Tales from the Underworld

by Hans Fallada

  ‘You’ve got to lie. If they put a witness up against you, you’ve got to deny you’ve ever seen him. At the very least you’ll get a lighter sentence.’

  ‘If we only knew if the judge had a good breakfast.’

  ‘It’s all a matter of that. And if his old lady cut him some slack in bed.’

  ‘I’m first up,’ said the butcher. ‘Hope to God I don’t get Jürss! Jürss always gives a stiff sentence.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing. In Reichenbach we had a judge who was permanently pissed. Once by accident he sentenced a witness instead of an accused. There was nothing to be done about it. A sentence stands …’

  ‘Now hang on a minute …’

  Animated debate as to whether that was even possible.

  We reach the holding cell of the court. A bare room, with just a bench along one wall. The walls themselves covered with scribbles. The butcher runs up and down. ‘If only I knew how much time I had left. I need to have a shit …’

  ‘Wait a bit,’ I suggest. ‘When you’re brought in, tell the guard.’

  ‘I can’t wait. I’m desperate. I need a shit.’

  We bang on the iron-reinforced door. The long corridor outside echoes with it. No one comes. When we turn around, we see the butcher has unbuttoned his trousers. He is squatting down in the corner.

  ‘Wait!’ I yell. ‘Not on the bare floor! Here’s a newspaper.’

  I barely manage to push it under him. Already he’s squittering and farting away. The butcher has gone deathly pale. He keeps mumbling: ‘I hope he’s had a proper breakfast! If only he’s had a hearty breakfast!’

  The cobbler and I exchange glances. Finally the stream dries up. The paper is bundled up and pushed, not very successfully, into the air vent. The stink is godawful.

  ‘You are scared, aren’t you,’ says the cobbler provokingly. ‘It’s nice of you to share that with us, and all.’

  The butcher says nothing, glowers, runs back and forth, pale, mumbling.

  ‘I thought you were innocent,’ I say. ‘You’re going to be acquitted?’

  ‘What if he hasn’t had a good breakfast?’ he mumbles. ‘Oh my God, what do I do then? What do I do?’

  Finally the guard comes. ‘All right, Rudszki, your turn. Oh, Jesus Christ, the smell in here!’

  ‘Couldn’t you, er, unlock the window?’

  ‘The window stays locked at all times.’

  Svenda, a Dream Fragment; or, My Worries

  (1944)

  I must have known Svenda in earlier times, but my memories of her are indistinct, like the shadows of the clouds that lie over our lakes even on sunny days. My first clear memory of her is climbing a wide flight of oak stairs, with nice old-fashioned low risers, straight up to a double door, which instead of a wooden panel at its heart had clear glass panes. It’s like the French windows in my house, only bigger and not so pretty, with ugly decorative brass and coloured glass details in the corners.

  The other side of the clear glass panes I see Svenda standing looking blankly at me, with her dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. I stand on the top step for a moment, we look at each other in silence. Then I put my hand on the doorknob. Svenda shakes her head. Then suddenly I remember something I’d forgotten, namely that I may never set foot here again, because I have made a proposal to Svenda and been turned down, that only awful things took place here, I can’t remember them except vaguely, like the shadows of those clouds that hang over our lakes on sunny days.

  I turn and go slowly down the stairs. I walk through the streets of the town, I leave the town and find myself in open country. I walk slowly on and on. I am approaching a railway line, the crossing-gate is just coming down, the monotonous ringing of a bell announces that a train is coming through. On a little rise the other side of the tracks is the crossing-keeper’s house. I lean against the top of the gate and crane round to it. There are yellow and pink hollyhocks blooming round it. A little girl steps out, with the red flag in her hand. Dark curls tumble round her shoulders, it could almost be Svenda but I know it isn’t Svenda. I know the little girl’s name, but it won’t come to me. And while the train is clattering and rattling between us, I remember that I offered myself here too, and was turned down as well. Slowly I turn away, and wander back in the direction of town, whose rooftops, lit by the sun, seem to hang over the tops of the fields.

