Little Man, What Now?

by Hans Fallada

  ‘Of course. Don’t you? Every sensible person likes to sleep late. I hope you aren’t up and creeping round the flat at eight o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘I like to sleep late of course. But he has to be up and into work in good time.’

  ‘He? Who? Oh, him! You call him Sonny, don’t you? I call him Hans. He’s really called Johannes, that’s what old Pinneberg wanted, he was like that. But that’s no reason for you to get up so early. It’s just a superstition men have. They can make their coffee and butter their rolls perfectly well on their own. But just ask him to be a little bit quiet. He used to be dreadfully inconsiderate.’

  ‘Not to me!’ said Lammchen decisively. ‘To me he’s always been the most considerate person in the world.’

  ‘How long have you been married …? Don’t speak too soon, Lammchen! Goodness, I’ll have to find something else to call you. All settled, son? So let’s get a cab.’

  ‘92 Spenerstrasse,’ said Pinneberg to the driver. Then, as they were sitting down: ‘You’re giving a party today, Mama? Surely not …?’ He paused.

  ‘What’s the matter?,’ his mother cajoled him. ‘Are you embarrassed? A party in your honour, you meant to say, didn’t you? No, my son. Firstly I don’t have the money for that sort of thing, and secondly it’s business, not a party. Just business!’

  ‘So you don’t go out in the evenings any more to …’ Once again he couldn’t finish the question.

  ‘Oh heavens, Lammchen!’ his mother cried despairingly. ‘What do I do with him? Now he’s embarrassed again. He wants to ask whether I still go to the bar. He’ll still be asking me that when I’m eighty. No, no, son, I stopped going there years ago. I’m sure he’s told you that I go to a bar, that I’m a hostess. Well, hasn’t he? Speak up!’

  ‘Well, he did say something …’ said Lammchen, hesitantly.

  ‘There you are!’ cried Mama Pinneberg triumphantly. ‘D’you know, my son Hans has been running around half his life gloating over his mother’s immorality. He’s downright proud of his misery. He’d be even more happily unhappy if he was illegitimate. But you’re out of luck there, son, you’re legitimate, and I was faithful to Pinneberg too, more fool I.’

  ‘Oh! d’you mind, Mama!’ protested Pinneberg.

  ‘Goodness, what fun!’ thought Lammchen. ‘It’s all so much better than I’d thought. She’s not at all bad.’

  ‘Now listen, Lammchen. If I only had another name for you. About the bar, it wasn’t like that at all. In the first place it’s at least ten years ago. Then, it was a very big bar, with four or five girls and a man who mixed the cocktails. And because they were always cheating with the spirits, and writing out the bills wrong, and the bottles never agreed in the morning, I took the job as a favour to the owner. I was a sort of supervisor, a manager …’

  ‘Oh Sonny, how could you have …’

  ‘I’ll tell you how he could. He spied through the curtain at the entrance …’

  ‘I didn’t spy!’

  ‘Oh yes, you did, Hans, and don’t pretend you didn’t. And of course, if I knew the customers well, I sometimes had a glass of champagne with them.’

  ‘Spirits,’ said Pinneberg darkly.

  ‘I like a liqueur now and again. And so does your wife, I’m sure.’

  ‘My wife doesn’t drink alcohol.’

  ‘Very clever of you, Lammchen. Your skin won’t get so flabby. And it’s better for the stomach, too. Liqueurs make me so fat, too; it’s ghastly.’

  ‘What sort of business party have you got on today?’ asked Pinneberg.

  ‘Look at him, Lammchen. A real examining magistrate. He was like that at fifteen. “Which gentleman did you have coffee with? There was a cigar stub in the ashtray.” What a son!’

  ‘You started about the party, Mama!’

  ‘Oh did I! Well, I’m not interested, now. One look at your expression and it puts me right off. Anyway you’re excused.’

  ‘But what is all this?’ asked Lammchen bewildered. ‘We were all so happy just now.’

  ‘The brat is always bringing up these disgusting stories about the bar!’ raged Frau Pinneberg senior. ‘It’s been going on for years and years.’

  ‘You brought it up, not me!’ said Pinneberg angrily.

  Lammchen looked from one to the other. She hadn’t heard her young man use that tone before.

  ‘And who is Jachmann?’ asked Pinneberg, unmoved by these emotional outbursts, and his voice wasn’t nice at all.

