by Hans Fallada
Certainly not! Lammchen would go herself. What was he thinking of? Walking was very healthy, and anyway, did he imagine she’d want to stay here worrying in case he bought a piece off the wrong salmon? She had to see the woman in the shop slicing off the pieces, one by one. She had to go herself.
‘All right. You go.’
‘And how much?’
‘An eighth. No. It’s only once we’re lashing out, bring a quarter.’
He watched her set out: she had a beautiful long sturdy stride, and in that blue dress she was dazzling. He followed her with his eyes, leaning out of the window until she had disappeared, and then he wandered up and down. He reckoned that by the time he had wound his way round the room fifty times she would be back in sight. He ran to the window. Yes, he’d got it right. Lammchen was just coming into the house; she didn’t look up. Only two or three minutes more. He stood and waited. He thought he heard the hall door open. But Lammchen did not come.
What in the world was the matter? He’d seen her come into the house, but she wasn’t here.
He opened the door onto the hall, and there, next to the outer door, stood Lammchen, pressed against the wall with a frightened face streaming with tears, holding out a wax-paper wrapper shining with grease-marks but with nothing in it.
‘Oh gosh, Lammchen, what’s the matter? Did the salmon fall out of the paper?’
‘I ate it,’ she sobbed. ‘I ate it all, by myself.’
‘Like that, out of the paper? Without any bread? The whole quarter? But Lammchen!’
‘I ate it,’ she sobbed. ‘All by myself.’
‘Now come on here, Lammchen; tell me what happened. Come in. It’s nothing to cry about. Start from the beginning. So you bought the salmon …’
‘Yes, and I had such a craving for it. I couldn’t watch while she was slicing it and weighing it. I was barely outside, but I went into the nearest doorway and quickly took out a slice and it was gone.’
‘And then?’
‘Yes, Sonny,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s what I did all the way home, whenever a doorway came up. I couldn’t stop myself and went in. When I started I wasn’t going to cheat you out of any; I divided it up very carefully, half and half … But then I thought, one slice won’t matter to him, and I kept on eating yours, but I did leave one piece for you, and I brought it upstairs, right up here to the hall, as far as this door …’
‘But then you ate it?’
‘Yes, then I ate it, and it was so wicked of me, because there’s no salmon at all for you, Sonny love. But it’s not because I’m wicked myself,’ breaking out in new sobs, ‘it’s my condition. I’ve never been greedy. And I’m so unhappy in case the Shrimp turns out greedy now. And … shall I run quickly back into town and get some salmon for you. I’ll bring it back, I truly, truthfully will.’
He rocked her in his arms. ‘Oh, you great big baby, you silly little girl, if it’s nothing more dreadful than that …’
And he comforted her and calmed her and wiped away her tears, and gradually they got to kissing, and then it was evening and then it was night …
Pinneberg had left the windy town park. He was on his way through the streets of Ducherow towards a precise goal. He had not turned off into Feldstrasse and he was not going back to Kleinholz’s office. He had taken a great decision and was marching towards it. Pinneberg had discovered that his pride was idiotic. He now realized that nothing mattered but keeping Lammchen out of hardship and making the Shrimp happy. What did Pinneberg matter? Pinneberg wasn’t important, he could easily humble himself, provided all went well for them.
He marched straight into Bergmann’s shop, and straight into the little dark birdcage which was simply partitioned off from the shop. And there indeed sat the boss, taking a letter out of the letter press. That was the way things were still done at Bergmanns.
‘Well, if it isn’t Pinneberg!’ said Bergmann. ‘Life still treating you well?’
‘Mr Bergmann,’ said Pinneberg breathlessly. ‘I was a prize idiot to leave you. I’m very sorry, Mr Bergmann, and I would like the job back.’
‘Hold on,’ shouted Bergmann. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Mr Pinneberg. I didn’t hear what you’ve just said, Mr Pinneberg. There’s no need to apologize to me, I’m not taking you back.’
‘Mr Bergmann!’
‘Don’t speak! Don’t beg! Afterwards you’ll only be ashamed that you begged and it was all for nothing. I’m not taking you back.’