  I am standing in a large, unevenly paved market square, and have just purchased three horses. They are incredibly big. How will I be able to feed them? I wonder. Suddenly I recognize them, they are the ancient nags of our drunken publican. And all of a sudden there he is too, laughing in my direction, unshaven and unwashed as ever, the corners of his mouth stained with tobacco juice. I head into town from the market place, the horses, out of harness, follow me, one of them has my bag with my cigarettes looped over its hindquarters. One of them is particularly devoted to me, he keeps nuzzling me under the arm, making me step aside. I’m a little afraid he might tread on my sore right foot with his great hooves.

  I stop in front of a large house. I walk in and ask if Frau St. is in. No, she’s left – but a room has been made ready for me. I go up to wash, but am told I have to eat right away. I sit down at a long table, opposite me is a general. He is dressed in a linen summer suit, but I know he’s a general anyway. He is of unsound mind, and hates me. He has a small, red face and stares at me with bloodshot eyes. The dishes are served very quickly, and there is no change of plates, we have white boiled turbot, pike tails in runny aspic, haddock in mustard sauce – I am shown the huge menu, and see that today is meatless. For pudding there is a large, marbled ice bombe. I help myself to a big piece, and put it on my already crowded plate. The piece of ice bombe starts to melt right away, it dribbles over the edge of my plate, my whole plate is overflowing. I spread my legs and let it trickle down between them. I look round hurriedly; the bloodshot eyes of the crazed general are levelled at me, the whole table is eyeing me silently and grimly. Between my legs, the runnel from my plate continues to drip on the floor.

  It occurs to me that I have forgotten to take my cigarettes back from my horse, I don’t have anything to smoke. I go to the window and open it. The horses are gone, I know I will never see them again. I have nothing to smoke. I survey the area round the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche. The church is burned down, the surrounding buildings are in ruins, the streets are choked with rubble. There is no one out in them. It is war after all, I say to myself, Berlin is in ruins. Even the building from whose third-floor window I am now looking has been hit and torn apart by a bomb. I myself saw the ruins, back when I was on business in Berlin. A strange feeling creeps over me. I am my own ghost, I think.

  Then I spot a cigarette machine on the wall. I start fiddling with it to get a packet of cigarettes out of it. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on,’ says somebody behind me. ‘Those are all dummy packs.’ But at the top I see a compartment with a flat door that I open easily enough. This compartment is also full of dummy packs, but behind them I find four packets of tobacco. The tax labels have been torn off them. It’s lucky I’ve managed to find some tobacco, I think, because I remember that nurse H. has a lot of cigarettes for me, but only one opened packet of tobacco. I leave two marks in the compartment in exchange for a packet of tobacco.

  Night has fallen, the arc lamps are burning over the dead stations, no trains are running, I am running away from my father. I know he is dead, but he has come back to call me to account for what I did to my mother. There is nothing alarming about my father, he looks well, the little goatee that I remember as white is now brown, he is striding rapidly down the street next to the rails, looking for me. I myself am running away along the line. The line has been bombed, but they have put out great sequences of duckboards along which I half-run, half-fly. My father is long since out of sight; when the line starts to climb, I know it’s time to turn off, and then my father will never find me.

  I step into a gateway, and ring a bell on a very dark panel.
A white-haired lady in a black dress with a fine white lace trim opens the door, and greets me as a stand-in for the master of the house who is away on travels. I ask her to set aside two downstairs rooms for my work, and one for my secretary, but she declines in no uncertain terms; I would have to make do with some rooms upstairs. In the big downstairs room with its upholstered furniture, the reddish flowers on yellow cretonne, my secretary is waiting. I hired her in a bar, a very tall, very beautiful woman, taller than me. At the time she was heavily powdered, now the powder has been washed off, and I can see two anchors tattooed on her pale cheeks. This woman could almost be my wife, that’s how much she resembles her, she wears the same wide blue trousers that my wife wears with the appliquéd anchor, and their faces are practically identical too – but for those two little tattoos. I am very disappointed. At least I will be able to dictate to her.

