by Hans Fallada
Zecke pulled a doleful face. “Not collect, no. Invest money in. But I don’t know what’s happened, it’s beginning to amuse me. Have a look at this one, the fellow with the key, Peter, of course. I got him from Würzburg. I don’t understand anything about it, it doesn’t look much, not at all impressive and so on—but I like it. And this Angel light-bearer—the arm’s probably restored. Do you think I’ve been done?”
Wolfgang Pagel cast a searching glance at von Zecke. He was a little man; in spite of his twenty-four or twenty-five years he was already rotund and, his hair having retreated at the temples, his forehead was high. In addition he was dark—and all this annoyed Wolfgang, together with the fact that von Zecke liked carvings and that his pictures seemed to cause him real concern. Zecke was a profiteer, nothing more, and he had to stay one. For a man like that to take an interest in art was ridiculous and disgusting. Wolf was most indignant, however, at having to ask this transformed Zecke for money—Zecke was capable of giving it out of sheer decency. No, the man was a profiteer and must remain so, and if he lent money he ought to take exorbitant interest; otherwise Wolfgang wanted to have nothing to do with him. He didn’t want to receive money as a gift from a man like Zecke. Looking disapprovingly at the torch-bearing angel, he said: “So now it’s the turn of angels—you no longer deal in variety tarts?”
At once he saw from Zecke’s reaction that he had gone too far, that he had made a fatal mistake: They were no longer at school, where one had to put up with such familiarities, where they were considered to be a form of sport. Zecke’s nose turned pale, while his face remained extremely red, a sign known to Pagel from those earlier days.
But if von Zecke had not yet learned to read books he had learned to control himself (and in this respect he was far ahead of Pagel). He behaved as if he had heard nothing, put the angel slowly down, gently stroked the probably restored arm, and said: “Yes, yes, the pictures. You must still have some very fine ones at home, of your father’s.”
Aha, so that’s what you’re after, thought Pagel, completely satisfied. “Yes, some very fine specimens are still there,” he replied.
“I know,” said Zecke, pouring out another schnapps, first in Pagel’s glass, then in his own, and seating himself comfortably. “So, if you’re in need of money—I buy paintings as you can see …”
That was a facer, a belated reply to his impertinence, but Pagel did not show it. “I don’t think we’re selling any.”
“You’re not quite informed there.” Zecke smiled charmingly. “Only last month your mother sold ‘Autumn Trees’ to the art gallery in Glasgow. Well, your health!” He drank, leaned back satisfied and said innocently: “Well, what’s the old woman to live on nowadays? What she had in stocks and shares is worth less than nothing today.”
Zecke didn’t grin, but Pagel felt very strongly that the designation of “good friend” which only that morning he had applied to him was an overstatement. He had already been stung by two darts, and he wouldn’t have long to wait for the third. True, von Zecke had always been a snake, a bad enemy, so it would be better to advance to the attack himself—then the matter would be settled and finished with. Trying to speak as easily as possible, he said: “I’m a bit hard up, Zecke. Could you help me out with a little money?”
“What do you call a little money?” asked Zecke.
“Well, not much, a trifle to you. What do you say to a hundred millions?”
“A hundred millions,” murmured Zecke dreamily. “I didn’t make as much as that on all the variety tarts.”
The third blow, and this time it really seemed a knockout. But Wolfgang Pagel did not so easily take the count. He started to laugh, heartily and unconcerned. “You’re right, Zecke. Splendid! I talk big and then it turns out I only want to touch you for money. But, you know, something put my back up immediately I came in. I don’t know whether you understand what I mean … I live in a kind of hole in Alexanderplatz, you know!” Zecke nodded as if he knew. “With nothing at all … and then to come here amidst all this splendor! Not at all like the parvenus and profiteers, but really well done, and I don’t believe the arm’s restored either.”
He stopped to look scrutinizingly at Zecke. He couldn’t say more, he simply couldn’t bring himself to say another word. But when Zecke didn’t make a move, he added: “All right, don’t give me any money, Zecke. I don’t deserve any; I’ve behaved like an idiot.”
