by Hans Fallada
Externally then, Pinneberg did not belong to the unemployed, but internally …
He had just been to see Lehmann, the head of Personnel at Mandels department store; he had gone to get a job and he’d got one, it was a simple commercial transaction. But as a result of this transaction Pinneberg had the feeling, despite the fact that he was about to become a wage-earner again, that he was much closer to these non-earners than to people who earned a great deal. He was one of them, any day he could find himself standing here among them, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had no protection.
He was one of millions. Ministers made speeches to him, enjoined him to tighten his belt, to make sacrifices, to feel German, to put his money in the savings-bank and to vote for the constitutional party.
Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, according to the circumstances, but he didn’t believe what they said. Not in the least. His innermost conviction was: they all want something from me, but not for me. It’s all the same to them whether I live or die. They couldn’t care less whether I can afford to go to the cinema or not, whether Lammchen can get proper food or has too much excitement, whether the Shrimp is happy or miserable. Nobody gives a damn.
And all these people standing round in the Little Tiergarten, and a real zoo it was, full of proletarian animals rendered harmless by lack of food and lack of hope, they shared the same fate. Three months’ unemployment and—goodbye, reddish-brown overcoat! Goodbye to any prospects for the future! Jachmann and Lehmann could have a quarrel on Wednesday evening, and suddenly I’ll be worthless again. Goodbye.
These are my only comrades, these men here, though to them I’m stuck up, a proletarian in a suit with a starched white collar. But that’s temporary. Only I know how little it means. Today, yes, today, I can earn a few bob, tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll be out of a Job …
Perhaps he was still too new to living with Lammchen, but standing here looking at these people, he scarcely thought about her. And he wouldn’t be able to tell her any of this. She wouldn’t understand. However gentle she was, she was much tougher than him. She wouldn’t stand here. She’d been in the Socialist Party, and the Anti-Fascist League but only because her father was in them, she actually belonged in the Communist Party. She had a few simple ideas: that most people are only bad because they have been made bad, that you shouldn’t judge anybody because you never know what you would do yourself, that the rich and the powerful think ordinary people don’t have the same feelings as they do—that’s what Lammchen instinctively believed, though she hadn’t thought it out. Lammchen’s heart was with the Communists.
And that is why he couldn’t tell her. Now he had to go to her and announce that he has a job, and they have reason to be happy. And he really is happy. But behind that happiness lies the fear: will it last?
No, of course it won’t last. So, how long will it last?’
KESSLER REVEALS HIMSELF. HOW PINNEBERG STAYS ON TOP AND HEILBUTT SAVES THE DAY
It was the thirty-first of October, nine-thirty in the morning. Pinneberg was in the Gentlemen’s Clothing Department of Mandels, arranging grey striped trousers.
‘Sixteen fifty … sixteen fifty … sixteen fifty … eighteen ninety … where the hell are the trousers at seventeen seventy-five? We did have trousers for seventeen seventy-five. That clot Kessler’s gone and lost them again. Where are the trousers …?’
A little further into the department, the apprentices Beerbaum and Maiwald were brushing coats. Maiwald was a sportsman, and even an apprenticeship in Clothing can be treated as sport. Maiwald’s latest record was one hundred and nine coats impeccably brushed in one hour, though excessive zeal had resulted in the breakage of a bakelite button, for which Jänecke, the under-manager, reprimanded him severely.
The manager, Kröpelin, would certainly not have said anything. Kröpelin understood that things like that were bound to happen from time to time. But Jänecke could only become manager if Kröpelin had ceased to occupy that role, so he had to be sharp, zealous, and always thinking of the good of the firm.
The apprentices counted loudly: ‘Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety …’
Jänecke wasn’t in sight. Kröpelin hadn’t appeared yet either. They must be advising the buyer about winter coats; they badly needed new stock, there was not a single blue trenchcoat left in the stockroom.
Pinneberg was looking for the trousers at seventeen seventy-five. He could ask Kessler, Kessler was doing something only ten metres away, but he didn’t like him. For Kessler had remarked, audibly, when Pinneberg arrived: ‘Breslau? That old dodge, he’s been put in by Lehmann for sure.’