  Once again I am climbing the wide, easy oak staircase leading up to the glazed double door behind which Svenda stood. I am very sad, because I know there is no more hope for me. My feet are dragging, my heart is heavy. When I look up I see Svenda looking at me through the glass door. I pass through the door and walk up to her. She does nothing but look at me; there is no expression in her eyes, neither refusal nor desire, neither fear nor question.

  I pick her up in my arms, and carry her into her flat. The doors open silently in front of me, as I carry the motionless woman through them. A pallid, unearthly light that doesn’t come from outside fills the rooms. I am standing in front of a massive ornamental bed, over which a great canopy drops in dark pleats. The bed looks very white and cold. As I lay Svenda down on it, her clothes unpetal and silently fall to the ground like yellow roses. I lay Svenda down naked on the cold, white bed, she lies there, her body is even whiter than the sheets, her curls are black on the pillow. She looks at me unblinkingly, without love and without anger. I knew her once before, I was rejected, painful things took place, my memories are as vague as the shadows of the clouds on the lakes at home. I lean down over Svend …

  Looking for My Father

  (1944)

  No, Your Honour, I didn’t steal my father’s bicycle, as I stand here; may I fall down dead on the spot if that’s a lie. Let me tell you what really happened, you won’t want to sentence an innocent now, will you, Your Honour. But it seems no one wants to let me have my say. My stepmother says: ‘You’re a thief, off to prison with you.’ My father won’t talk to me, and leaves the room as soon as I open my mouth. The policeman comes and gets me, doesn’t listen to me: ‘Shut your mouth, you miscreant, you stole that bike, don’t waste your breath!’ No one wants to listen to me. But you’ll maybe let me talk, Your Honour, half an hour is all I’m asking, and what’s half an hour when I’m to go to prison for many months?!

  Well, Your Honour, here goes, I’ll sit down if I may. A cigarette would be good, but I know there’s no chance of that, because I’m only fourteen and you’re the judge and I’m meant to have respect for you. Though in actual fact I don’t. You look so adorable with your white hair; if we were outside, I’d offer you a ciggie right away. I’ve always smoked, ever since I was nine years old.

  Don’t tell me I’ve been cheeky again! I really didn’t mean to be. People are always saying I’m cheeky, but I don’t know the meaning of the word. I was always this way, I can’t be any different, I don’t mean anything by it. You’ve got to be able to talk to someone, ain’t you – that’s what talking’s for.

  Sure, Your Honour, I’ll make a start, in fact I’m already well on the way. My mother, she’s from Polack country in East Prussia, but I’m no Polack myself, even if my name is Stachoviak, Felix Stachoviak. My father, he was a good German, by the name of König, I’ll tell you about him when I get to him.

  A dodgy gentleman told me once that Felix meant ‘fortunate one’; well, in that case my mother chose the wrong name, because I’ve never had the least bit of luck in my life, or else I wouldn’t be standing here, would I? By the way, I’m a Catholic – but I don’t believe in anything, I’m enlightened. No, not that way, Your Honour, of course I’m enlightened about the birds and the bees and that, too, have been for a long time, but I was meaning religion-wise. Don’t laugh at me, Your Honour, my life and liberty’s at stake. If you laugh at me, how can I talk to you?

  My mother used to go out on the big estates with the reaping gangs, every year she was some place different, some years she was on two or three different estates. That depended on the work that was available, and on the men that were available too. Each job she has, she looks out a new man for herself, and each one I have to address as Father. But I knew that my proper father’s name was König, and that he was a foreman. An aunt told me that once, that I spent a couple of months with; at the time I was five years old, and my mum was in prison over some robbery. I remember that time very well, Your Honour, my mum was a good-looking woman who was never stuck for a man, I tell you. Generally she would go for the foremen because they were better paid, and we children had some benefit from that too. One time my mum went out with an inspector, but that German bastard was meaner than any Galician reaper, and she got him into so much trouble that he lost his job. We laughed.

