by Hans Fallada
And so they depart. Father on the left of the bicycle, son on the right. Minna laughs at them out of the kitchen window.
‘You old cow,’ shouts the father, flushing angrily.
‘I always call her a lemon,’ says the son.
‘Lemon’s much better,’ agrees the father.
‘Um, Father,’ begins the son cautiously.
‘Well?’
‘It’s just on eight . . . ’
‘Yes, the town hall clock will be striking in a minute.’
‘And we’re passing the town wall . . . ’
The father whistles slowly. ‘Oh, that’s how the wind’s blowing, is it?’
‘It’s only because I fixed it up with her. I can’t just leave her there. And I’d like to say goodbye.’
‘I really don’t know whether I ought . . . ’
‘Oh, do, Father, please!’
‘All right. I don’t think I ought; but I will. And not longer than five minutes.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I don’t want to be in this,’ says the father thoughtfully. ‘I’ll stay here with the bicycle. When the five minutes are up I’ll whistle my usual whistle. And you must come at once.’
‘Very well, Father.’
She was already waiting.
‘Good evening. How punctual you are!’
‘So one ought to be. Good evening.’
‘It’s just striking eight.’
‘Yes, I can hear it.’
The conversation, which has begun so cheerfully, suddenly halts.
At last he says: ‘Did you get away all right?’
‘I told a bit of a fib. And you?’
‘Oh yes, I managed it.’
‘Is anything the matter?’ she asks suddenly.
‘No, nothing. What should there be? It’s nice this evening, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Rather close, though.’
‘Perhaps it is. I’ll have to be going soon . . . ’
‘Oh . . . ’
‘There’s my father waiting over there . . . ’
‘Where?’
‘There. The man with the bicycle. Just put your head round the bush . . . ’
‘And he knows—? And he let you?’
‘Yes, my father’s like that.’
She looks at him a moment.
‘But I’m not like that, I don’t think it’s nice of you.’
He blushes slowly.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it of you.’
‘I . . . ’ he began.
‘No,’ she says; ‘I shall go home at once.’
‘Fräulein,’ he says. ‘Fräulein, I have to leave. The pastor has turned me out, because . . . You understand . . . Frau Gubalke complained.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ she cries. ‘And my mama . . . ’
‘Probably they will expel me from the high school.’
‘If my father hears of it . . . !’
‘Mine wasn’t angry.’
‘And what about my school? . . . ’
‘You must put all the blame onto me.’
‘Oh, you—and there wasn’t even anything at all in that envelope.’
‘But I’d like to write to you,’ he says.
His father whistles the tune: Don’t—you—love—me—any—more?
‘Oh God, the five minutes are up. I must . . . ’
‘Go away then, do. You’ve got me into a pretty mess.’
Don’t—you—love—me—any—more?
‘And I don’t even know your name, Fräulein?’
Don’t—you—love—me—any—more?
‘Yes, and get me into more trouble!’
‘But, Fräulein, it really isn’t my fault!’
‘And what am I to say at home?’
Don’t—you—love—me—any—more?
‘Fräulein, I must . . . ’
‘Yes, you go along home to your father, who isn’t angry. But I . . . ?’
‘Please shake hands with me, at least.’
‘Well, really!’
‘But we may never meet again.’
‘Much better not. And I thought it would be so nice. Oh God, here comes your father.’
‘Well, my boy, I thought you promised. Good evening, little fairy. Have you two had a quarrel?’
‘I . . . ’
‘We . . . ’
‘Shake hands, goodbye!’
‘Goodbye!’
‘Goodbye!’
‘And now we must be off!’
Again they look at each other.
‘It’s all my fault,’ says the boy ruefully, and his lips quiver.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Never mind, though. I was just a bit upset at first. But I’ll wriggle out of it somehow.’
‘Now then, you two—time’s up. You’re much too young; and much too green.’
‘Well, all the best!’
‘Yes; thank you. Same to you.’
‘Auf Wiedersehen!’
‘Perhaps we really shall meet again.’
‘Goodnight, little lady. Come, Willi.’
Beyond the bridge, the road began to ascend. ‘Jump down, my boy,’ said his father.
And as they walked beside the bicycle, he went on: ‘There’s no hurry. We shall get home in plenty of time.’
‘When do you get up nowadays, Father?’
‘At my usual time in summer. At four. I have to look after the feeding and milking myself. The student hands can’t be trusted.’
And after a pause he asked casually: ‘You don’t care for farming, do you?’
‘I don’t think so, Father.’
‘Any other ideas?’
‘Yes . . . ’
‘Yes? What do you mean by yes?’
‘I’d like to keep on at the high school.’
‘I don’t see how that’s going to be managed. The pastor and the head are too good friends.’
‘But couldn’t you send me to another school—?’
They walked for a while in silence.
‘Look, Willi. It has already been hard for me. I don’t earn much, as you know. And there’s your sister. I’d have carried on, as things were, but now it’s finished. As a matter of fact it’s just as well for me that this has happened. I wouldn’t have said anything. But as you’ve brought it on yourself, I think we’ll leave it so.’
‘But I haven’t done anything!’
‘You’ve at least done a very foolish thing. You were thoughtless anyway, Willi. You must learn that you can do as much damage by doing what’s foolish as by doing what’s wrong. And it’s not always possible to put things right again. After all, you’re out of this pretty well, you’re going home with your father, and the storm’s over. Later, perhaps you won’t be able to go home afterwards.’