Pinneberg continued sorting. Very quiet today for a Friday. Only one customer had been in so far and he’d bought a boilersuit. Of course Kessler made that sale, he’d pushed himself forward, although it had been Heilbutt’s turn. Heilbutt, the senior salesman, was a gentleman and let that sort of thing pass, he sold quite enough anyway, and above all Heilbutt knew that when a difficult case came along, Kessler would run to him for help. That was enough for Heilbutt. It wouldn’t be enough for Pinneberg, but Pinneberg was not Heilbutt. Pinneberg bared his teeth sometimes, Heilbutt was much too dignified to do anything of the kind.
Heilbutt was standing at the back beside the cash desk doing a calculation. Pinneberg studied him, wondering whether he should ask him where the missing trousers might be. It would be a good excuse for starting up a conversation with him, but Pinneberg thought better of it. He’d tried a few times to converse with Heilbutt, who had always been impeccably polite, but somehow the conversation had petered out.
Pinneberg didn’t want to push things with Heilbutt because he admired him. It had to come spontaneously, and he was sure it would. All the while he dreamt about inviting Heilbutt to the flat in Spenerstrasse, preferably today. He wanted to show Heilbutt to his Lammchen, but above all he wanted to show his Lammchen to Heilbutt. He wanted to prove that he was no ordinary one-dimensional salesman, that he had Lammchen. Which of the others had anyone like that?
Slowly the shop came to life. Only a moment ago they had been standing around in complete boredom, only doing things for show, and suddenly they were selling. Wendt was at work, Lasch was selling, Heilbutt was selling. Kessler hadn’t waited his turn, but had gone in when it should have been Pinneberg. But soon Pinneberg had his buyer too, a student. But he was out of luck: the student, a young man with duelling scars, briskly demanded a blue trench-coat.
The thought shot through Pinneberg’s head: ‘None in stock. And he’s not the type to be talked out of it. Kessler’s going to laugh if I fall on my face. I’ve got to work it …’
He had already manoeuvred the student in front of a mirror: ‘A blue trench-coat: certainly. One moment. Can we just slip on this ulster first?
‘I don’t want an ulster,’ declared the student.
‘No, of course not. Just on account of the size. Put it on, sir. Look, exceptionally smart, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said the student. ‘Doesn’t look at all bad. And now show me a blue trench-coat.’
‘Sixty-nine marks fifty,’ said Pinneberg casually, then, feeling his way: ‘One of our special offers. Last winter this ulster cost ninety. Woven lining. Pure wool …’
‘Good,’ said the student. ‘That was about what I wanted to pay, but I wanted a trench-coat. Please show me …’
Slowly and hesitantly, Pinneberg took off the handsome Marengo ulster. ‘I don’t believe anything else would suit you as well. Blue trench-coats have gone out of fashion. People have seen too much of them.’
‘Just show me one!’ said the student vehemently. Then, in a gentler tone, ‘Or don’t you want to sell me a trench-coat?’
‘But of course, of course, of course, anything you like.’ And he smiled, just as the student had smiled at his last question. ‘But …’ he cast around feverishly. No, no more tricks. It’s worth a try. ‘But I can’t sell you a blue trench-coat.’ Pause. ‘We don’t stock blue trench-coa
ts any more.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me so straight away?!’ said the student, part amazed, part annoyed.
‘Because I wanted to convince you how perfectly that ulster suited you. It really looks good on you. You see,’ he continued, in a lower tone, and with a deprecating smile, ‘I only wanted to show you how much better it is than a blue trench-coat. That was just a fad, but this ulster …’
Pinneberg looked lovingly at it, stroked the sleeves, hung it up again on the hanger, and went to put it back on the rail.
‘Wait a minute!’ said the student. ‘I could try it again … It doesn’t look too bad …’
‘No, it doesn’t look at all bad,’ said Pinneberg, and helped the gentleman back into the coat. ‘An ulster looks downright distinguished. Or could I perhaps show the gentleman another ulster? Or a light-coloured trench-coat?’
