by Hans Fallada
‘What are you?’
‘Murderer. You’ll find it on the sheet, sir. Murderer.’
‘I want to know what you were before.’
‘Nothing at all. Oh yes, I was a soldier, a defender of the Fatherland, Mr Secretary sir. I did in my lieutenant.’
‘That does not interest us here.’
‘It’s only because you asked, Mr Secretary sir. I thought it would interest you.’
The other rummaged in a pile of papers and finally produced a document.
‘I have to make you aware—er—that four years of your sentence have been remitted subject to three years’ probation . . . You are under police supervision. You have to report here at the station every day between six and seven in the evening. If you change your domicile, you have to report before doing so. If you fail to report daily, you will be liable to instant arrest. Do you understand?’
‘But suppose I’m ill, sir?’
‘Then send someone here with a medical certificate.’
‘No one would do an errand for me.’
‘Well, we will keep an eye on you, if we have to come round to your place.’
Beerboom appeared to ponder deeply. ‘That isn’t correct, Mr Secretary sir.’
‘What isn’t correct?’ demanded the officer indignantly.
‘What you’ve just read to me.’
‘It’s perfectly correct that you’ll be arrested at once if you don’t report.’
‘No I shan’t. And I shan’t report either.’
The officer was on the verge of an explosion. ‘Why? I’ve got a permit from the Central Police Office, that I needn’t report, because I’m under supervision at the Home.’ He fumbled in his pockets, and handed the officer a certificate.
‘Why didn’t you give me that before? Why did you let me go on talking? Kindly give me all your papers at once.’
‘I haven’t got them all here. Some of them are at home.’
‘Which?’
‘My vaccination certificate. And a school certificate.’
The bird’s voice was now screeching: ‘You’re a . . . ’ Beerboom grinned expectantly. ‘Oh well.’ And turning to the pale man: ‘Have you done with yours? Yes? Right, you can go.’
‘Me too?’
‘Yes! You too!’
Beerboom and Kufalt both stood outside in the street again. ‘Why do you behave like that? What’s the point of it?’ said Kufalt angrily. ‘I felt quite ashamed of you.’
‘Those blokes need to have their noses rubbed in it. They’re such pricks. It’s what I most enjoy. My section warder in the prison, I tell you . . . ’
‘I don’t mind when the bloke’s a shit. But to go on like that just for fun . . . No, I shan’t go with you to a station again.’
‘I won’t do it again if you’re there, and it annoys you. But what’s a man to do all those years in the clink, when nothing ever happens? He must stir things up a bit.’
‘Yes, I used to do that too. But now we’re outside.’
‘I still can’t figure it. Do you know, I can’t figure it in my mind that I’m outside. And I know it’s no use. I’ll be in again soon.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you see that girl on the bench with the pram? Pretty, eh? Shall I go up to her and say—Fräulein, would you like me to give you a child?’
‘Why? What’s she done to you? She’s not much more than a child herself.’
‘I don’t know. I feel so savage. About everything. She’s lucky, she is, she doesn’t know about anything yet. Why shouldn’t she know? It’s a foul world. Why shouldn’t she be as foul as the rest of it? Oh, Kufalt, I’ve got such a terrible sore head, I wish I were lying on my bed so I could cry.’
VI
It was the loveliest afternoon in the world, the lunch had been good, two slabs of beef for every man. Kufalt was sitting in front of his enamelled dish; the type-levers were clean, he was now drying them, and wiping the joints with oily rags. He worked in a sort of drowsy quiet; in fact he felt very well.
Beerboom had taken himself off immediately after lunch; he had gone to bed, no doubt to have a good cry. But his flight was soon discovered. The typing room could hear Seidenzopf’s booming bass up above, Beerboom’s shrill protests, and then he appeared, with Seidenzopf at his heels.
‘Office hours are office hours. You signed the agreement.’
‘I never read what I signed.’
‘Tut-tut-tut, now sit down to your work.’
‘I can’t sit still for nine hours, my nerves won’t stand it.’
