Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  Kufalt was taken aback; he looked round at the great white-tiled stove, glowing with heat; he could not guess what answer Herr Freese wanted (for that was the one he would have liked to give), so he said: ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘I do,’ said Herr Freese wearily. ‘Too cold, much too cold. Put three briquettes on it—no, five.’

  There was a scuttle of briquettes beside the stove, but nothing with which to pick them up. Kufalt looked round and had an inspiration; he took a scrap of paper from the desk, a manuscript probably, picked up the briquettes, pushed them into the fire and the paper after them . . . and turned to Freese.

  ‘Artful,’ muttered the latter; ‘very artful. But not artful enough.’

  He sat huddled in his chair, looking very grim and old. Through the window came a faint ray of autumn sunshine, slanting across the grey ravaged face, the flushed forehead and the shabby locks of grizzled hair.

  Kufalt wondered if he were asleep.

  Far from it. ‘You’ve just come out of prison,’ said he. ‘I know that complexion. Manicures his hands, the pig, and still hopes to get a decent job.’

  He wearily raised his own hand and surveyed it; it looked as grey as if it had not been washed for weeks.

  Freese shook his head, again surveyed Kufalt, and said: ‘It’s no good, my lad, no good at all. The Trehne flows through the park, there’s a nice little pool by the tannery, the water’s cool and damp—that’s the place for you.’

  ‘And what about you?’ said Kufalt breathlessly to that ghost of alcohol and gloom.

  ‘Too old,’ said Freese. ‘Much too old. If a man’s got nothing more to expect, he always goes on living. You’ve got something to expect, so—chuck it!’

  They were both silent.

  ‘Cold,’ said the old man, and shivered, glancing at the stove. ‘Never mind, it’s no use trying to do anything. How did you come across Dietrich?’

  ‘He came to see me where I live.’

  ‘What did he offer you?’

  ‘Every sort of work, 25 per cent to him.’

  ‘Did he sting you for money?’ asked Freese.

  ‘No,’ said Kufalt proudly. ‘I stung him.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty marks.’

  ‘Kraft!’ roared the old man. ‘Kraft!!’

  The door of the outer room opened and the horse-face appeared. ‘Well?’ it said.

  ‘This young man will begin with us tomorrow, canvassing advertisements and subscribers. Usual rate. If he doesn’t make six a day, he’s fired. And see that Dietrich is fired at once.’

  ‘But . . . ’ began Kraft.

  ‘Dietrich’s fired; he let himself be stung for money,’ snapped Herr Freese. And then: ‘Get out!’

  Herr Kraft got out.

  ‘Tomorrow morning at nine,’ said Herr Freese. ‘But I tell you at once, it’s no use. You’ll never do six a day and I shall fire you, and then there’s the river . . . ’

  As he sat there he surely saw it, with his very eyes. ‘The river,’ he said; ‘grey and cold and damp. Water . . . ’ he said. ‘Damp,’ he added, and shuddered.

  This time he poured himself a glass of brandy.

  He shuddered again as he drank.

  Then he said in a clearer voice: ‘And how about those twenty marks you got from Dietrich? He still owes money here. Hand them over.’

  ‘B-but,’ began Kufalt.

  ‘Ha!’ said the old man. ‘You don’t know what you’re going to live on for the next few days—and you’re going out to canvass for subscribers!! Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Kufalt, almost at the door. Once more he heard Freese say ‘Water . . . ’ and he saw the grey, bloated face, the grizzled hair, the genie of the brandy bottle . . .

  ‘Water . . . ’ said Freese.

  XII

  ‘How do you like him?’ she asked.

  ‘Nice. Very nice,’ he said hastily.

  ‘His name is Willi. Wilhelm,’ said she.

  ‘That’s my name,’ said he.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said she.

  The night was very dark. Over the leafless branches of the trees hung the canopy of sky—starless—a presence more to be felt than seen. First they walked side by side through the lamplit streets, then arm in arm along the road, and then embracing through the leafless copses. They came to a bench surrounded by young pines, and there sat down. The wind was above them; at their sides it seemed more distant; they sat together and were warm.

