Little Man, What Now?

by Hans Fallada

  Lauterbach had only joined the Nazis out of boredom. It had turned out that Ducherow offered as little distraction as the country. He wasn’t interested in girls, and since the cinema did not start until eight and church was over by eleven there was a long gap between the two.

  The Nazis were not boring. He quickly joined the action, revealing himself as a young man with an unusually intelligent grasp of fighting, who used his hands (and whatever was in them) with an effectiveness that amounted almost to artistry. Lauterbach’s lust for life was finally satisfied: almost every Sunday, and on occasional weekday evenings too, he was able to have a fight.

  Lauterbach’s home was the office. There he had colleagues, the boss, the boss’s wife, workers, farmers: he could tell them all what had happened and what was going to happen. His talk spouted a continuous slow slush on the just and the unjust, enlivened by booms of laughter when he described how he had dealt with the friends of the USSR.

  There wasn’t anything of that nature to report today; however a new General Order had arrived for every SA squad leader—known to his troops as the ‘Gruf’—the contents of which were now handed on to Pinneberg, who appeared punctually at eight. SA members now had new insignia! ‘I think it’s a stroke of genius! Up till now we’ve only had our troop numbers. You know, Pinneberg, arabic numerals embroidered on the right collar-tab. Now we’ve got two-colour braid on the collar. It’s a stroke of genius. Now you can always tell even from behind what troop any SA man belongs to. Think of what it means in practice. Say we’re in a fight, and somebody’s working a man over, and I look at the collar …’

  ‘Amazing,’ agreed Pinneberg, sorting out delivery notes from Saturday. ‘Was Munich 387 536 a load from several places?’

  ‘The wagon of wheat? Yes. And just think, our Gruf now has a star on his left collar-tab.’

  ‘What’s a Gruf?’ asked Pinneberg.

  Schulz came, the third hungry mouth, at ten past eight. Schulz came and at a stroke all Nazi insignia and delivery notes for wheat were forgotten. The demon Schulz had arrived, the inspired but unreliable Schulz, Schulz who could reckon up 285.63 hundredweight at 3.85 marks in his head quicker than Pinneberg could do it on paper, but who was a womanizer, an unscrupulous lecher, a philanderer, the only man talented enough to snatch a kiss in passing from Mariechen Kleinholz and not be married off to her on the spot.

  Schulz came, he of the black pomaded curls, the sallow lined face and the big black sparkling eyes; Schulz the dandy of Ducherow, with his ironed-in creases and his black hat (fifty centimetres in diameter); Schulz with his beringed and nicotine-stained fingers; Schulz, king of hearts to all the servant girls, idol of the shop assistants, who waited for him after work in the evening and quarrelled over him at dances.

  Schulz came.

  Schulz said ‘Mornin’, carefully hung up his coat on a hanger, looked at his colleagues, first inquiringly, then pityingly, then contemptuously, and said, ‘You haven’t heard the news, of course?’

  ‘You got off with some girl yesterday, as usual, so who was it?’ asked Lauterbach.

  ‘You don’t know anything about anything. You sit here totting up delivery notes, doing the current account book while …’

  ‘While what?’

  ‘Emil … Emil and Emilie … yesterday evening at the Tivoli …’

  ‘Did he take her with him? Wonders never cease!’

  Schulz sat down.

  ‘It’s high time we got the clover samples out. Who’ll do that, you or Lauterbach?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I don’t do the clover. That’s our dear agricultural expert’s business. The boss was shaking a leg with Frieda, that little dark-haired girl from the frame factory, I was two steps away, and the old lady pounced on him. Emilie in her dressing-gown, and probably nothing but her nightie on underneath …’

  ‘In the Tivoli?’

  ‘You must be kidding, Schulz!’

  ‘As true as I’m sitting here. The Harmony Club were holding a family dance at the Tivoli. With a military band from Platz, very smart. The German army in their best. And suddenly our Emilie jumps on her Emil, biffs him one: ‘You old boozer, you filthy pig …’

  What price delivery notes, what price the day’s work now? There’s a sensation in the Kleinholz office.

  Lauterbach begged: ‘Tell us again, Schulz. Mrs Kleinholz comes into the ballroom … I can’t imagine it … which door did she come in by then? When did you first see her?’