‘Mr Bergmann, you said at the time you were going to keep me in suspense for a month before taking me on again …’
‘I did say that, Mr Pinneberg, you’re right, and I’m sorry I said a thing like that. I said it out of anger because you’re such a decent chap, and so helpful, except for that business with the post, and then you go and work for that drunken womanizer. I said it out of anger.’
‘Mr Bergmann,’ Pinneberg began again. ‘I’m married now, and we’re having a baby. Kleinholz has sacked me. What shall I do? You know what it’s like here in Ducherow. There’s no work here in Ducherow. Take me back. You know I earn my money.’
‘I know, I know,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Take me on again, Mr Bergmann. Please.’
The little ugly Jew, whose Maker had been less than generous in his creation, shook his head. ‘I’m not taking you back, Mr Pinneberg. And why? Because I can’t!’
‘Oh, Mr Bergmann!’
‘Marriage is no easy matter, Mr Pinneberg. You’ve started early. Do you have a good wife?’
‘Oh, Mr Bergmann!’
‘I see you do. I see you do. May she stay so. Listen, Pinneberg: I’m telling you the simple truth. I’d like to have you back, but I can’t; my wife won’t have it. She was incensed by what you said—”you can’t order me around”—and she refuses to forgive you. I’m not allowed to take you back on. I’m very sorry. It can’t be done.’
There was a pause. A long pause. Little Bergmann turned the letter press, took his letter out and looked at it.
‘Yes, Mr Pinneberg,’ he said slowly.
‘Supposing I went to your wife,’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘I would go to her, Mr Bergmann.’
‘And would that do any good? No, it wouldn’t do any good. Do you know what she would do? She’d let you plead with her. She’d say to come back, she’ll think about it. But she wouldn’t take you on, and in the end I would still have to tell you there was nothing doing. Women are like that, Mr Pinneberg. Ah well, you’re young, you don’t know anything about all that. How long have you been married?’
‘A good four weeks.’
‘A good four weeks. Still counting in weeks. You’re going to be a good husband, that’s clear. You need not be ashamed to ask for something, it hurts nobody. If people just stay friends. Stay friends with your wife. Always think to yourself: she’s only a woman and she doesn’t understand. I’m sorry, Mr Pinneberg.’
Pinneberg went slowly away.
A LETTER COMES AND LAMMCHEN RUNS THROUGH THE TOWN IN HER APRON TO GO AND CRY AT KLEINHOLZ’S
It was 26 September, a Friday, and on this Friday Pinneberg was still in the office as usual. Lammchen, however, was cleaning. And as she dusted around, there was a knock on the door. She said ‘Come in’, and in came the postman and said, ‘Does Mrs Pinneberg live here?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Here’s a letter for you. You ought to have your name on the door. I’m not psychic.’
And with that, the Heavenly Messenger was on his way.
Lammchen stood there with the letter in her hand, a large pale mauve envelope, with large spidery writing on it. It was the first letter that Lammchen had had since she was married. She and the Platz people didn’t write.
This wasn’t a letter from Platz in any case, it was from Berlin. And on turning it over Lammchen saw that there was even the name of the sender on it: a female sender.
‘Mia Pinneberg, Berlin NW 40, Spenerstrasse 92 II.’
‘Sonny’s mother. Mia, not Maria,�
�� thought Lammchen. ‘She took her time.’
But she didn’t open the letter. She laid it on the table while she continued with the cleaning, looking across at it occasionally. It was sitting there, and would continue to sit there till her young man came. She would read it with him, together—that would be best.
Suddenly, she put aside the duster. She had a premonition that this was a momentous occasion; she was certain of it. She ran quickly into Mrs Scharrenhofer’s kitchen, and rinsed her hands under the tap. Mrs Scharrenhofer said something or other to her, and she answered ‘Yes’ mechanically, but she hadn’t heard a thing. She was in front of the mirror already, fixing her hair so that she looked a bit smarter.
And then she sat down in the corner with the forbidden thump (the springs went ‘Ha-Yup’), took up the letter and opened it.
And read it.
It took her a while to understand.
She read it a second time.
But then she got up, her legs were trembling a little, but that didn’t matter, they would get her as far as Kleinholz’s. She simply had to speak to Sonny.
Heavens, she ought not to be getting so excited, it was bad for the Shrimp.
