Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  He had first put up in a shabby little hotel where he had slept for a few nights. In the daytime he had tramped the streets and tried to make up his mind what to do with his life.

  He reviewed the last nine months since his release: those nine months had not been good ones. He had struggled, he had abased himself, he had been cowardly, he had fawned and flattered, but he had also worked very hard—and it had all been in vain.

  He realized that it was not merely the fault of all the others—Teddy, Jauch, Marcetus, Maack, Hilde, and so on—it had been his own fault too. For a while everything would seem to be going smoothly, and then something pulled him up. He could not move on steadily in a given direction; he played the fool with himself; he chickened out a dozen times and was cowardly when there was absolutely no need; then suddenly he tore into a rage and threw his weight about and upset everything, when there was equally no need. Why was he like that? Had he been like that before?

  No, it was not only because he had something to hide. It was because something within him was incomplete, because he was really still in prison. And he always felt how easy it would be to return.

  He had once told the governor, while still in prison, that he was like a man deprived of hands. The governor had disputed this, but it was so. For five years he had been relieved of everything, not even had he been allowed to think for himself, he had merely had to obey orders, and now he had to act alone . . . and he could not do it, deprived of hands. What was the use of work, and humiliation, and privation, when it led to nothing?

  He thought of the long succession of familiar faces that he had seen return to prison during his five years’ sentence. They came back, they all came back. Or else they were in other prisons, or doing what would get them back one day. Batzke was absolutely right: a man must choose his time and pull off a big thing, and then, if he had to do another stretch, he would feel it had been worth his while.

  Take the case of Emil Bruhn. Kufalt now knew from the newspapers that he would never meet his old friend Emil in Hamburg or anywhere else, or ever be tempted to squeal on him. Emil had been found under the debris with his skull battered in, and an itinerant Polish workman had confessed to having murdered him and set fire to the factory.

  Emil Bruhn; eleven years a slave, friendly, hard-working, with such few and trifling claims on life: the pictures, a girl and a modest job. And what had been the end of it all? An ex-convict was always an ex-convict. The most humane punishment would be to hang them all on the spot.

  When had he felt so wholly at ease, when had he been so completely master of himself during those last few months and known exactly what to do and say? Where was his true home?

  Superintendent Specht had complained to the investigating magistrate about him, the chief inspector had had him thrown out of the room and Detective Inspector Brödchen had fairly roared with rage at him.

  When they treated him as an old lag, then he felt at home, then he could talk and act impudently—this he felt comfortable with, this was a part that he had learnt.

  But if this was so, if he had really become a criminal during his imprisonment, and if he must go back again, then he needed to pull himself together for three or four weeks before the great coup was landed. He must no longer waver on the edge of respectability, he must carefully plan a coup on a large scale, while he still had money. It would not be easy, his cowardice and indecision stood in his way; he was not a natural criminal, he had become one, he had learnt to be a criminal.

  So Kufalt walked about and pondered; he went into the forests and the Vierlande, he climbed the Süllberg, he looked down onto the Elbe, the ships and the villages, and all the wintry landscape; he was a man like the rest, indistinguishable from his fellows, he was no criminal type—but he was caught and fettered. And he hammered out his plan.

  He became the actor Ernst Lederer, took a room with the poor little old Frau Pastorin Fleege, frequented the Jungfernstieg regularly, and sent the hooker Ilse in search of Batzke.

  VI

  ‘Send the tart away,’ said Batzke.

  ‘She’s a nice girl, her name’s Ilse,’ replied Kufalt.

  ‘She’ll mess up our business,’ said Batzke.

  ‘I’ve got no business to mess up,’ replied Kufalt.

  A brief pause followed. Batzke looked round the room, then helped himself to another brandy.

  ‘Nice billet,’ he observed.

  ‘Not bad,’ replied Kufalt.

  ‘When we went to see the prison at Fuhlsbüttel that day, you were pretty well cleaned out,’ said Batzke pensively.

  ‘I was,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘You couldn’t have rented a room like this.’

  ‘A room can always be rented.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Yes, there’s the rent to pay.’

  ‘And the brandy? And the rum? And the cigarettes?’