  Schulz was flattered. ‘What is there to add? You know it already. So she comes in, straight through the door from the lobby, bright red, you know the way she goes: bluish-purply-red … So she comes in …’

  Emil Kleinholz entered. Into the office. The three started, sat on their chairs, rustled papers. Kleinholz stared at them, stood in front of them, gazing down at their bent heads.

  ‘Nothing to do?’ he rasped. ‘Nothing to do? I’ll lay one of you off. Now then, which one?’

  The three did not look up.

  ‘Rationalize. Have two working hard instead of three lazing around. What about you, Pinneberg? You’re the youngest.’

  Pinneberg did not reply.

  ‘Of course you’ve all lost your tongues … It was a different story a few minutes ago. So what did my old lady look like, you old goat? Bluish-purply-red? Shall I throw you out? Shall I chuck you out on the spot?’

  ‘The bastard was listening,’ thought the three, turning inwardly pale with fright. ‘Oh God, Oh God, what did I say?’

  ‘We weren’t talking about you at all, Mr Kleinholz,’ said Schulz in a low tone, almost to himself.

  ‘Well, and what about you?’ Kleinholz turned to Lauterbach. But Lauterbach was not frightened like his two colleagues. Lauterbach was one of those rare employees who couldn’t care less whether they had a job or not. ‘Afraid? What have I got to be afraid of?’ was doubtless what he said to himself. ‘With these fists? I can do any job. I can be a groom or carry sacks. Book-keeper? I’m not dazzled by a title like that.’

  So Lauterbach looked fearlessly into his boss’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz?’

  Kleinholz dealt the counter-rail a reverberating blow. ‘I’m laying off one of you band of brothers. You’ll see … And the others needn’t feel safe either—plenty more where you came from. You go to the foodstore, Lauterbach, and you and Kruse can put a hundred hundredweights of peanut-cake meal into sacks. Rufisque brand. No, wait, Schulz can go, he looks like death again today, it will do him good to lift some sacks.’

  Schulz disappeared without a word, glad to have escaped.

  ‘You go to the station, Pinneberg, and look sharp. Order four twenty-ton closed trucks for six tomorrow morning. We’ve got to get the wheat off to the mill. On your way.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz,’ said Pinneberg, and was on his way, sharp. He was not in a very cheerful frame of mind, though he realized Emil’s talk was mainly the effect of his hangover. All the same …

  As he was going back to Kleinholz’s from the goods-yard, he saw a figure on the opposite pavement: a particular figure, a girl, a woman, his wife.

  So he slowly crossed the street onto her side of the road. Lammchen was walking in his direction, a string shopping-bag in her hand. She had not noticed him. She went up to the shop window of Brechts the Butchers, and stopped to look at the display. He went right close up to her, casting a wary eye up and down the street. There was no sign of danger.

  ‘So what’s the grub for tonight, young lady?’ he whispered over her shoulder and moved smartly on. Ten paces down the street he looked back just once and saw that her face had lit up with joy. Oh dear, supposing Mrs Brecht had seen that; she knew him because he always bought his sausage off her. He’d been careless again, but how could he help it with a wife like that. Well, she didn’t seem to have bought any pots yet; they were going to have to be so careful with money …

  Back at the office, he found the boss sitting alone. No Lauterbach. No Schulz. Bad, thought Pinneber
g, very bad. But the boss paid no attention to him. With one hand he was supporting his forehead and with the other he was slowly struggling up and down the columns of figures in the accounts book, as though he was spelling them out to himself.

  Pinneberg took stock. ‘The typewriter’s the best bet,’ he thought. ‘When you’re typing people are less likely to disturb you.’

  He was wrong. He had barely written ‘Gentlemen, we are taking the liberty of sending you herewith a sample of this year’s harvest of red clover, guaranteed fibre-free, fertility: ninety-five per-cent, purity: ninety-nine per cent …’… when a hand descended on his shoulder and the boss said: ‘You, Pinneberg, one moment …’

  ‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz?’ asked Pinneberg, dropping his fingers from the keys.

  ‘You’re writing about the red clover. You can leave that to Lauterbach …’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Is that all set with the railway trucks?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all set, Mr Kleinholz.’