  He saw her face as a bright shimmer, in which the eyes were darkling pools—gleaming out of that silken darkness.

  ‘Children ought to have a father,’ she said.

  ‘I have been so long alone too,’ he said, and leaned his head on her shoulder; it was very soft.

  She drew him nearer, with one hand against her breast. ‘Oh, so have I!’ said she. ‘When the child came, and everybody stared at me and I was suddenly like dirt, and Father was always beating me and Mother always crying . . . ’

  She sank into her memories.

  ‘I haven’t got a father,’ said he.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t,’ she cried. ‘Then I could take a room and work for the boy . . . But as it is . . . ’

  ‘But why don’t you?’ he asked. ‘You’re of age.’

  ‘That wouldn’t do at all,’ she said quickly. ‘Father is well known in the trade, and until this happened he was master of the Glaziers’ Guild. Everybody knows me here. No; I shall have to stay at home until someone marries me.’

  There was silence for a while. The hand that held the head against the warm, soft breast loosened its grasp. But the other came to join it, and together they lifted the head; lips met, and this time the girl’s lips parted. Soft lips seemed to swell and blossom under his kiss.

  Hilde’s mouth drew back for an instant and a sound came from it, a gasp of relief—water after long, long thirst—then her mouth swooped down upon his from the darkness and drew his lips into hers, burning with desire—fuller and tenderer . . .

  No lovers’ talk, no uttered word; two thirsty beings that at last, at last could drink. Silent, never-ending kisses; and between them Kufalt could hear the night wind in the trees, the creak of a branch, a sudden swirl of autumn leaves, the hoot of a motor horn, far, far away . . .

  And while Kufalt drank, and held his breath, a vast melancholy filled his heart. ‘At the very moment I am kissing it is over . . . In the beginning is the end.’ And, ‘Children must have a father . . . his name is Willi . . . until someone marries me . . . it is over, as I kiss, it is over . . . ’

  Sad earth that brings sorrow with fulfilment, planet barely warmed by the sun’s rays before it turns to ice . . . passion quickly chilled . . . poor Kufalt . . .

  They kiss and kiss, they fling their arms around each other, their breath comes quicker, their brains swim, their hearts throb, there is a fire before their eyes like a spurt of flame from ashes—and while their kisses grow more frantic and devouring, an evil thought flashes through Kufalt’s brain. If she was crafty he could be more crafty still . . . If she meant to catch him, perhaps he could catch her . . .

  And his hand slid from the shoulder beneath the cloak, over the blouse, down to the breast and grasped it. And he pressed his leg against hers.

  She flung herself away from him, wrenched her body out of his embrace, like iron from a magnet.

  For a moment they both stood swaying. She—he could guess the gesture in the darkness—put her hand up to her hair, as she had done in the dance hall the night before.

  ‘No,’ he heard her whisper. ‘Never, never again.’

  ‘I only wanted . . . ’ he began hurriedly.

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said, ‘we had better go now. Once is quite enough.’

  She shivered; and felt for his arm. ‘Come along. It’s getting cold. Let’s go for a little walk.’

  They went. No, she had not been offended; but . . . that was the end of that, thought Kufalt. She had really had enough. S
he was afraid.

  And he said aloud, ‘You needn’t go home yet? What will your father say?’

  ‘It’s one of my father’s skittle evenings,’ she said.

  She found every path in the darkness. The park was large, but she knew them all. ‘We must turn left here—now over there, where it looks quite dark. That’s the way to the hut.’

  ‘She must often have been here with the other man,’ thought Kufalt. ‘Or with the others. There’s no father, no one to pay for the child. And now I come along when she’s had enough of it. Just my rotten luck.’

  ‘The little plump man who was with you in the Rendsburger Hof—is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Bruhn? Yes, he’s my friend.’

  ‘I should be careful of him, I’ve heard he’s a thief and a murderer.’