  ‘Jachmann?’ asked Mia Pinneberg, her pale eyes flashing dangerously. ‘Jachmann is my current lover, I sleep with him. He’s also your current surrogate father, Hans my son, and you will show him some respect.’ She gave a snort. ‘Heavens, there’s my delicatessen! Stop, driver. Wait.’

  And she was out of the car.

  ‘See that, Lammchen,’ said Johannes Pinneberg, deeply satisfied. ‘That is my mother. I wanted you to see her as she is at once. That is how she is.’

  ‘But how could you, Sonny!’ said Lammchen, and for the first time she felt really cross with him.

  A GENUINE FRENCH BED, FIT FOR A KING BUT TOO DEAR. JACHMANN DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT A JOB AND LAMMCHEN LEARNS TO BEG

  ‘There,’ said Mrs Pinneberg triumphantly, opening a door. ‘This is your room …’

  She switched on the light and the glow of a red bulb mingled with the dying September day. She’d said it was fit for a king, and regal it certainly was. The bed was on a dais; it was broad, and made of gilded wood, with cherubs. Red silk eiderdowns, some sort of white fleece on the step. A canopy above. A ceremonial bed, a bed of state …

  ‘Oh God!’ cried Lammchen, repeating her reaction to her first new home. Then she said quietly: ‘But it’s much too fine for us. We’re simple people.’

  ‘It’s genuine,’ said Mrs Pinneberg proudly. ‘Louis Seize or rococo, I can’t remember which, you’ll have to ask Jachmann, he gave it to me.’

  ‘He gives her beds,’ thought Pinneberg.

  ‘I’ve always let it up till now,’ continued Mrs Mia Pinneberg. ‘It looks splendid, but actually it’s not all that comfortable. To foreigners mostly. I used to get two hundred a month for it with that little room over there. But no one could pay that today. We’ll let you have it for a hundred.’

  ‘I can’t possibly give you a hundred marks rent, Mama,’ declared Pinneberg.

  ‘Why not? A hundred marks isn’t much for such an elegant room. And you can share our telephone.’

  ‘I don’t need a telephone. I don’t need a grand room,’ said Pinneberg crossly. ‘I don’t even know yet what I’m going to be earning, and you say a hundred marks rent.’

  ‘Very well, let’s have coffee,’ said Mrs Pinneberg, switching out the light. ‘If you don’t know what you’re pay’s going to be, you may very well be able to afford a hundred marks. We’ll put your things down here right away. And listen, Lammchen, my domestic, Mrs Möller left me in the lurch today of all days, so could you please help with the preparations? You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘I’ll do it with pleasure, Mama,’ said Lammchen. ‘I only hope I can do it properly though. I’m not much of a housewife.’

  After a while the picture in the kitchen was as follows: Mrs Pinneberg senior was sitting on a rather dilapidated cane chair, chain-smoking. At the sink stood the two young Pinnebergs, doing the washing-up. She washed, he dried. There was an endless amount to wash up; saucepans with remains of food in them were standing everywhere, regiments of cups, squadrons of wine-glasses, plates, cutlery, cutlery and more cutlery. No one could have washed up for a fortnight.

  Mrs Mia Pinneberg entertained them: ‘Now this is typical of Mrs Möller. I never come into the kitchen in the normal way and this is how she leaves it! I can’t think why I keep pouring my precious money down her throat; I’m going to throw her out tomorrow. Hans, my son, be careful not to leave any fluff in the wine-glasses. Jachmann’s so fussy, he just smashes any glass he finds like that. And when we’ve finished the washin
g-up, let’s make the supper. That’ll be easy: nice rolls, and there should be a large piece of left-over roast veal lying around somewhere. Thank the Lord, there comes Jachmann; he’ll lend a hand as well.’

  The door opened and Mr Holger Jachmann came in.

  ‘Who have we here?’ he asked in amazement, staring at the two washers-up.

  Jachmann was a giant of a man, quite, quite different from how the young Pinnebergs had imagined him. A tall, fair, broad-shouldered fellow with blue eyes and a strong, cheerful, honest face, and still not wearing a jacket or a waistcoat even though winter was coming on.

  He stopped, taken aback, in the doorway, and said, ‘Who have we here? Did that old bag of a Möller finally overdose on our brandy?’