He could see that the mouse was already almost in the trap. It was already sniffing at the bacon. Now he could take his chance.
‘So you do have light-coloured trench-coats,’ grumbled the student.
‘Yes, we do have something there …,’ said Pinneberg, and went to another rail.
On that rail hung a yellowish-green trench-coat, it had already been marked down twice. Its brothers from the same makers, in the same colour and the same cut, had long found their buyers. This coat seemed fated never to leave Mandels. It had the effect of making the wearer look a funny shape, and wrongly or insufficiently dressed.
‘We have something here …,’ said Pinneberg. He threw the coat over his arm. ‘There you are, a light-coloured trench-coat. Thirty-five marks.’
The student put his arms in the sleeves. ‘Thirty-five?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Yes,’ replied Pinneberg in a disparaging tone. ‘These trenchcoats aren’t very expensive.’
The student examined himself in the mirror. And once again, the coat worked its spell: a good-looking young man transformed into a scarecrow. ‘Take the thing off!’ he cried. ‘It’s hideous.’
‘It’s a trench-coat,’ said Pinneberg seriously.
And then Pinneberg made out the bill for sixty-nine fifty, gave it to the gentleman, and made his bow. ‘Thank you kindly.’
‘No, thankyou,’ laughed the student, doubtless thinking about the yellow trenchcoat.
‘Well, that’s that,’ thought Pinneberg. He quickly surveyed the department. The others were still with their original customers or had moved on to new ones. Only Kessler and he were free. So the next turn was Kessler’s. Pinneberg was not going to push in front. But then, just as he was looking at Kessler, something strange happened; Kessler began shrinking back, step by step, towards the rails at the back. It was just as if he wanted to hide. Looking towards the entrance, Pinneberg saw the reason for this cowardly retreat: first came one lady, then another, both in their thirties, followed by another, older, lady, the mother or mother-in-law, and finally by a gentleman: moustache, pale blue eyes, bald as an egg. ‘You miserable coward,’ thought Pinneberg indignantly, ‘A case like that, and you run away. Typical. Now watch me!’
And he said, bowing low: ‘Ladies. Gentlemen! How can I help you?’ allowing his gaze to rest an exactly equal length of time upon all the four faces, so that none got short measure.
One of the ladies said crossly: ‘My husband would like an evening suit. Please, Franz, you tell the salesman what you’d like.’
‘I would like …’ began the gentleman.
‘But they don’t seem to have anything really high-class,’ said the second lady in her thirties.
‘I told you not to go to Mandels,’ said the older one. ‘Obermeyers is the place for that.’
‘… to have an evening suit,’ concluded the gentleman with the pale blue, bulging eyes.
‘A dinner-jacket?’ inquired Pinneberg cautiously. He tried to distribute the question equally among the three ladies, without neglecting the gentleman, because even worms like him were capable of upsetting a sale.
‘A dinner-jacket!’ exclaimed the ladies indignantly.
The straw-blonde said: ‘My husband has of course already got a dinner-jacket. We want an evening suit.’
‘A dark jacket,’ said the gentleman.
‘With striped trousers,’ said the dark-haired lady, who was apparently the sister-in-law of the blonde lady, her status as the man’s sister conferring even older rights over him than the wife’s.
‘Very good,’ said Pinneberg.
‘We’d already have found exactly the right thing at Obermeyers,’ said the older lady.
Pinneberg produced a jacket. ‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ said the wife.
‘What could you expect here?’
‘Well, we can have a look at any rate. It costs nothing to look. Let me see something else, young man.’
‘Try that on, Franz!’
‘Oh, Else, for pity’s sake! That jacket …’
‘What do you think, mother?’
‘I shan’t say anything. Don’t ask me. I shan’t say anything. Afterwards you’ll say it was me who chose it.’
‘If the gentleman could please straighten his shoulders a little?’