‘But you want to earn money. Get down to it! Don’t you see how much Maack has finished already—and you . . . ’
Yes, it did not look as though Beerboom would finish his fifteen hundred addresses that day. Kufalt reckoned up the heap that lay in front of Beerboom. Three hundred addresses, perhaps. Forty-five pfennigs a hundred. No, Beerboom would not earn his board that day.
Maack, on the other hand, tall, lanky, pallid Maack, wrote like a machine. A fleeting glance at the list of addresses in front of him, his hand raced over the paper—and the address was written. Hundred upon hundred were, heap after heap, piled up before him. But he never looked up, he turned out address after address quite mechanically, without moving a muscle of his face.
From time to time, however—as indeed did all the others—he went into the outer room, past the egg-headed watchdog Mergenthal, and dived into the cellar. Mergenthal always growled out something like: ‘What, again already? Now watch out! You might have waited a bit!’
When Maack disappeared the next time, after a short interval, Kufalt followed him. Mergenthal muttered: ‘There’s someone down there now,’ but like all the others Kufalt took no notice, and went down into the cellar.
As might have been expected, there was a WC below. And as might also have been expected, it was occupied. And as might also have been expected, it smelt strongly of cigarette smoke.
While he waited, Kufalt rolled a cigarette, and lit it.
The flush gurgled in the pan, and Maack stepped out. He was about to pass Kufalt without a word, but then, as the latter smiled slightly, he said in a low voice: ‘Only smoke there in the WC. If Seidenzopf cops you, there’s a fine. Mergenthal just growls, he’s not a bad bloke.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kufalt, and smiled again. ‘Thank you very much.’
Maack went. Suddenly he turned: ‘If I were you, next time Seidenzopf comes through the typing room, I should ask him what he’s going to pay you for cleaning the machine. Otherwise, you won’t get a bean.’
‘Yes,’ said Kufalt. ‘Good, I will.’
‘Thirty pfennigs the hour, that’s the tariff here.’
‘Thanks very much. Thirty pfennigs. You don’t live in the Home?’
‘I must go up now,’ said Maack, and disappeared.
No one noticed Kufalt’s return. The workroom was in uproar, a revolt was in progress. Beerboom had thrown away his penholder and was shouting that he could do no more, he would go mad, it was worse than splitting canes. It was worse than prison. Why had they let him out, if he was to be imprisoned again in a place like this?
Mergenthal tried to calm him down. ‘It’s only the first few days you feel like that. You’ll soon settle down, and you won’t think any more about it.’
‘I can’t do it. I won’t stand it. Let me go out on the street for half an hour. I swear I’ll come back. But I must get out . . . I can’t be stuck here, I’ve been stuck in prison for eleven years.’
The wailing monologue went on and on.
Attracted by the uproar, Seidenzopf appeared. ‘What’s the matter now? But my dear good son, this won’t do at all. The other gentlemen want to work.’
‘Let me out. Into the open air. Why didn’t you leave me on my bed, I’d have cried myself to sleep all right . . . Let me out!’
‘But, Herr Beerboom, you are a grown man, you understand the meaning of a regulation. It is a regulation that everyone here must work for nine hours
a day.’
‘I must get out—I’ll smash the place up . . . ’
‘Beerboom, am I to call the police? You know quite well . . . ’
Mergenthal had whispered something into Seidenzopf ‘s ear, and he pondered: ‘Very well, I’ll take the responsibility. Beerboom, go on writing addresses for three hours, and then you can take the finished envelopes on the handcart to the post. Herr Mergenthal will go with you. In that way you’ll get out. No, that’s quite enough. You must write as hard as you can, otherwise I shan’t give you permission. You have done nothing yet. And the handwriting must be better. Who is going to read that sort of thing? Our addresses must make a pleasant impression, the recipient must be glad to get such a circular. Look, Beerboom, when you write: “Chief Secretary” give a bit of a flourish to the “Chief”, so that the man will be pleased to think he has done so well in the world. Writing addresses is an art, and a very interesting one. Excellent, my dear Maack, I like to see a table like that. I will get you a good position very soon.’
‘You have promised me that for the last eighteen months, Herr Seidenzopf.’