“I don’t necessarily say no,” explained Zecke. “I only just want to hear what you have in mind. Money is money, and you don’t want it as a present, do you?”
“No, as soon as I can you’ll get it back.”
“And when will that be?”
“Under favorable circumstances, if all goes well, tomorrow.”
“Really,” said Zecke, not particularly enthusiastic. “Really. Well, let’s have another schnapps. And what do you need the money for?”
“Oh,” said Pagel, getting confused and annoyed, “I’ve got a few debts with my landlady, trifles really—you know, a hundred millions sounds a tremendous lot, but one way and another it’s not much more than a hundred dollars, not so alarming.”
“So, debts with the landlady,” said Zecke quite unmoved, his dark eyes looking attentively at his friend. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” replied Pagel vexed. “I’ve also got a few things in pawn.” In the same moment it occurred to him that this was really not quite true, but in speaking he hadn’t considered the distinction between what’s sold and what’s pawned, and so he left it at that. It really didn’t matter one way or the other …
“So, a few things in pawn,” said von Zecke, still scrutinizing him. “You know, Pagel, I must ask you something else—you must excuse me. Money’s money after all, and even a very little, a hundred dollars, for instance, is to some people quite a lot—for instance, to you.”
Pagel had made up his mind to take no notice of these pin-pricks, for, after all, the main thing was to get the money. “On with your questions!” he said peevishly.
“What are you doing? I mean, what are you living on? Have you got a job which earns you something? Are you a traveler on a commission basis? Employee with a salary?”
“At the moment I’ve got nothing,” said Pagel. “But at any moment I can get a job as a taxi driver.”
“Indeed.” Zecke seemed quite satisfied. “If you want another drink please take one. I’ve had enough for one morning. A taxi driver, then …” And this shady profiteer, this vampire, this criminal (sand instead of Salvarsan!) started to prod him again. “Taxi driver—a good job and handsome earnings, no doubt.” (How the venomous monkey sneered!) “But surely not so much that you can return my money tomorrow? You said, tomorrow if all goes well, you remember? But taxi driving doesn’t pay so well, does it?”
“My dear Zecke,” said Wolfgang getting up, “you want to torment me, isn’t that it? But the money’s not so important as all that.” He was almost shaking with fury.
“But, Pagel!” cried Zecke, startled. “I torment you? Why should I? Look here, you purposely haven’t asked me for a gift—otherwise you would have got a couple of notes long ago. You want a loan and you made statements about repayment—so I ask you how you figure it out, and you start a row. I don’t understand.”
“I spoke without thinking,” said Pagel. “In reality I could only pay the money back in weekly installments, perhaps about two millions a week.…”
“That’s of no consequence, old boy,” cried von Zecke cheerfully. “That’s of no consequence with old friends like ourselves. The chief thing is that you don’t lose the money gambling. That’s the position, isn’t it?”
The two looked at each other.
“It isn’t the slightest use shouting,” said Zecke, at once hurriedly and softly. “I’m so often shouted at that it has no effect. If you want to assault me you’d better do it very quickly—you see, I’ve already rung the bell. Yes, Reimers, the gentleman would like to go. Show him out, will you? So lon
g, Pagel, old friend, and if you want to sell a painting of your father’s I’m always at home to you, always.… What’s the matter, have you gone crazy?” For Pagel had started to laugh with unrestrained amusement.
“Good God, what a swine you are, Zecke,” he said laughing. “It must have hurt you damned hard about the tarts if you have to discharge your venom in this way. Your chief used to trade in music-hall tarts,” he told the man behind him, a cross between master and servant. “He doesn’t wish to acknowledge it anymore, but it still hurts if it’s mentioned. But, Zecke,” went on Pagel, with the dead earnestness of the expert, “I’m inclined to the view that this torch-angel’s arm is stuck on, and badly, too. I should like to do—this …”
And before Zecke or his man could prevent him, the figure had lost its arm. Von Zecke screamed as if he himself felt the pain of amputation, and the servant made to attack Pagel, who, despite inadequate nourishment, was still a powerful young man. With one hand he warded off the manservant, in the other he held the angel’s amputated arm with its lamp socket. “This gross forgery I would like to keep in remembrance of you, my old friend Zecke,” said Wolfgang pleasantly. “You know—The Light That Failed—and so on. So long, and do enjoy your lunch, both of you.”