  But even now, Your Honour, when my mum’s getting on and isn’t so hot any more, she’s got a way about her that makes men crazy, especially when there’s been drink taken. And she gets them to toe her line, she’s really good at that, Your Honour, you know, I have to admit it if I do say so myself, not just for a night or so, she’s not like that. But she’s got flaws too, I do admit that, even though I am her son. She can’t bear to be in the same place, even though it’s got everything going for it, she’s always wanting to move on. She’s got ants in the pants, Your Honour, she’s not capable of sitting somewhere quietly. And then she doesn’t want to get married neither, my mother could have got married a dozen times, thrifty reapers, widowers with their own furniture and all, but not Mum, not for all the tea in China!

  ‘Brunka,’ one bloke said to her once, ‘Brunka, I beg you! You’ll get everything in your name, the furniture and the two cows and the five sheep and the chickens … Only don’t leave me, Brunka, I need you, I gotta have you …’

  ‘Do one,’ was all Mum said. ‘You’re getting on. What good is your furniture if you’re an old man? I need a young fellow who makes me warm, all I get in bed with you is your cold feet!’ And so we moved on again. And Mum was never careful neither, just about every year she got knocked up, it didn’t seem to bother her. All day long grubbing up sugar beets, which is about the hardest work there is, and then in the night she gave birth, and at seven the next morning she’s back out in the fields, with the beets again. Giving birth wasn’t a job to her. ‘It keeps me healthy!’ she laughed. And there’s something else I have to say too, Your Honour: Mum was no slouch when it came to getting rid of her kids either. She always managed to palm them off on some man, not one of them stayed with her, excepting me.

  I’ve got brothers and sisters all over, I don’t even remember the places we lived in, and how many of them there are, and where they are neither. The fact that I got to stay with Mum is probably down to the fact that she lived with my old man König the longest time, and had two kids with him and all, which was me and then my sister Sophie. When Mum split with König, they divvied us up between them, and I went with her, and Sophie went to Father.

  I didn’t like being all alone with Mum all the time, I wouldn’t have minded having a few of my brothers and sisters with us. And nor did I get on with the father that Mum was with now, and having to call him Father too, he was just seven years older than I was, so he was just twenty-one, and he didn’t work neither, he drank and played cards and visited the girls of the reapers in their cots, and Mum just had to earn, and it was never enough for him. I often told Mum to get rid of him, but she wouldn’t take my advice, but swore and hit me and told me to work as well. But I wasn’t so stupid as that, work was just invented for fools, as you must know too, Your Honour, else you wou
ldn’t of become a judge, woodjer!

  I preferred hanging around out of doors, fishing or laying traps for hares and deer, and if I caught something, I would sell it on to some Polack in return for a carton or two of cigarettes, and sometimes money as well. Then I would go along with my sweetheart to the pub and pick up a soda water bottle full of schnapps, and we would crawl off to a haybarn and get drunk together and sleep it off. When I crawled home the following afternoon, Mother would yell at me and bang pots and pans around. But I didn’t care, I was used to her yelling and her beatings, the main thing was she gave me some proper dinner. And that she always did, once she had blown her top. With Mum, you just needed to have a thick skin, then you could get whatever you wanted out of her. And a thick skin is something I’ve got, Your Honour, you bet your boots I have. I’ve been through as much as an oldster, you won’t frighten me!

  Back then, we were living on an estate called Glasow, and my mother and my newest father, that young feller I was telling you about, they told me that once I was through with school, at Eastertime, I was to go with them to Holy Communion in Paderborn and then be apprenticed to a master craftsman. Of course I never went to school much, the teachers were always happy to see the back of me, but I picked up reading and writing anyhow. The doctor in remand prison is bonkers if he thinks I’m educationally subnormal – I’ve got more wits about me than he does. I’d like to see him make his way all alone in the world like me, with a leaky pair of pants and not so much as a shilling in my pocket, and the cops after me, as I’m about to tell you, Your Honour. If I’m dimwitted at all, then so is my mum and so is every woman I’ve had, because I know more’n all of them, and it was always me what had to read them the paper, because God knows they weren’t able to do it for themselves.