  ‘Then it’ll have to be all hands to the wheel this afternoon to get the wheat in the sacks. My two females will have to help. Tie the sacks.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz.’

  ‘Marie is handy at that kind of thing. She’s handy at most things … She’s no beauty but she’s handy.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Kleinholz.’

  They sat there, facing one another. Something like a pause had ensued in the conversation. Mr Kleinholz’s last words had been productive in intent; like the developer in photography they were intended to reveal what was on the plate.

  The boss sat humped before him, in green loden and top boots. Anxious and oppressed, Pinneberg sat and stared at him.

  ‘Yes, Pinneberg,’ the boss began again, in quite a sentimental tone. ‘Have you considered it? What do you think?’

  Pinneberg cast fearfully about for a way out but could see none.

  ‘What about, Mr Kleinholz?’ he asked feebly.

  ‘About cutting the staff,’ said the dispenser of his daily bread, after a long pause. ‘Who would you lay off if you were me?’

  Pinneberg went hot under the collar. What a bastard. What a swine. Hassling me.

  ‘I can’t say, Mr Kleinholz,’ he declared uneasily. ‘I can’t speak against my colleagues.’

  Mr Kleinholz was enjoying himself.

  ‘You wouldn’t fire yourself, if you were me?’ he asked.

  ‘If I were you …? Me? … How can I? …’

  ‘Well,’ said Emil Kleinholz and stood up. ‘I’m sure you’ll think it over. I’d have to give you a month’s notice, wouldn’t I? That would be from September 1st to October 1st, wouldn’t it?’

  Kleinholz left the office to tell Mother how he’d put the squeeze on Pinneberg. Possibly Mother would let him have a drink. He felt just like one.

  PEA SOUP IS PREPARED AND A LETTER IS WRITTEN, BUT THE WATER IS TOO THIN

  First thing in the morning, stopping only to hang the bedding out of the window to air, Lammchen went shopping. Why hadn’t he told her what they should have for dinner? She didn’t know! And she had no idea what he liked.

  The possibilities proved less numerous on reflection and Lammchen’s forward-planning spirit finally homed in on pea soup. It was easy and cheap and could be eaten twice running.

  ‘Lord, it must be so easy for girls who’ve had proper cooking lessons. My mother always chased me away from the stove. “Get your clumsy fingers out of here.” ’

  What did she need? There was water. And a pot. How much peas? Half a pound’s bound to be enough for two: peas swell so. Salt? Soup vegetables? A bit of fat? Well, perhaps we need that in any case. How much meat? And what sort of meat? Beef of course. Half a pound must be enough. Peas are very nourishing, and it’s unhealthy to eat too much meat. Then potatoes of course.

  Lammchen went shopping. It was great to stroll along the street on a weekday morning when everybody was in their offices. The air was still fresh, though the sun was hot already.

  A large yellow post-van hooted slowly across the market place. Her young man could be behind those windows over there. But he was elsewhere, and ten minutes later he was inquiring over her shoulder what their grub for dinner was. The butcher’s wife must have noticed something, she’s a funny type, and she asked thirty pfennigs a pound for soup bones. Surely that sort of thing was thrown in, just bare white bones without a scrap of meat. She would write and ask mother. No, better not, better manage on her own. But she ought to write to his mother. And she began composing the letter on the way home.

  Mrs Scharrenhofer was evidently a nightbird. In the kitchen, when Lammchen went for the water, she saw no sign that anything had been cooked or was going to be cooked; it was all cold and shiny, and no sound came through from the room behind. She put her peas on, wondering whether to add the salt now. No, better to wait to the end when it would be easier to know how much.

  Now for the cleaning. It was hard, much harder than she had ever imagined; oh, those horrible paper roses, those garlands, bleached and poisonous green, and faded upholstered furniture, corners, knobs, balustrades! She had to be ready by half past eleven, to write the letter. Sonny had between twelve and two off for lunch, but he was unlikely to be back before quarter to one as he had to go and register at the town hall.

  At quarter to twelve she sat down at a little walnut table with the yellow letter-writing paper dating from her girlhood in front of her.