  ‘Charming, Jachmann,’ said Mrs Pinneberg, remaining firmly ensconced in her chair. ‘You stand there and stare. I ought to make a note of how many times you stand and stare. Considering I told you quite distinctly that I was expecting my son and daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Not a word did you breathe to me about it, Pinneberg, not a word,’ swore the giant. ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard you had a son. And now there’s a daughter-in-law as well. Madam …’ Lammchen, standing by the sink with wet hands, received the first kiss on the hand of her life. ‘Madam, I’m delighted to meet you. Are you always going to wash up here? Allow me!’ He took a pot out of her hand. ‘Now this looks to me like a hopeless case. Pinneberg must have been trying to cook shoe-leather in it. If I remember right and the late Möller hasn’t taken it with her to the grave, there was some Vim in the kitchen cupboard. Thank you, young man, we’ll christen our friendship with a drink afterwards.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Jachmann?’ Mrs Pinneberg piped up from the background. ‘First you start flirting, then you claim I never told you about my son. Not only did I tell you about my son, but you personally fixed him up with a job in Mandels, to start on the first of October, which is tomorrow. Typical.’

  ‘I certainly did not,’ grinned Jachmann. ‘I never find jobs for people with times as they are, Pinneberg. It only comes to grief.’

  ‘Oh God, what a man!’ exclaimed Mrs Pinneberg. ‘You said it was all sewn up, and I was to send for him.’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong, Pinneberg, it’s all in your mind. I may have spoken about it, as a possibility, I do have a vague memory of something like that, but you certainly never mentioned a son. It’s your damned vanity. Son—I never heard you speak the word.’

  ‘Well!’ said Mrs Pinneberg indignantly.

  ‘And as for it being all sewn up, I’m very precise about the deals I make, I’m the most orderly person in the world, really pedantic, so it can’t possibly be. I was with Lehmann the day before yesterday—he’s the head of Personnel at Mandels, and he’d certainly have said something about it. No, Pinneberg, you’ve been building castles in the air again.’

  The two young Pinnebergs had long ceased washing up; they stood looking from one to the other. At Mama, whom the gigantic Jachmann addressed simply as Pinneberg, and at the giant himself, who simply denied all knowledge. And now considered the whole matter closed, completely closed.

  But Johannes Pinneberg was to be reckoned with. He couldn’t care less about Jachmann, he didn’t like the man, and anyway what he was saying was a lot of blah. But he took two steps towards his mother and said, very pale, and a little halting in his speech, but very clearly:

  ‘Mama, does this mean that you got us to come here from Ducherow, and pay out all that money for the journey, for a fantasy? Just because you’d like to have rented your princely bed for a hundred marks …’

  ‘Sonny,’ cried Lammchen.

  But her young man continued ever more resolutely: ‘And just because you needed someone to do the washing-up. We’re poor people, Lammchen and I, I probably don’t even get the dole here, so what … what?’ Suddenly he began to swallow hard. ‘What in the world are we going to do now?’ He stared round the kitchen.

  ‘Now, now, now,’ said Mama. ‘Don’t let’s have any crying. You can always go back to Ducherow. You heard, and Lammchen, you heard too: I’m not to blame for this. It’s him, Jachmann, made another of his mess-ups. If you listen to him you’d think he had everything sewn up, that he was the most orderly person under the sun, but in reality … Look at him standing there: I bet he’s forgotten that the Stoschussens are bringing three Dutchmen this evening, and that he was meant to get Mullensiefen along, and Claire and Nina. And you were meant to bring the écarté cards as well …’

  ‘Listen to her,’ said the giant triumphantly. ‘That’s Pinneberg all over. She told me about the three Dutchmen, and she told me to order the girls. But she didn’t say a word to me about Mullensiefen. What do we need him for, anyway? There’s nothing he can do that I can’t do standing on my head.’

  ‘And the écarté cards, my treasure?’ asked Mrs Pinneberg threateningly.

  ‘Got them! Got them! They’re in my overcoat. At least, that’s where they should be if I had it on … I’ll have a quick look in the hall …’

  ‘Mr Jachmann!’ said Lammchen suddenly, stepping into his way. ‘Listen a moment. It won’t seem important to you that we haven’t a job. I’m sure you can always find a way out, because you’re much cleverer than we are …’

  ‘Hear that, Pinneberg?’ cried Jachmann, highly gratified.

  ‘But we’re very ordinary people, and we’re so unhappy when Sonny has no job. So I beg you, if you can, please do it, do find us a job.’

  ‘Little lady!’ said the big man emphatically. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll find your young man there a job. What’s it to be? How much d’you need to live on?’

  ‘But you know all about it,’ piped up Mrs Pinneberg. ‘Salesman at Mandels. Menswear.’

