by Hans Fallada
Which must have been true, because they found nothing apart from a few spices, two onions, and a handful of potatoes. So Doll moved his things into the pantry, which was now considerably better stocked than during Mrs. Schulz’s time.
Then he locked the door. Meanwhile it had grown late, and it was already dark outside. The weather had turned rough; the wind pressed hard against the cellophane in the window, and squalls of driving rain rattled against it from time to time. But Doll was determined to go and see Alma in hospital anyway. He’d been thinking about this visit all day long. He pictured himself sitting on the edge of her bed again, with the radio playing softly in the background, and perhaps she’d have some smokes again … (Although, given their financial circumstances, it was a shocking waste of money!)
It would be best not to tell her that he had been discharged from the sanatorium, since that would only unsettle her. She would worry about how he was coping in the apartment on his own. She would then demand to be discharged herself, despite the fact that her leg was still not right. So he would act as if he had just given them the slip again at the sanatorium. He’d think of some little story he could tell her.
Turning these thoughts over in his mind, Doll went down the stairs and stepped out into the icy November wind, his face lashed by heavy rain. He shivered. It’s only a light summer coat, he thought to himself. He came to a halt. Summer coat or not, he couldn’t go to the hospital wearing that coat, because it would immediately give away the fact that he was no longer staying in the sanatorium. He would have to go in his thin summer suit, and the thought of this made Doll shiver even more. I could drop the coat off at the porter’s lodge, he mused. But that wouldn’t work either. Then she would feel sorry for him, and admire him for coming to see her in such weather — only to discover suddenly that his suit was dry, while outside it was pouring with rain.
No, he’d never get away with it — he would have to go in his jacket. Then he had a further thought: I could say that somebody in the sanatorium had lent me the coat. But that’s pretty darned unlikely — sneaking out on the quiet, and borrowing a coat to do so. And anyway, Alma might recognise the summer coat of Mr. Franz Xaver Grundlos — women have an eye for such things. No, there’s nothing for it — I’ll have to go in my jacket.
The weather was really foul, wet and cold, and when Doll retreated into the stairwell, out of the wind, the still air once again felt pleasantly warm — just like the previous evening. But it was only when he got back to his room and saw the comforting red glow of the electric fire that it occurred to him he didn’t really need to go at all. Alma would certainly not be expecting him. It was suppertime in the hospital now, so she had probably given up any hope of seeing him today. So there was no need to go out into the dark and the wet and the cold, and freeze half to death. He could just stay at home, climb into a warm bed, read for a bit, and then do his visit the next day, in the daylight, when hopefully the weather would be better.
But straightaway Doll shook his head and even stamped his foot, so determined was he. He’d planned to do this visit, and he did not want — did not ever want — to fall back into the old ways of the last few months, sinking into an apathetic stupor and letting himself go because he just didn’t care. And quickly, as if he feared he might change his mind again, he tore off the coat, threw it over the armchair, and ran back down the stairs, out into the stormy blast and the ice-cold rain. And he ran on so fast that he didn’t really notice how cold he was, or that he tripped over the same loose granite paving stone as before: all of this pretty much passed him by. All he could think about was the soft light of the hospital room, with the faint sounds of music on the radio, and in his mind he heard himself, still out of breath from running so fast, saying ‘Good evening, Alma!’ and saw her face light up with happiness.
And as he ran on, propelled by this joyous expectation, he felt as if he were escaping from his own broken, godless past, in which he had lived with a false and foolish pride in his solitary ways and his desert-island existence. And it felt as if this poor, bare man that he had become was now running towards a better, brighter future.
And so he entered the doors of the hospital as if effortlessly wafted there by the wind. He paused for a moment, dried his face off with his handkerchief, and wiped the rain off his glasses. Then he smoothed his hair with his hands — he’d forgotten his comb, of course, as he always did. Then, when he was breathing a little more easily again, he slowly climbed the stairs, reached the door of her room without anybody stopping him or even seeing him, knocked, and quickly entered.