‘And you, my dear Kufalt, that’s good, that’s a very pretty sight, what a shining, glittering machine. I am sure it gladdens your heart to remove disorder and uncleanliness. It must gladden the heart of every right-minded man.’
‘Am I on piece work or a daily wage, Herr Seidenzopf?’
‘This is in readiness for your work tomorrow, my dear Kufalt. It is to your advantage, and tomorrow you will get on like greased lightning. Well, ha-ha-ha! Of course it has been greased.’
‘And how much am I earning? Look at the state my hands are in.’
‘We are a typewriting establishment, Herr Kufalt. We undertake typewriting commissions for various firms. They pay for the addresses, but not for cleaning our machines.’
‘But I can’t work a whole day for nothing. Shall I get today’s board and lodging for nothing?’
‘I hope, my friend, you are not greedy—greedy about money, I mean.’
‘I was told I should get well-paid work here.’
But Seidenzopf had already passed on. ‘And you, my dear Leuben, a little slow, eh?’
The tall, pale man looked across at Kufalt, and nodded encouragingly.
Kufalt ran after Seidenzopf. ‘I insist on knowing what I’m to get for that filthy job. I’ve been five hours at it. Thirty pfennigs an hour is your rate.’
Seidenzopf surveyed him with a chilly, evil eye. ‘We’ll give you a mark. Not another word. It is quite out of order for you to leave your seat and pester me like this. Sit down at once. I am greatly disappointed in you.’
And turning away with a sigh, he added: ‘There are so many unemployed, are there not?’
Across the room, seated at his table, the pallid Maack nodded unobtrusively. Kufalt was well satisfied.
VII
Supper was over. It was free time for Willi Kufalt, the second evening of his liberty, after about one thousand eight hundred evenings in prison.
He sat in the common room at the Home and looked through the window down at the twilit street. The window was large, with fine clear panes, and bars on the outside; a bit of arty ironwork, no doubt.
People passed, the evening was mild, some were going home, some were going out. And there were girls among them. The girls’ legs in their short skirts were not as impressive in reality as they had been in a prisoner’s dreams.
However, there was a large park somewhere in the neighbour-hood, and it would be very pleasant to take a walk in it. But a formal permit had to be obtained from Seidenzopf for such an excursion, and Kufalt felt that he was getting fed up with Seidenzopf.
Beerboom slipped like a vagrant spectre through the house, upstairs, downstairs, past the windows, past the doors, but all were well secured. Poor Beerboom, he was waiting for the first share of profits from his three marks. It was not very likely that Berthold would hand them over. Well, when it had grown dark, and all hope had disappeared, he would go and lie down on his bed and cry. That was a relief, it numbed the brain and made it dull and drowsy.
Kufalt switched on the light, went to the bookcase and surveyed the shelves with disgust: the books lay in disorder, some of them with the pages outwards. Kufalt took out a book: Our U-boat Heroes. He took out the dark-bound volume next to that saga of the sea: Hamburg Song-book. He was about to try a third . . .
Minna appeared in the doorway. ‘We don’t allow a light for one person only,’ she snapped, switched it off and vanished.
‘Damn you!’ roared Kufalt, and switched the light on again.
He took another book out of the case. The Sins Against the Spirit, by Artur Dinter. He opened the book at random and began to read.
From the door came Frau Seidenzopf’s whining voice: ‘The light must not be turned on here so early in the evening. It is still quite light outside. There’s a light on upstairs, and another downstairs. What is our light bill going to be like?’
Frau Seidenzopf switched the light off and went out. She left the door open. Kufalt put the book very quietly back into the cupboard, closed the door and sat down on a chair by the window.
It was almost dark outside.
The light was suddenly switched on. The young man of high character and strong convictions, Petersen, the student, aged perhaps twenty-six, adviser to the discharged prisoners, had come in.
‘Sitting in the dark? Do you like it?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I like it,’ said Kufalt, blinking at the tall, fair-haired young man.
Petersen drew the curtains. Then he dropped into a chair with a sigh of contentment and stretched out his legs. ‘God, how tired I am! How I have run around today!’
‘Is the university far away?’