  First the address: ‘Mrs Marie Pinneberg—Berlin NW 40—Spenerstrasse 92 II.’

  A person surely had to write to his mother, tell her when he got married, especially if he was the only son, the only child indeed. Even if you didn’t get along with her, even if you disapproved of her way of life, as a son you ought to write.

  ‘Mother ought to be ashamed of herself,’ Pinneberg declared.

  ‘But Sonny, she’s been a widow twenty years.’

  ‘That makes no difference. And it hasn’t always been the same man.’

  ‘Hannes, you had other girls besides me.’

  ‘That’s completely different.’

  ‘Well in that case, what might the Shrimp say if he compared his birth-date with the date when we got married?’

  ‘We don’t know when his birth-date will be.’

  ‘We do. The beginning of March.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Never you mind, Sonny. I know. And I am going to write to your mother. It’s only right.’

  ‘Do what you like, but I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  “ ‘Dear Madam,”—That sounds silly, doesn’t it? People don’t write like that. “Dear Mrs Pinneberg”—but that’s my name, and it doesn’t sound right either. Hannes is bound to read the letter.’

  ‘Oh, who cares,’ thought Lammchen. ‘Either she’s like what Hannes says, in which case it doesn’t matter what I write, or she’s a nice woman, in which case I’d want to write as I feel. So …’

  “Dear Mother!

  I am your new daughter-in-law Emma, called Lammchen, and Hannes and I got married the day before yesterday, on Saturday. We are happy and contented, and would be very pleased if you would share in our happiness. Things are going well for us, except that unfortunately Hannes had to give up selling clothes and works in a fertilizer business which we don’t like so much. With best wishes from your Lammchen …” ’

  And there she left a space. ‘And you are going to add your name, Sonny!’

  And because there was still a half an hour to go, she took out her book, which she had bought at Wickel’s a fortnight ago: The Sacred Miracle of Motherhood.

  She read, frowning: ‘Happy, sun-filled days are here. The little child has come, a heaven-sent compensation for human imperfections.’

  She tried to understand, but the sense kept eluding her. It seemed dreadfully difficult, and its relevance to the Shrimp was hard to see. But then came some poetry, which she read slowly, several times:

  ‘Voice of a child,

  Voi
ce of unknowingness

  But knowing like Solomon

  Wisdom in joyfulness,

  Meaning in birdsong.’

  Lammchen didn’t quite understand that either. But it was so happy; she leaned back; there were times now when her body felt so heavy, her womb so rich; she repeated with closed eyes: ‘Knowing like Solomon wisdom in joyfulness, meaning in birdsong.’

  ‘A baby must be about the happiest thing there is,’ was her feeling. ‘The Shrimp will be happy! Meaning in birdsong …’

  ‘Lunch!’ called Sonny from the hall. How had he got there? She must have slept a little; lately there had been times when she was very tired.

  ‘That lunch of mine,’ she thought, slowly rising to her feet.

  ‘Isn’t the table laid yet?’ he asked.

  ‘In a moment, Sonny love,’ she said, and rushed to the kitchen. ‘May I bring the pot to the table? I’ll use the tureen if you like.’

  ‘What is there, then?’

  ‘Pea soup.’

  ‘Fine. Bring the pot. I’ll lay the table.’

  Lammchen filled the plates. She looked rather worried. ‘Isn’t it rather thin?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, carving the meat on the little serving dish.

  She tried the soup. ‘Heavens, it’s thin!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. Followed by: ‘Oh Lord, the salt!’

  He too laid down his spoon. Across the table, over the plates and the heavy enamelled pot, their glances met.

  ‘And it was meant to be so good,’ wailed Lammchen. ‘I had the right quantities: half a pound of peas, half a pound of meat, a whole pound of bones. It ought to be good soup!’

  He had stood up, and was stirring reflectively in the pot with the enamel ladle. ‘Now and again you do come across a pea husk. How much water did you put in Lammchen?’

  ‘It must be the peas. They haven’t swelled up at all.’ ‘How much water?’ he repeated.

  ‘The pot full.’

  ‘Five litres—and a half a pound of peas. I believe, Lammchen’, he said with an air of detection, ‘that it’s the water. The water is too thin.’