‘Any kind of over-excitement must be strenuously avoided,’ The Miracles of Motherhood had warned.
‘But how on earth can I avoid it? And do I want to?’
A dozy mood reigned in Kleinholz’s office. The three book-keepers were sitting around, and Emil was sitting around too. There wasn’t really anything to do that day. But whereas the book-keepers had to look as if they were doing something, and doing it with feverish zeal, Emil just sat around and wondered whether Emilie was going to pour another drink. He’d been lucky twice this morning already.
The door of this bored office suddenly flew open and a young woman burst in with flashing eyes, streaming hair and attractively-flushed cheeks, but wearing (oh, shame!) a kitchen apron. And she shouted: ‘Sonny, come out at once! I have to speak to you immediately.’
Then, seeing how taken aback they all looked, she said, suddenly quite self-possessed: ‘Please excuse me, Mr Kleinholz. My name is Pinneberg, and I have to speak to my husband urgently.’
And suddenly this self-possessed young woman gave a loud sob and cried: ‘Sonny, oh! Sonny love, do come quickly. I …’
Emil growled something, Lauterbach squeaked like the fool he was, Schulz smirked, and Pinneberg was madly embarrassed. With a helpless gesture of apology he moved towards the door.
In the yard entrance which led to the office, the broad entrance where all the lorries rolled through with their sacks of wheat and potates, Lammchen flung herself, still sobbing, around her husband’s neck. ‘Oh Sonny, Sonny, I’m so wildly happy! We’ve got a job. There, read!’
Having no idea what was going on, he was utterly bemused. Then he read:
My dear daughter-in-law, called Lammchen,
I expect the boy is just as big a fool as ever, and you’re going to have a lot of trouble with him. What madness after I gave him such a good education to be working in ‘fertilizers’! He must come here at once and take up a job I’ve found for him in Mandels Department Store starting on 1st October. To begin with, you’ll live with me.
Kind regards from your Mama.
PS: I wanted to write to you a month ago, but I didn’t get round to it. Now you must send me a telegram to say when you’re coming.
‘Oh Sonny, Sonny darling, I’m so happy!’
‘Yes, my little girl. Yes, my sweetheart. So am I. Though I don’t know what she means by “education” … well, I won’t say any more. I’ll go straight away and send a telegram.’
It was a little while before they were able to tear themselves apart.
Then Pinneberg stepped back into the office, very stiff, quite silent, swelling with pride.
‘What’s new in the job market?’ asked Lauterbach.
And Pinneberg said casually: I’ve got a position as chief salesman in Mandels Department Store in Berlin. Three hundred and fifty marks salary.’
‘Mandel?’ asked Lauterbach. ‘Jews, of course.’
‘Mandel?’ asked Emil Kleinholz. ‘Watch out that it’s a respectable firm. In your place I’d look into it first.’
‘I had a girlfriend like that once,’ said Schulz thoughtfully. ‘Always howled when she was the least bit excited. Is your wife always so hysterical, Pinneberg?’
PART TWO
BERLIN
MRS MIA PINNEBERG OBSTRUCTS THE TRAFFIC. SHE FINDS FAVOUR WITH LAMMCHEN BUT NOT WITH HER SON, AND DESCRIBES WHO JACHMANN IS
A taxi-cab drove slowly up Invalidenstrasse, struggling through the mêlée of pedestrians and trams until it reached the less crowded square in front of Berlin’s Stettin Station. Then it sped, hooting as though released, up on to the station forecourt where it came to a stop.
A lady got out. ‘How much?’ she asked the driver.
‘Two marks sixty, lady,’ said the driver.
The lady had begun delving in her little handbag, but now she withdrew her hand. ‘Two-sixty for such a short journey. Oh no, dear, I’m not a millionairess. My son will pay. Wait.’
‘Can’t, lady,’ said the driver.
‘What d’you mean, can’t? I’m not paying, so you’ll have to wait till my son arrives. The ten past four from Stettin.’
‘Not allowed to,’ said the driver. ‘We’re not allowed to stop in the forecourt.’
‘Then wait over there, dearie. We’ll come over and get in.’
