would say no, of course … Oh, damn, damn!—for at the end of the street he saw a girl approaching; the fox terrier straining and yelping at the leash revealed who she was. And between the argument there and the request here, hunter and hunted, he pushed the button and sighed with relief when the electric door-catch softly burred. Without a glance at the approaching girl he carefully pulled the door to behind him and breathed again as a turn of the path brought him under the cover of bushes.
After all, Zecke could only say no, but this wench could make an infernal row—Wolfgang hated scenes with women. You never knew where they would end.
VII
“So here you are, Pagel,” said Herr von Zecke. “I’ve rather been expecting. you.” And as Wolfgang made a gesture, he added: “Not exactly today—but you were due, weren’t you?”
And Zecke gave a superior smile, to Pagel’s annoyance. Zecke, it occurred to him, had always loved an affectation of mystery; he had always had this supercilious smile, so irritating to Wolfgang. Zecke smiled in that way whenever he considered himself
particularly smart.
“Well, I only mention it,” grinned Zecke. “After all, you’re sitting here—you won’t deny that. Well, never mind. I know what I know. Shall we have a schnapps and a cigarette and a look at my pictures?” Pagel had glimpsed the pictures on entering.
They were sitting in a big, very well-furnished sun-porch. A couple of doors opened on to the terrace, steeped in the glowing sun. Through them could be seen a lawn bright with summer; but it was, nevertheless, pleasantly cool inside. Light, radiant and dark at the same time, and, above everything else, cool, filtered through green venetian blinds.
They sat in pleasant chairs, not in those smooth, cold leather things which one now saw everywhere, but in deep, roomy easy-chairs upholstered in some flowery English material—most likely chintz. Books a third of the wall high, and above them pictures, good modern paintings, as Pagel had seen at once. But he did not react to Zecke’s question. He realized that the atmosphere was not unfavorable, that his visit somehow suited Herr von Zecke. Zecke, of course, wanted something, and so he could quietly wait and be a little difficult. (He would get his money!) He pointed at the books. “Nice collection. Do you read much?”
But von Zecke was not so silly as all that. He laughed heartily. “I read? You’re still the same old joker, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like me to say yes, so that you could bore me stiff with what’s written in Nietzsche, there!” His face changed, became pensive. “I believe they’re quite a good investment. Full-leather binding. You have to see how to invest your money in stable values. I understand nothing of books—Salvarsan’s simpler—but I’ve got a little student who advises me …” He deliberated a moment, probably considering whether the little student was worth the money he paid him. Then he asked: “Well, and the paintings?” But Pagel was not biting. He indicated some carvings, figures of apostles, a Virgin and Child, a crucifix, two Pietàs. “You’re collecting medieval wood-carvings also?”