‘Yes, it is. But I wasn’t there. I’ve been to see a man who used to come to the typing room.’
Kufalt looked at him inquiringly.
Petersen was very willing to talk. ‘He’s living with a girl. And now she wants to get away from him.’
‘Well, if she wants to go, she’d better go,’ observed Kufalt.
‘But she’s expecting.’
‘And what did you say? What did you do?’
‘What can one say? I sat down. At first they were glad I had come. I also brought them a little contribution from us here. Then they started to quarrel.’
‘What did they quarrel about?’
‘About an eau-de-cologne bottle. He happens to be a very tidy man, everything has to be in its place. And he found the eau-de-cologne bottle in the kitchen cupboard; and it should have been on the washstand. That’s what they quarrelled about.’
‘What nonsense.’
‘They quarrelled pretty badly. Eventually they began to scream. And when they had finished, they were about finished too. Then they cried.’
‘It wasn’t the eau-de-cologne bottle,’ said Kufalt; ‘it’s because they’re down. When people are down, everything comes hard. In prison I used to get excited when the least thing went wrong.’
‘Yes,’ said Petersen. ‘Yes, that is true. But what can one do?’
‘What do they live on?’
‘He used to work in the typing room. He was quite good. And he suddenly said he couldn’t cross the road. That happens to quite a number. When they first come out, you don’t notice anything odd about them. It’s all new then. But they get like that suddenly . . . ’
‘Yes, they go a bit crazy. Beerboom’s going crazy, by the way. You’d better keep an eye on him.’
‘Yes, we must see,’ said Petersen dubiously. ‘One can do so little.’
‘You ought to speak to Herr Seidenzopf. It’s madness to make a man in that state sit in an office for nine hours, it will do his head in.’
‘It’s the regulation, you know, Kufalt, that every man has to do nine hours a day.’
‘Yes, “do” is the word!’
The door opened. Minna, with her hand on the switch, snapped, ‘Frau Seidenzopf told me to say that the light . . . ’
‘What’s the matter, Minna?’ asked Petersen.
‘Oh, you’re there too,’ said Minna. ‘One hour’s light will be taken off your pay, Herr Kufalt,’ announced Minna, and departed.
Petersen and Kufalt looked at each other.
‘I’ll speak to Herr Seidenzopf,’ said Petersen. ‘You won’t be fined for the light.’
Kufalt half shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. However, thank you.’ Then, ‘What’s the real position here? Can we only go out with you?’
‘No, of course you can go out alone too. Still, it is recommended, especially in the evening . . . I’ll go anywhere with you, you know.’ And he added with a twinkle in his eye: ‘I like dancing.’
‘What do we do on Sunday?’
‘We can go down to the harbour. And afterwards to some nice café, where it isn’t too dear. We’ll take some sandwiches with us for supper.’
‘I’ve got an appointment on Sunday evening. You’ll have to let me go for an hour. I promise I’ll be back punctually.’
‘You can go alone,’ said the student. ‘No one can stop you.’
‘No,’ said Kufalt; ‘not alone. I want the people here to think I’ve been with you all the time.’
Petersen got out of his chair and began to pace up and down. Then he said awkwardly: ‘No, my dear Herr Kufalt, I would rather not. It might cause unpleasantness.’
‘Right,’ said Kufalt. ‘It wasn’t an important date. In fact it wasn’t a date at all. I only wanted to be sure about you. Goodnight, Herr Petersen.’
VIII
Kufalt sat at his typewriter, typing addresses. It was the second day he had done so. Yesterday he had done seven hundred, today he must do better. He was getting on fairly well, though he still made rather too many typing slips, but they passed muster among the many hundred addresses. Every hour or so Herr Mergenthal came in, reckoned up what had been done, and carried it away.
From where he sat Kufalt could not see Beerboom, but during the pauses when he was looking for the next address in his list, he heard him fidgeting with his papers. Beerboom had had a bad day again: three times he had jumped up and tried to escape from the typing room. He kept on hearing Berthold’s voice. Mergenthal had then caught him, and pushed and persuaded him back to his place. But Beerboom would not do a thousand addresses that day either; his output diminished every day.