The taxi-driver cocked his head to one side and screwed up his eyes at her. ‘Oh, I believe you’ll come, lady. As sure as the next pay-cut. But I tell yer what: get the money back from yer son. That’s easier for you, isn’t it?’
‘What’s going on here?’ asked a policeman. ‘Move along, driver.’ ‘Lady wants me to wait, officer.’
‘Move along.’
‘She won’t pay.’
‘Please pay, lady. You can’t do that here, other people have to get away too.’
‘I don’t want to. I’m coming straight back.’
‘I want my money, yer made-up old …’
‘I’ll report you, driver.’
‘Move along, dumb-head, or I’ll bang your Bugatti.’
‘Oh come on, Madam, please do pay. You can see how it is …’ In his desperation the policeman did a kind of dancing-school bow, clicking his heels together.
The lady beamed. ‘But of course I’ll pay. If the man can’t wait I don’t want to do anything against the law. What a fuss! Goodness, constable, we women ought to deal with these things. Everything would go so smoothly …’
Station hall. Steps. A machine for platform tickets. ‘Shall I take one? That’s another twenty pfennigs. But then there are a couple of exits and I’d miss them. I’ll get it back from him. I must buy some decent butter on the way back. Tinned sardines. Tomatoes. Jachmann’s sending the wine. Flowers for the young woman? No, better not, it all costs money and it’ll just spoil her.’ Mrs Mia Pinneberg wandered up and down the platform. She had a soft, fleshy face, with remarkably pale blue eyes, so pale they looked faded. She was blonde, very blonde, with dark pencilled eyebrows, and because she was meeting them at the station she had put on a touch of make-up. Just a touch, in honour of the occasion. She wasn’t usually out and about at this hour of the day.
‘Bless the lad,’ she thought, quite touched; she knew she ought to feel touched or this business of meeting them would be nothing but a bore. ‘I wonder if he’s still so gormless. Must be. Whoever would marry a girl from Ducherow? And I could have really made something out of him, he would have been so useful … His wife … well, she can be useful too, if she’s a good little cleaner. Come to think of it, especially if she’s a good little cleaner. Jachmann’s always saying I spend too much on the housekeeping. Maybe this way I could get rid of Mrs Möller. We’ll see. Thank the Lord, here’s the train.’
‘Hello,’ she beamed. ‘You look wonderful, son. The coal trade seems a healthy business.
You’re not in the coal trade? Well, why write and say you were then? Yes, it’s all right to give me a kiss. My lipstick is kiss-proof. And you, Lammchen. You’re not what I expected at all.’
She held Lammchen at arms’ length.
‘Really, Mama?’ asked Lammchen, smiling. ‘What did you expect?’
‘Oh, you know, a country girl, with a name like Emma, and he calls you Lammchen … I hear you’re all supposed to be still in flannel underwear in Pomerania. Hans, how on earth can you call this girl a little lamb? She’s a Valkyrie, high-bosomed and proud-hearted … Oh, now don’t go blushing for heaven’s sake, or I’ll start thinking about Ducherow again.’
‘I’m not blushing,’ laughed Lammchen. ‘Why shouldn’t I have a high bosom? And I am proud. Especially today. Berlin! Mandel! And a mother-in-law like you. But I don’t have anything in flannel.’
‘Yes, speaking of flannel, what about your things? You’d better get them sent on. Or do you have furniture?’
‘We haven’t got any furniture yet, Mama. We haven’t got as far as that yet.’
‘There’s no hurry. I’ve got a furnished room for you that’s fit for a king. I tell you: luxurious. Money’s better than furniture. I hope you’ve got plenty of money.’
‘Where from?’ growled Pinneberg. ‘Where are we supposed to get money? What does Mandel pay?
‘Who’s Mandel?’
‘You know, Mandels the Department Store. Where I’ve got the job.’
‘Did I write something about Mandels? I’d quite forgotten. You must discuss it with Jachmann this evening. He knows all about it.’
‘Jachmann …?’
‘Let’s get a cab. I’ve got a little party this evening, and I’ll be too late otherwise. Go on, Hans, there’s the baggage counter. Don’t let them deliver your things before eleven. I don’t like people ringing the bell earlier than that.’
The two women were alone together for a moment.
‘You like to sleep late, Mama?’ asked Lammchen.