Pleased and satisfied, Pagel made his exit. If von Zecke really wished to enjoy the the thought that he had not given him any money, he would also have to remember the angel’s arm now in Pagel’s pocket. And the pain would outweigh the pleasure.
VIII
Unmolested he arrived at the gate of Zecke’s villa, and as he pulled it open, saw a girl standing outside, a girl with a terrier straining at its leash, a girl with a very red face.
“Good heavens, Fräulein, you’re not still standing here!” he cried in dismay. “I had completely forgotten all about you.”
“Listen,” said she, and her anger had lost none of its heat through her long wait in the sun. “Listen,” and she held out the notes, “if you think I’m that sort of a girl, then you’re wrong. Take your money.”
“And so little!” said Pagel quite unconcerned. “It wouldn’t buy even a pair of silk stockings.… No,” he added quickly, “I don’t want to pull your leg any longer. In fact, I want your advice.”
She stood there gaping at him, the notes in one hand, the leash with the fox terrier in the other—utterly confounded by the change in his manner. “Listen,” she said once more, but the threat in her voice had lost its vigor.
“Let’s go,” suggested Pagel. “Come along. Don’t be silly, come a part of the way with me, Lina, Trina, Stina. I can’t do anything to you in the street and I’m not crazy either.”
“I’ve no time. I ought to have been home by now. My mistress …”
“Tell your mistress Schnapps ran away, and listen. I’ve just been with that fine fellow in the villa there, a school friend of mine, trying to borrow some money.…”
“And then you put your money in my dog’s …”
“Don’t be a goose, Mitzi.”
“Liesbeth.”
“Listen, Liesbeth. Naturally, I didn’t get anything with you standing outside with my money. A fellow can’t get any money as long as he has any left, and that’s the reason I stuck what I had in the dog’s collar. Do you get me?”
It took her quite a while, however. “So you haven’t been running after me for a week, then, and you haven’t put in a letter either. I thought the dog had lost it.…”
“No, no, Liesbeth.” Pagel grinned impudently, but was nevertheless feeling abject. “No letter—and I didn’t want to buy your chastity with the money, either. But the question I want you to answer is this: what am I to do now? I haven’t got a penny. I have a dirty hole in Alexanderplatz for which the rent isn’t paid, and my girl’s sitting there as a kind of pledge, dressed in nothing but my summer overcoat. And I sold all our things to get here.”
“Serious?” asked the girl. “No more kidding?”
“No more kidding. Dead serious.”
She looked at him. She gave the impression of being unbelievably fresh and clean, in spite of the heat—she smelled, so as to speak, of Sunlight Soap. Perhaps she wasn’t as young as he had at first thought, and in addition she had a rather determined chin.
She realized now that it was indeed serious, looked at him, then at the money in her hand.
Will she give it back to me? he wondered. Then I’ll have to go to Peter and do something. But what I’d better do I really don’t know. I’m not keen on anything. She shall tell me.
The girl had smoothed out the money and put it in her pocket.
“There,” she said, “you must come with me first. I’m going home now—and you look quite done—in to me and as if you could do with a bit of lunch in our kitchen. The cook won’t mind, nor the mistress. But to think that your friend’s sitting in your room in your summer overcoat and perhaps nothing in her stomach, either, with a rude landlady into the bargain! And a chap like you puts money in dog collars and wants to pick up another girl right away—you men are rotters, upon my word you are.”
She was talking faster and faster, dragging at the dog, walking more and more hurriedly, not doubting for a moment that the young man was coming with her.
And follow her he did, he, Wolfgang Pagel, son of a not-unknown painter, former second lieutenant, and gambler at the end of his tether.