He saw her face light up with joy, just as he had expected, and yet a thousand times lovelier than expected, and heard her cry: ‘It’s you, my dear, it’s you! Have you run away from them again? I’ve had a feeling all day long that you would come!’
He went across to her bed at more of a run than a walk, bent down and kissed her, and whispered: ‘No, Alma, I didn’t run away this time. They kicked me out last night. I didn’t really want to tell you, but when I saw your happy face, I knew straightaway I couldn’t lie to you!’
He sat down beside her and told her everything that had happened to him since he had left her the day before, including his wasted trip to the government offices, which had almost dashed his spirits completely again, and his battle with Mrs. Schulz, and at the end he told her the tale of the coat he had so foolishly left behind. ‘And now I’ve got myself frozen for nothing! Or maybe it wasn’t quite for nothing. I don’t know yet — the whole thing feels like some sort of conversion. And anyway, I wasn’t actually all that cold, or at least I didn’t have time to notice.’
He gazed at her as he spoke, in a way that made her reach up and pull his head down to her and whisper: ‘What’s that look on your face, you! You know that I love you terribly much, and that you suddenly look thirty years younger! If I had my way, I’d be out of here right now myself, and I’d come back with you this evening to our darling little home!’
In the instant that she spoke these words, he saw from the change in her expression that the sudden notion of coming home with him there and then was taking shape in her mind, and that the fleeting wish had quickly turned into a fervent desire and then, seconds later, into a firm intention. She had forgotten all about her leg wound. She murmured: ‘I’ll manage it somehow! And if they won’t let me out, then I’ll do what you did, and discharge myself!’ She beamed: ‘Think how nice that will be: this evening we’ll be together again!’
He replied with some annoyance: ‘Don’t even think about it, Alma! Think about your bad leg, which still needs to be treated and dressed every day. You need to get properly well again first. I can manage by myself until then. The main thing is not to start lying around in bed all day again!’
She told him defiantly that she still had a mind of her own, and did what she wanted. And she would definitely be getting out of here this evening now!
He knew how stubborn she could be, so he had no choice but to change tack and try and win her over with soft words. But he got nowhere for a while, and she stuck to her decision to get herself discharged the same day. ‘I’ll soon talk that young doctor round …!’
They carried on arguing, with no end or resolution in sight. The nun, with her Madonna-like smile, had already said a couple of times that it really was time for Mr. Doll to be leaving. Alma’s supper had now been sitting on the bedside table for some while. In the end, when he did eventually leave, he got her to concede that she would not leave this evening at least, and that she would in any event check with the senior consultant first. The evening that had begun so happily ended on a sour note: neither of them had got what they wanted, and both were feeling upset in consequence.
As Doll was crossing the hallway, he looked through the open door of a room and saw a youngish man standing there in a white doctor’s coat. Aha, he thought, let’s go and see about this! He entered the room and made himself known. It turned
out that the young, jaundiced-looking man was indeed the night-duty doctor. Doll, who had taken an instant dislike to the man, said: ‘My wife has just told me she wants to be discharged immediately. I’ve managed to talk her out of it. I assume that meets with your approval? The condition of her wound—’
‘Is excellent!’ the doctor promptly chimed in, finishing Doll’s sentence. He seemed to feel much the same about Doll as Doll felt about him. ‘She no longer needs to be in hospital. Outpatient treatment is all she needs. If your wife comes to have her wound dressed twice a week, that will be quite sufficient.’
‘I have asked my wife, and made her promise, to discuss her discharge with the senior consultant first’, continued Doll undeterred, though there was a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Apart from the wound, she needs a morphine injection more or less regularly every evening, surely? And before she is discharged, these injections would need to be discontinued completely, wouldn’t they?’