‘Don’t straighten your shoulders on any account, Franz! My husband is always round-shouldered, it has to fit him as he is.’
‘Turn round, Franz.’
‘No, I think this one’s out of the question.’
‘Please, Franz, move around a bit. You’re standing there as stiff as a poker.’
‘Perhaps this one would be better.’
‘I don’t know why you’re going through all this at Mandels anyway.’
‘Do you want my husband to run around in the same jacket all the time? If we’re not going to be served here …’
‘If we could perhaps try on this jacket …’
‘Please, Franz.’
‘No, I don’t want that one. I don’t like it.’
‘Why don’t you like it? I think it’s very nice!’
‘Fifty-five marks.’
‘I don’t like it. The shoulders are too padded.’
‘You’re so round-shouldered, you need it.’
‘The Saligers got a lovely evening suit for forty marks. And here, just for the jacket …’
‘The suit has to be impressive, you understand, young man. If we’re going to pay out a hundred marks, we might as well get it made to measure.’
‘Now do please show us a suitable jacket.’
‘How do you like this one, Madam?’
‘That material seems a bit light.’
‘Madam notices everything. It does make up rather light. What about this one?’
‘That’s a bit better. Is it pure wool?’
‘Pure wool, madam. And a quilted lining, as you see.’
‘I like that one.’
‘Oh, Else, how can you? What do you say, Franz?’
‘You can see they’ve got nothing here. No one goes to Mandels.’
‘Just try on this one, Franz.’
‘No, I’m not trying on anything more. You’re just making me look a fright.’
‘Now what are you saying? Did you want an evening suit or did I?’
‘It was you!’
‘No, you wanted one.’
‘You said that Saliger had one and that I was making myself a laughing-stock with my everlasting dinner-jacket.’
‘Would Madam kindly look at this one? Very discreet. Very distinguished.’ Pinneberg had decided to place his bet on the strawblond, Elsa.
‘That one’s really quite nice. How much does it cost?’
‘Well, this one is sixty. But it’s very exclusive. Not for the ordinary customer.’
‘Very expensive.’
‘Else, you’d fall for anything. He’s shown us that one already.’
‘My dear child, I know that as well as you do. Now Franz, please, try it on once more.’
‘No,’ said the bald head angrily. ‘I don’t want a suit. It’s you who said I wanted one.’
&nbs
p; ‘Please, Franz …’
‘In this time we could have got ten suits at Obermeyers.’
‘Come on, Franz, try on the jacket.’
‘He’s had it on already.’
‘Not this one!’
‘Yes, he has.’
‘If you’re going to quarrel, I’m off.’
‘I’m off too. Else always wants her own way at any price.’
Pandemonium. Snide remarks, and jackets, were thrown hither and thither.
‘At Obermeyers …’
‘Mother, please!’
‘Well, let’s go to Obermeyers then.’
‘Just don’t say I dragged you there!’
‘You did.’
‘No, I …’
Pinneberg was unable to get a word in edgeways. In his extremity he looked all around him, and his eyes met Heilbutt’s in a mute cry for help.
And at the same moment he did something desperate. He said to the egg-headed man: ‘Your jacket, sir!’
And he helped the man into the disputed sixty-mark jacket, then, almost before it was on his back, said ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my mistake,’ Then he cried out, in astonished pleasure: ‘How well that suits you!’
‘Yes, Else, if you like it …’
‘I always said that jacket …’
‘What do you say, Franz?’
‘What’s the price?’
‘Sixty, Madam.’
‘Sixty for that? It’s madness. Sixty, in these times? And especially at a shop like Mandels …’
A quiet but firm voice next to Pinneberg said: ‘You’ve found what you were looking for? Ah, our smartest evening jacket.’
Silence.
The ladies looked at Mr Heilbutt. Mr Heilbutt stood there: tall, dark, brown-haired, elegant.
‘A fine-quality garment,’ said Mr Heilbutt after a pause. And then he bowed and passed on his mysterious way somewhere behind the coat stands; perhaps it was Mr Mandel himself, passing through the shop.