  ‘Maybe it’s swag, Batzke.’

  ‘Have you got the four hundred for me?’

  ‘Perhaps, Batzke.’

  A short pause, and then Batzke leaned forward, and said furiously: ‘You fetched me here for that four hundred. Have you got it, or not?’

  Their faces were now barely a metre apart. Batzke’s eyes blazed with fury, Kufalt’s face was pale and twitching, but his looked firmly into Batzke’s.

  ‘Look, Batzke,’ he said.

  With a faint jerk of the head he indicated the pistol in his right hand.

  Batzke looked, stood up and shook his great carpenter’s shoulders, one heavier than the other from long years of labour at the plane. He paced up and down the room and said: ‘Something has come over you, Kufalt. You’ve changed a good bit.’

  And Kufalt said: ‘Look at the room here—a nice billet, says you; nifty. And the stuff. And I’ve got money. And the four hundred for you, perhaps, too—perhaps it’s all this’—with a wave of his hand—‘that’s made me different.’

  Batzke began pacing up and down again.

  ‘Well, tell me what it is you want; you didn’t have that tart look for me for nothing.’

  The girl came in with the hot water for the grog.

  Kufalt looked at her thoughtfully, then at Batzke, then at the girl again, and said:

  ‘Only two glasses. You can clear off, Ilse. Here’s five marks.’

  Batzke peered at the money, but could see no signs of anything more than the five-mark note, which had clearly been held in readiness.

  And he said indignantly: ‘You might at least give her a hot grog, if she’s got to go out on the street again. Don’t overdo it, Kufalt.’

  Kufalt looked at him and grinned. ‘Aha! Not in such a hurry, eh? Have a grog, Ilse, and be off with you!’

  ‘Kufalt?’ said the girl doubtfully, as she drank. ‘I thought it was Lederer.’

  ‘Did I say Kufalt?’ said Batzke scornfully. ‘Go and wash your ears. His name’s Einfalt. And that’s what he is.’

  The girl looked suspiciously from one to the other with quick, darting eyes and said: ‘All right, I’ll go.’

  ‘Have another, Mary, my girl,’ said Batzke with a wink at Kufalt.

  But the girl refused. She tossed her head and said she wouldn’t be treated like this, and she wasn’t going to prison for five marks and a brandy, and besides, her name wasn’t Mary.

  Batzke grinned.

  ‘All right, Ilse,’ said Kufalt. ‘We’ll meet tomorrow as usual.’

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ she replied. ‘You with your nasty friend and your two names.’

  But she stood where she was, and surveyed the pair with a provocative eye.

  ‘Now then, hop it,’ said Kufalt impatiently.

  ‘I shall go when I choose,’ she said with rising anger. ‘I won’t stand for any nonsense from the likes of you. And if I went to the police now . . . I heard all you said about rent and swag . . . ’

  But she got no further.

  In a flash Batzke was up, seized her with both his arms and said savagely: ‘Now, Mary, my girl,’ and crus
hed her so that she cried out with pain.

  ‘Now get out,’ he said. ‘You know me, eh?’

  He let her go. She stood there for a moment, uncertain whether she should begin to cry, and left.

  ‘And if the job comes off,’ said Kufalt, ‘I’ll have to get another room, just because you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘What job?’ asked Batzke. ‘First I’ve heard of it.’

  The situation had strangely altered. Kufalt had been so easily the superior, it was Batzke who had made mistakes. And now Kufalt, in some mysterious way, had suddenly become the weaker party. (Was it just because Batzke had grabbed hold of the girl?)

  ‘I’ve got a scheme, Batzke,’ he said.

  ‘Must be a funny sort of scheme,’ said Batzke scornfully. ‘You were never up to much.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Kufalt angrily, pushed away the ashtray and revealed the little pile of notes. ‘Take your money and clear out. I’ll get someone else.’

  Batzke looked at the money, picked it up, counted it contentedly, put it in his pocket and said in a tone of high satisfaction: ‘Now, Willi, drink your grog before it gets cold. And then tell me all about it. Old lags like us . . . ’

  VII

  Again the wind was howling, again it was snowing, again the time was a little after eleven at night.