There was no doubt about it: the young doctor had wilted under this assault, and his jaundiced face now looked pale and ashen. But he quickly collected himself and answered, laying it on thick as the medical professional who knows better than the ignorant layman: ‘Oh, the injections — your wife has told you about those? Well, I can put your mind at rest on that score, too: your wife thinks she has been getting morphine. In actual fact, I gave her harmless substitutes to start with, and more recently she’s only had distilled water …’
The doctor smiled so unpleasantly as he said this that Doll was tempted to reply: And you let her give you expensive American cigarettes in return for distilled water! How very decent of you! Anyway, I don’t believe a word of it. Alma can tell the difference between the effects of water and morphine. That’s all just a smokescreen, to cover your back with your boss!
But he said none of this, for what could be gained by turning it into an argument? Instead he observed: ‘As far as I understand these things, she’ll still need to be weaned off her faith in the water that she thinks is morphine, won’t she?’
The doctor smiled unpleasantly again. ‘Oh’, he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, ‘these things are not as complicated as all that. I suggest we both go to your wife’s bedside now, and I’ll explain the necessary to her. You’ll see that it won’t come as a shock to the system — on the contrary, it’s likely to produce a certain sense of relief.’
‘No!’ said Doll with a look of fury in his eyes. ‘I haven’t the slightest intention of going along with such a suggestion. All that would achieve is to make my wife angry with me instead of you. We’ll do as I said: I’ll discuss the matter first with the consultant, and I must insist that you don’t mention this conversation to my wife in the meantime!’
Now the man in the white coat gave a superior smile. ‘Don’t worry, Dr. Doll!’ he said, full of sardonic solace. ‘I won’t show you up in front of your wife — you won’t get to feel the full force of her wrath! Needless to say, it was only a suggestion of mine that you should be present when I tell her. I can of course quite happily do it on my own …’
‘I don’t want you to tell her anything this evening!’
‘Well’, said the doctor vaguely, ‘I’ll have to hear what your wife has to say about your visit. I will, of course, be guided entirely by the condition of the patient at the time.’ He looked at the other man as if pondering what else to say. Then he reached into the pocket of his white coat and took out a little pack of American cigarettes. ‘Please’, he said to Doll, who was taken completely by surprise, ‘do have one — ’.
And Doll, defeated, wrong-footed and utterly taken aback, took the proffered cigarette … An instant later, he could have kicked himself for this act of stupidity, this lack of presence of mind. Yes indeed, this cunning little schemer had got the better of him in every respect, and by accepting a cigarette he had cut the ground from under his own feet, making it impossible to speak of the matter again.
So the two men merely exchanged a few courteous pleasantries, and Doll went home filled with rage — rage at himself and his chronic inability to think on his feet and display presence of mind.
The only consolation was that Alma had given him a firm promise not to request her discharge today, but to wait until he or she had spoken to the senior consultant. But as Doll pondered the matter further, he could draw little comfort from this. For while he was sure that Alma would keep her word, it seemed to him entirely possible that the young doctor would talk, and thus bring about the very thing that Doll most wanted to avoid at the moment: Alma’s premature discharge.
On his way to the hospital, the feeling of joyous anticipation had made him impervious to the cold and rain; on the way home, it was his gloomy thoughts that stopped him noticing the rain on this stormy November night. He was only shaken out of these thoughts when he ran straight into a man not far from his apartment, knocking him over. He promptly helped him up with profuse apologies, resigned to the prospect of being showered with abuse and threats by the man. But, to his surprise, this didn’t happen; instead, the other man, who was completely unrecognizable in the dark, inquired in tones that were almost apologetic: ‘Have you done anything about re-establishing yourself in the literary world, Mr. Doll?’