  ‘A thief and a murderer . . . ’ said Kufalt angrily. ‘What do you know about thieves and murderers? He’s a fine young man.’

  ‘But he’s been in prison,’ she said. ‘I know that for certain.’

  ‘Well, and what if he has?’ said Kufalt aggressively. ‘Do you think that’s so very dreadful?’

  ‘It’s a question of taste,’ she said. ‘I don’t like such people any more than I like the unemployed. Fancy living on the dole, and the man in the house all day! I could get plenty like that if I wanted them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.

  It seemed as though she were gradually receding from him; it was good to be with her when they were silent, but now that they began to speak, they fell apart.

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Where do you work?’ she asked. ‘Are you in an office or a shop?’

  ‘No; on a newspaper,’ he said.

  ‘Splendid!’ said she. ‘I’m sure you get lots of cinema tickets. Can’t we go to the cinema one of these days?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I must see how I can manage. There are a good many of us on the Town and Country Messenger.’

  ‘So you’re on the Messenger,’ she said in rather a disappointed tone. ‘I thought you were on the Friend. We always read the Friend. It’s a much better paper.’

  ‘But how do you know if you don’t read the Messenger?’

  ‘Oh yes we do. But we’ve got used to the Friend. Perhaps the Messenger has improved,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I don’t really know it, we only see it now and again. Come along, there’s the hut. I expect it’ll be warmer inside.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I must go home now.’

  ‘Oh dear, and now you’re cross,’ she cried in despair. ‘Because I said that about the Messenger. I’ll never say anything against the Messenger again, never!’

  ‘No, I’m tired. I want to go home now,’ he said.

  They stood and faced each other. In the clearing, by the little rustic hut, there was a bit more light. He looked at her face; her hands were raised imploringly to the level of her breast.

  ‘Oh, Willi,’ she said, calling him for the first time by his Christian name. ‘Don’t be angry with me. Please come.’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ he said, in what sounded a very angry voice; ‘but I’m really tired and must get to bed quickly. I’ve got a great deal to do tomorrow.’

  She let her hands fall, and was silent for a moment.

  ‘Then go,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Go.’

  He hesitated, murmured a goodnight, and turned away.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she answered, also in a low tone.

  And then: ‘Give me a kiss, Willi, please.’

  He swung round and took a step or two towards her.

  And suddenly he flung his arms around her. This was the woman, the very woman he had longed for all those years, his vanished happiness, the fulfilment that had always slipped out of his grasp . . . Here was the female creature, the bosom that brought happiness, the greatest happiness of all . . . Must he toil back to his room, to his lonely bed?

  And he fell upon her with a storm of kisses. He dazed her with the avalanche of his caresses and his quick, questing hands. He blurted out broken, incoherent words: ‘Oh my dear, have I found you again . . . You are mine . . . I love you!’

  They swayed in each other’s arms. The little hut came nearer, a door creaked. It was very dark inside, and chill and dank, odorous of rotting wood . . .

  Stillness had fallen. The quick breathing had grown calmer and was now quite calm. Hilde wept softly. He lay with his head on her lap, and she stroked his hair, but it was probably other hair of which she thought: silkier, lighter, younger.

  In his little bed, a kilometre and a half away, slept little Willi. She can go to him, but will she be able to stay with him? ‘Never, never again,’ she had said to herself, and now it had started, just as before.

  ‘Don’t cry any more,’ he begged her. ‘Nothing can possibly have happened.’

  She wept.

  And then she whispered: ‘Do you like me just a little, Willi? Please say you do!’

  XIII

  He said it, and he thought: one can say many things. And she believed it or did not believe it. And then they parted, in the light of a street lamp, and her face was wet with tears.

  One can say many things.

  But now he lay alone in his own bed; indeed it was good to lie alone in his own bed between the cool, smooth sheets, with no strange warmth beside him. He lay in bed alone, the room was not quite dark, light from a street lamp was reflected on the opposite wall, and he gazed at it.

  He pondered: yes, one can say many things. She had tried to catch him; well, he had caught her.