IX
The letter had come by the second post at eleven o’clock, but Frau Pagel was still out attending to various details, so Minna had put the letter on the console table under the mirror in the hall. There it lay, a gray envelope of embossed, rather imposing handmade paper; the address written in a bold, stiff handwriting, and every free space on the front and back covered with 1,000-mark postage stamps of various denominations, although it was merely a local letter.
When Frau Pagel returned from town, somewhat late and hot, she cast only a fleeting glance at the letter. Ah, from cousin Betty, she thought. But I must first see about the lunch. I’ll know soon enough what the old gossip wants.
Not till she was sitting at table did the letter come to her mind and she sent Minna for it—Minna who, as always, was standing behind her in the doorway, while as usual the cover was laid for Wolfgang at the other end of the table. “From Frau von Anklam,” she said to Minna over her shoulder and tore open the envelope.
“Goodness, it can’t be so urgent, madam, that you should let your food get cold.”
But from the silence, the rigid attitude, the flabbergasted way in which Frau Pagel stared at the letter, she guessed that it was important after all. Silently, without moving, Minna waited quite a long time; then she coughed, and at last said meaningly: “The food is getting cold, madam.”
“What?” Frau Pagel almost shouted, turning round and staring at Minna as if she were a total stranger. “Oh, yes.” She recovered herself. “It’s only … Minna, Frau von Anklam writes me.… It’s only—our young master is getting married today.” And then it was all up. The head with its white hair lay on the table; that back which will power had kept erect was now bent—and the old woman wept.
“Good God!” said Minna. “Good God!
She came nearer. Certainly she did not consider this marriage to be so very bad, but she understood the pain, grief and desolation of her mistress. Cautiously she put her work-worn hand on Frau Pagel’s shoulder and said: “It needn’t be true, madam. Not everything that Frau von Anklam says is true by a long way.”
“This time it is,” whispered Frau Pagel. “Somebody read the banns after they had been put up and told her about it. Today at half-past twelve.”
She raised her head and looked as if for help at the walls, recollected herself, and glanced at the watch on her wrist. “It’s half-past one,” she cried. “And the letter has been waiting a long while. I could have known of it in time!”
True suffering finds food in everything, even in the unreasonable. That she had not known in time, that at half-past twelve she had not been thinking, Now they ar
e being married … this increased Frau Pagel’s grief. With streaming eyes and quivering lips she sat there, looked at her Minna and said: “Now we needn’t lay a place anymore; Wolf is gone forever, Minna. Oh, that terrible woman. And now she is Frau Pagel, just as I am.”
She recalled the path she had traveled under this name, a stormy, hurried, flowery path at first. Then the endlessly long years at the side of her paralyzed husband who, growing more and more of a stranger, had painted contentedly while she pursued the health which he no longer seemed to crave. Finally she remembered the awakening, the resurrection of the man with the graying temples, who had entangled himself in the most absurd coxcombry and had been carried home shamefully killed.…
Every step on this long road had been painful; no year had passed without trouble; sorrow had been her bedfellow and grief her shadow. But out of that she had become a Pagel; out of the sweet illusions of youth there had arisen the determined woman who now and forever was Frau Pagel. In heaven she would still be a Pagel; it was impossible that God would ever make her anyone else. But all for which she had fought so hard, this metamorphosis, this agonizing fulfillment of her destiny, had fallen into the lap of that young thing as though it were nothing. As casually as they had met, so were they united. “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. My people shall be thy people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.” Yes, so it was written; but they knew nothing of that. To be Frau Pagel was not merely a name, it was a destiny. They, however, had stuck up a notice, had the words “half-past twelve” inserted, and that was all there was to it.
Minna said, to console her (but she was right all the same) : “It will only be at a registry office, madam, not a church.”
Frau Pagel sat up. “Isn’t that so, Minna; you think so too? Wolfgang hasn’t properly considered the matter, he does it only because the girl’s forced him. He too doesn’t consider a registry office sufficient; he wouldn’t cause me that pain.”