  Batzke and Kufalt came strolling arm in arm down the Jungfernstieg, lingered now and again in front of a shop, looked contentedly at the windows and finally stopped at the jeweller’s where the young couple of the previous evening had admired the aquamarine ring.

  But Kufalt took no interest in aquamarines. His only interest was price.

  ‘That’s the tray I meant,’ he said.

  It was a large, blue velvet tray, close behind the glass in the centre of the shop window; and on it was an array of glittering, sparkling diamond rings.

  Batzke whistled through his teeth. ‘Yes,’ he observed; ‘very pretty little stones.’

  ‘It’s time,’ said Kufalt. ‘Come along.’ He walked with Batzke to the Reesendamm; they turned and strolled for a short distance along the opposite pavement. Then they stopped and leaned against the parapet on the inner Alster, a little to one side of the shop.

  ‘Half past eleven,’ said Kufalt. ‘They’ll soon be here.’

  He broke off and added hastily: ‘Look, there’s the watchman.’

  A fat man in civilian clothes with a walrus moustache emerged from the Alster arcades, walked past the shop, scrutinizing the windows as he went, turned, passed the shop once more and disappeared again into the arcades.

  ‘He’s always watching the shop,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Not a powerful man,’ estimated Batzke. ‘A good punch under the belt and he’d gulp for air.’

  ‘Not on your life,’ said Kufalt quickly. ‘You’ll soon see, there’s a much better dodge than that.’

  The Jungfernstieg had become lively. Crowds were coming out of the cinemas and theatres, wrapped in evening cloaks and coats, some hurrying, some strolling along for a few paces and looking into the shop windows before they disappeared into the Alster pavilion or in the direction of the Hotel Esplanade or the Four Seasons.

  The weather was still bad. The passers-by hastened as they had done the night before, and in ten minutes the Jungfernstieg lay almost deserted.

  ‘Now you’ll see,’ said Kufalt.

  He had pulled out his watch, and said: ‘Forty-two minutes past eleven. He’ll be coming now.’

  From among the columns appeared the fat watchman, looked up and down the street, slowly drew a bunch of keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door of the shop and disappeared inside. Then he locked the shop door from within.

  Kufalt stood nearly in darkness with the watch still in his hand.

  ‘Now he’s in the shop,’ he said. ‘Eleven forty-four—eleven forty-five—wait, we’ve still time, eleven forty-six—ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds—wait—forty seconds—hell!—fifty seconds—there! Now the grilles are coming down. Come on, Batzke.’

  He took Batzke by the arm and hurried him in the direction of his lodging.

  ‘Have you got it?’ he said eagerly. ‘A shop with a gorgeous display like that is naturally watched day and night. But there’s one thing they haven’t thought about: the two and a half minutes when the watchman’s in the shop letting down the grilles. For just that time he can’t be on the lookout. In two and a half minutes a man can smash the window, grab the tray and run. Now what do you think about that?’

  ‘Hmm . . . yes,’ said Batzke dubiously. ‘And where are the nearest cops?’

  ‘I know all about that,’ boasted Kufalt. ‘One at the Alster pavilion and one at the entrance to the Bergstrasse. But he’s a traffic cop.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Batzke. ‘Well, we might talk the thing over.’

  ‘Talk it over?’ said Kufalt indignantly. ‘What is there to talk over? There are at least a hundred and twenty thousand marks’ worth of rings on that tray.’

  ‘Better not think of that just yet,’ said Batzke. ‘They’re in the shop window. And it’s going to be a hell of a job getting them out of it.’

  VIII

  That night Batzke and Kufalt sat for a long time together on the Fuhlentwiete.

  Batzke was once more the great man, and Kufalt had to confess himself a novice. He had imagined he had made a really great discovery. That two and a half minutes seemed to him a brilliant idea. But Batzke sat and simply laughed at him.

  ‘Yes, that’s what you think; just turn up, smash the window with a brick, grab the tray and bolt round the corner. I wish it was all so simple.’

  ‘But where’s the difficulty?’ asked Kufalt angrily. ‘Of course we’d have to run for it properly, but that’s worth doing for a hundred and twenty thousand marks.’