  He closed his eyes; it was now dark. But in the vast abyss of darkness appeared a small, bright vision: Hildegard, the evening before, by her child’s bed. She had bent over him—and that night too in the hut she had made one sudden movement . . . not repulsion, nor despair, nor tears; and in that brief moment he was hers, she had taken him in her arms—him, Willi Kufalt, and she had wanted him, for one fleeting moment. A flash of tenderness, a quickened, more ecstatic breathing, a sigh of joy . . .

  He must see her again and treat her quite differently, much more kindly. After all, she didn’t mean any harm. And the child? It was all for the child’s sake! She was right, children must have a father (how he slept there—all huddled up, and his hair so tousled), and she was quite right to try to get him a father. Why shouldn’t he marry her? Something might come of the newspaper; perhaps he might really earn some money . . . Later on, when they were married, he would tell her he had been in prison . . . All might yet be well . . .

  And he smiled. He thought of that gesture when, in her joy, she had drawn him closer into her arms. Had that ever happened to him before?

  He was not wholly bad; there were traces of his earlier days; now he had come from a cruel, selfish, dog-eat-dog world, foul . . . A little kindness, a little loyalty and love, and something would stir inside, all that was good in him was not yet wholly buried . . .

  ‘Dear Hilde,’ he whispered. ‘Dearest Hilde.’

  It did not ring quite true as yet, but it almost did.

  Next morning he dashed into Linsing the jeweller’s shop, just after eight, when it was still being swept; and he bought a gold wristwatch for sixty-seven marks.

  XIV

  Punctually at nine o’clock Kufalt entered the editorial office of the Town and Country Messenger. He was wearing his best suit—the blue one with the white needle stripe—a black overcoat that was still quite decent, and a hard black hat. In his hand he carried a brown briefcase, and in the briefcase was a parcel containing a lady’s wristwatch; one never knew whom one might run into on the way.

  Behind the counter in the despatch room sat the tall, gaunt, horse-faced man, and opposite him a girl at a typewriter.

  ‘My name is Kufalt,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘I know that already,’ growled Kraft. ‘I’ve heard enough of it.’ And as Kufalt looked at him with consternation, he added more mildly: ‘You can imagine the shindy I’ve had with Dietrich on your account!�
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  ‘But that wasn’t my fault,’ protested Kufalt. ‘Herr Freese did it, and I don’t in the least understand why.’

  Kraft eyed him up for a few moments.

  ‘Come along with me,’ he said. ‘And I’ll put you up to the job.’

  Kufalt was taken to a little cubby-hole, a sort of lumber room for buckets and brushes, with shelves full of piles of newspapers yellow with age. On the table stood a battered oil lamp, in one corner a shabby, battered sofa, and in the other corner—bottles, an array of empty bottles, with some champagne bottles among them.

  ‘You must get this place cleared up sometime so you can work here.’ With a glance at the sofa and the bottles: ‘This was where the old man used to entertain his little ladies’—a glance at the adjoining room—‘while he was still up to it.’

  Kufalt shuddered at the thought of that bloated alcoholic spectre in the company of women.

  ‘Here are lists,’ said Kraft, ‘of all the important members of every trade. Pick out each trade in succession. Always take a union one by one, say the bakers or the butchers, and so on; work through each trade systematically. The syndic of all the trade guilds is a contributor to our paper. Every week he writes a long screed about trade questions. You must use that as a lever: “We support you, so you must support us.” You collect the first contribution against a receipt from this book. That’s your commission. In the evening you come and report the new subscribers to me, so that they get the paper next morning. That’s all . . . ’

  Kraft walked to the door. Then he said in a bored tone: ‘You won’t come to anything here even if you did get Dietrich the sack.’

  And he pushed off without giving Kufalt time to reply.

  Kufalt cleared the table, pulled—after looking round—the loose cover off the sofa, dusted the table and began his day’s work. He made lists of the masters of each trade; it was a great temptation to start with the glaziers, but he resisted, and began with the painters.