He was so startled by this completely unexpected question in the middle of the night that it took him a long time to work out who it was talking to him, and who it was he had knocked over in the dark: namely, the doctor with the papery skin, the first one to have attended his wife in Berlin. Eventually he said, somewhat fatuously: ‘Oh, it’s you, Doctor! I do beg your pardon. I hope I didn’t hurt you …’
‘I think’, said the other, still a past master in the art of not hearing something that didn’t interest him, ‘I think one will have to move quickly now if one wants to play a real part. All sorts of complete unknowns seem to be jostling round the trough again now …’
This sounded not so much envious as simply disembodied, spoken into the fog, like everything else he said, without resonance for himself or those around him. They walked side by side towards their neighbouring homes. The spectral doctor went on: ‘And there are all sorts of clubs and associations, leagues, chambers, groups being formed again — but not a single one has invited me to join. And yet at one time I was quite a well-known writer; not as well-known as you, Mr. Doll, but still, a well-respected figure.’
While he was talking, they had been approaching their destination, and it seemed the obvious thing for Doll to accompany the doctor into his building and into his apartment and then into his tolerably warm surgery, where they sat down, again without preamble, on adjacent sides of his desk. The white-painted treatment chair with its stirrups for the legs looked just as spectral as its owner. There was something unreal about all of it, as though Doll were trapped in a dream from which he was about to awake.
The doctor went on: ‘It’s as if everyone thinks I’m dead — that’s how forgotten I am. But I can’t be entirely forgotten, because I’m reading the names of old friends in the newspapers. I haven’t forgotten them, so they can’t have forgotten me. But nothing! Not a peep! As if I were already dead — but I’m not dead, not yet!’
He fell silent for a moment, and gazed at Doll with his expressionless brown eyes, in a blank, unblinking stare. Thinking to make him feel better, Doll said: ‘Nobody’s got in touch with me either …’
‘No!’ said the papery spectre, with a forcefulness that was quite unlike him. ‘No! I have nothing to reproach myself for!’ He answered a question that hadn’t been asked: ‘No, I was never a Nazi. Of course, I was a doctor in the Wehrmacht for a while, that was something that nobody could get out of. But I was never in the Party — and now this silence, as if they thought I was a Nazi. How do you deal with that?’
He looked at his companion with feverishly blinking eyes, and the paper-thin skin over his cheekbones appeared almost flushed. ‘How do you deal with what?’ inquired Doll. ‘Be
ing ignored? Why don’t you get in touch with one of your old friends? They may not even know that you’re still alive. So many people have perished in recent times …’
‘I’ve written letters, lots of letters!’ replied the doctor. ‘Look — half a drawerful! He opened a drawer in his desk, and showed Doll a little pile of letters, sealed in envelopes, addressed, and already franked with Berlin Bear stamps. The doctor quickly went on: ‘A letter is like putting out a call — just by writing it, you are calling out to your correspondent.’ He was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Nobody can reproach me! Not when I was never a Nazi! Never! Really not!’ He blinked even more fiercely.
Doll felt certain that this Dr. Pernies still partook sufficiently of this world to be tormented by something, and that he was even capable of lying in order to avert this torment. The reiterated assurance that he had never been a Nazi seemed suspicious, at the very least. It reminded him of that beer wholesaler, who had repeatedly sworn to his mayor that he honestly hadn’t hidden a thing — until the hiding place was discovered.
Doll stood up. ‘I would send the letters’, he said.
But the doctor had become quite impenetrable and remote again. ‘Of course!’ he said in a toneless voice. ‘Only, which one shall I send? And to whom? All those people are incredibly vain, and anyone I haven’t contacted will feel ignored. I thank you for your visit!’
Doll stepped out into the night. Maybe Alma had talked to the young doctor in the meantime about her discharge, and was already at the apartment? He quickened his pace.
But when he entered the room, it was empty. There was no Alma; he was on his own again this evening, and it might be that for some days to come he would have to labour alone at building their future life together. His intention was to get back to his work, and thus to a meaningful life, as soon as possible. To do that he would have to seek out the people who were in the know today, and find out what sort of publishing opportunities there were now, and what there was in the way of newspapers, magazines, and publishers. But who could he turn to? He’d been in the city of Berlin for two months, but he knew nothing, absolutely nothing of what had happened here since Germany’s collapse and defeat. He’d never looked at a newspaper — shameful as it was to have to admit it to himself!