  ‘Look, Kufalt,’ observed Batzke pensively; ‘you’re nicely fixed up here—does it all come from smashing shop windows?’

  ‘No, certainly not,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Just so. It will have to be a rather large hole,’ said Batzke, thoughtfully, ‘so as to get the tray through it quickly. And these bloody windows—I don’t know, perhaps you can only make a small hole with a brick, just the size of the brick, only big enough to get your hand through and grab twenty or thirty rings. No, we’d have to try it out first.’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’ asked Kufalt. ‘Are you going to smash the window just to see?’

  ‘Fathead,’ said Batzke. ‘There’s plenty of new buildings in the suburbs where the shops are still empty. We might go out two or three nights and practise till we can manage it right.’

  ‘Nah, that sounds pretty risky. I don’t want to be nabbed for breaking a window in an empty shop.’

  ‘A hundred and twenty thousand marks can’t be got without risk,’ said Batzke. ‘But there’s another thing. How do we know the tray can be got out so easily? Perhaps it’s fixed?’

  Kufalt took refuge in sullen silence. He had thought they might bring it off the very next night. And here was Batzke making one difficulty after another.

  ‘And another thing,’ said Batzke. ‘It can’t be done without a car. How on earth do you suppose you can run through the streets with a tray half a square metre, at half past eleven at night, when there are still plenty of people about? If the fuzz come after you and start shooting, I suppose you’ll just take the rings off the tray and put ‘em in your pocket. That’s how you figured it out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, if you’re just going to make difficulties . . . ’ said Kufalt with rising irritation.

  ‘Look here, my boy,’ said Batzke. ‘Do you want the rings or don’t you? Your idea is the way an amateur would set about it, not an old hand. Amateurs do sometimes bring a job off, but it’s an off chance. No; we must have a car, and it will have to be pinched that same afternoon so that the police won’t know the number. Can you drive, anyway?’

  ‘No,’ said Kufalt, viewing his cherished scheme with diminishing pride.


  ‘And then comes the hardest thing of all,’ said Batzke. ‘How do you think you’re going to sell the stuff?’

  ‘Surely there are fences for that sort of thing,’ said Kufalt angrily.

  ‘There are,’ agreed Batzke. ‘But if you wait to fix it up until you’ve got the rings, he won’t give you more than a thousand marks for the whole caboodle, because he’s got you by the short and curlies. And he may not give you anything at all, as there’ll be a reward out of at least ten thousand marks and he may not get another chance of getting on the right side of the police.’

  ‘All right, let’s drop it,’ said Kufalt, furious. ‘I see you don’t want to come in.’

  ‘Who says I don’t?’ protested Batzke in amazement. ‘That two and a half minutes is a good tip, too good to let go. A job like that doesn’t come along every year. No, no more brandy. I’ll go for a bit of a walk and think it over. I’ll come round here again tomorrow at ten.’

  IX

  Ten, eleven, twelve: no Batzke.

  Kufalt unscrewed the stove and then screwed it up again; he poured out a brandy and tipped it back into the bottle (he must keep his head clear). Still no Batzke.

  Finally he had a brandy and another, and a third; he was furious.

  ‘He’s done the dirty on me, the bastard, he’s bolted with my four hundred marks and left me standing! I can’t do it on my own. Or can I?’

  For a moment he felt very bold. He would do it by himself. Batzke, with all his ridiculous objections, and all his talk about amateurs, would see what he, Kufalt, could do.

  The rings glittered with a soft, alluring radiance; he saw himself carrying them to dim and rather vague haunts where he would have whispered talks with fences. The police were close on his heels. He leapt out of the window and dashed away into the night . . .

  ‘Rubbish,’ he thought to himself. ‘I’ll never do it. Perhaps I couldn’t even have done it with Batzke helping. That sort of thing isn’t . . . isn’t in my line, but . . . ’

  A sudden suspicion flashed into his mind: he felt certain Batzke would nab the tip and do the job. Batzke would drop him and get away with the hundred and twenty thousand marks, and he would be left behind, penniless, done out of his scheme, without any prospects of a life that would at least be worth living—still in Frau Pastorin Fleege’s flat, God knows for how long . . .