  ‘Mandels? D’you really want to work in a sweatshop like that?’ He looked searchingly at him. ‘Besides I’m sure he wouldn’t get more than five hundred a month.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘Five hundred for a salesman! Two hundred. Two hundred and fifty at the most.’

  Even Pinneberg nodded agreement.

  ‘Oh, in that case!’ said the giant with relief. ‘Let’s leave all that nonsense. No, what I’ll do is talk to old Manasse, and we’ll get you a nice little shop in the old West End, something really unique, out of the ordinary. I’ll set you up, young lady, I’ll set you up properly.’

  ‘Now give over,’ said Mrs Pinneberg crossly. ‘I’ve had enough of you setting people up.’

  And Lammchen said: ‘All we need is a job, Mr Jachmann, just a job at the standard wage.’

  ‘Well, if it’s no more than that! I’ve sorted that kind of thing out hundreds of times. So, Mandels it is. I’ll simply go to old Lehmann; he’s so dim he’s happy to do you a favour.’

  ‘But you mustn’t forget, Mr Jachmann. It has to be at once.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Your husband will begin the day after. Word of honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jachmann. Thank you very much.’

  ‘That’s all right, young lady. That’s quite all right. And now I really must look for those damned écarté cards … I could have sworn I put my overcoat on when I left home. And then I must have hung it up, but God knows where. It’s always the same routine in autumn: I’m not used to the thing, I don’t think about it and I leave it hanging somewhere. Then in spring, I’m always putting on other people’s coats …’

  Jachmann disappeared into the hall.

  ‘And the man says he never forgets anything,’ said Mrs Pinneberg comfortingly.

  JACHMANN LIES, MISS SEMMLER LIES, MR LEHMANN LIES AND PINNEBERG ALSO LIES, BUT AT LEAST HE GETS A JOB (FATHER INCLUDED)

  Mr Jachmann had been waiting for Pinneberg outside Mandels’ window-display of Boys’ and Young Men’s Clothing.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Don’t look so worried. It’s all set up. I talked my head off to old Lehmann, and now he’s wild about you. Did we disturb you much last night?’

  ‘A littl
e bit,’ said Pinneberg hesitantly. ‘We’re not used to it yet. And perhaps it was the journey too. Do I have to go in to Mr Lehmann now?’

  ‘Oh, let the stupid fellow wait. He’ll be happy to have you. I had to spin him a line of course. Who’s hiring anybody these days? If he wants to know anything about you, you don’t know anything.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell me what you said. I ought to be in the know.’

  ‘Nonsense! Why should you? You’re incapable of lying, anybody can see that. No, you don’t know anything. Come over to the café for a while …’

  ‘No, I’d really rather not …’ said Pinneberg tenaciously. ‘I’d like to get something definite. It’s so important for my wife and me …’

  ‘Important! Two hundred marks salary … No, no, don’t give me that sort of look, I didn’t mean to be nasty. Listen, Pinneberg,’ said the great Jachmann, resting his hand quite gently on the little man’s shoulder. ‘I’m not just standing here giving you a lot of eyewash, Pinneberg …’ He looked intently at him. ‘Does it worry you my being friends with your mother?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Pinneberg very slowly, wishing he was somewhere else.

  ‘Look here,’ said Jachmann, and his voice sounded genuinely nice. ‘I’m like that. I have to talk about everything! A lot of people would have gone all stuck up and not said anything but thought to themselves: what the hell are those kids to do with me! There, I can see it worries you. Don’t let it. And tell your wife too … No, you needn’t. She’s not like you, I saw that at once … And when Pinneberg and I have a scrap, don’t think anything of it. It’s part of our relationship and we’d be bored without it … And as for her wanting a hundred marks from you for her moth-eaten room, that’s rubbish, just don’t give it her, she’d only squander it. And you mustn’t get into a stew about the evening parties. They happen and they’ll go on happening until there are no suckers left … And another thing, Pinneberg …’ And now the big blusterer was really lovable, and despite all his initial dislike, Pinneberg found himself charmed and carried away … ‘Another thing, Pinneberg. Don’t tell your mother yet that you’re expecting a baby. That your wife is, I mean. That’s the worst thing in her opinion, worse than rats and bugs, she can’t have had a very positive experience with you. Don’t say anything. Deny it. There’s time yet. I’ll break it to her slowly … He doesn’t grab the soap in the bath yet, does he?’