The father sighed gently, and pushed his bicycle more slowly uphill. The son walked in silence at his side. Dimly it went through his mind: his father was surely being unfair; he had done nothing wrong; and yet his father seized the excuse to save money and take him away from school. If it had been possible for so long, surely it could go on further. Merely because he had run out onto the street with an empty envelope and talked to a girl for two minutes, his father wanted to save his school and college fees. It didn’t seem right.
The road mounted the hillside between high forest walls; and above them, edged by the marching lines of trees, hung a long, glowing strip of deep blue sky.
‘How about business?’ asked the father at last.
‘Oh no!’ cried the boy in a tone of disappointment.
‘Not a shop,’ said the father reassuringly. ‘I had thought of a bank.’
‘Ah,’ said the boy.
‘Well?’ said the father encouragingly.
‘I really don’t know,’ said the son, doubtfully.
‘When you’ve had a crack on the head,’ said the father, ‘it’s no use making a song and dance about it, you must just think over what went wrong and try to put it right. Well, you can stay at home quietly for two
or three weeks. You might help me with the wages accounts. I never have time for them during the harvest. Right . . . hop up again, I can ride for a bit now.’
The boy stood on the back hub, with his hands on his father’s shoulders. The bicycle purred downhill, and a cool refreshing breeze blew into his face.
‘I don’t even know her name,’ he said suddenly.
‘What?’ shouted the father, who had not heard, in the rush of the descent.
‘I don’t even know her name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘The girl’s.’
The father stepped so hard on the brake that the son was jerked onto his shoulders. The bicycle almost stopped.
‘I really ought to tell you,’ said the father, pedalling slowly on, ‘to get down and walk home; so as to give you time to think. Are you still set on what’s past and over? Do you mean to carry on with a piece of foolishness that only got you into trouble? Oh, Willi, Willi, I’m afraid I’m making life too easy for you again. I hope it won’t be too much for you one day.’
The bicycle sped on and the son did not answer.
Then they rode over a bridge; they could hear the gurgle of water as they passed; the road curved, the reflection from the bicycle lamp flashed onto a wall of trees, then something black and tall and massive rose up in the darkness.
The father rang his bell.
‘Mother’s sure to hear that.’
They rode through the gateway in the massive wall; the windows of the steward’s house were brightly lit. As they approached the door opened, a glow of light came forth and in it stood the mother . . .
The bicycle stopped with a rasp of brakes.
‘There you are, Willi,’ said Mother. ‘Come in quickly. You must be terribly hungry. I’ve kept some pea soup for you from dinner.’
II
One lovely morning in early spring, Herr Gröschke, of the Public Prosecutor’s Department, said to his assistant, Söhnlein: ‘I have the Kufalt case on Friday. Go through the papers and draw up a summary for me. Take each offence separately; and make a note of the penalty provided in each instance. I want to have the details clearly in my mind before I ask for sentence.’
‘Certainly,’ said Herr Söhnlein, and plunged into the papers.
Söhnlein had two passions: the cultivation of cacti and criminal law. But the second passion was the stronger. He was in some senses a legal arithmetician; persons disappeared under his hands, clauses and sections remained. Then they too dissolved into figures. Things had happened, passions had been let loose, desires and schemes and conflicts—they passed, and nothing was left of them but figures. And on Friday Herr Gröschke, of the Public Prosecutor’s Department, would use these figures.
Here was the case of Wilhelm (not Willi) Kufalt.
Sentenced in 1924 to five years’ imprisonment for:
1. Embezzlement, under § 246 of the Code.
2. Major forgery of documents on several occasions, under § 268 of the Code.
‘Good; and now let us see what is up against him this time.’ And he wrote:
1. 14–15 ‘independent’ thefts of handbags, as the prisoner planned each one separately . . .
‘The appropriate paragraphs of the Code are certainly—’
§ 249 (Robbery), and also § 223 (Violence), in conjunction with § 223. a., as the violence was the result of a premeditated attack. In accordance with § 73 of the Code the penalty to be applied falls under the terms of § 249 of the Code. Robbery and violence are to be dealt with and punished as a single crime:
1–15 years’ maximum security; under extenuating circumstances, from 6 months’ to 5 years’ imprisonment.
‘But the robbery was committed on the public highway.’
And he wrote:
So the case does not come under § 249 of the Code, but under § 250, Subsection 3:
5–15 years’ maximum security; extenuating circumstances, 1–5 years’ imprisonment.
‘Now for number 2.’
And he wrote:
2. ‘Theft’ of the savings bank book and of 37, 56 marks in cash is a theft ‘approximating to a robbery’, and is to be dealt with under the latter category in accordance with § 252 of the Code. (See also § 249 of the Code.)
3. Prisoner planned the shop window burglary and was accessory before the event: § 243, Section 1, Subsection 2, 49 of the Code:
From 4 months 15 days, to 1 year, 4 months, 15 days’ imprisonment. Alternatively—from 1 year, to 9 years, 11 months’ imprisonment; extenuating circumstances—from 22 days’ imprisonment, to 4 years, 11 months, 29/30 days’ imprisonment.
Even when the offence was committed against the will of the accessory, he is still liable. The accessory made no withdrawal that would relieve him of liability, and his efforts materially assisted the success of the crime.
4. Attempted blackmail of the leader of the gang, § 253, Section 43, ff, of the Code:
From 7 days, to 4 years, 11 months, 29/30 days’ imprisonment.
‘There,’ said Herr Söhnlein to himself, with much satisfaction. ‘A very neat bit of work. Now I had better add up the total term of imprisonment incurred. There is no question, I think, of extenuating circumstances.’
And he plunged into earnest calculation:
Suggested sentence: 10 years’ imprisonment.
‘There,’ said Herr Söhnlein, surveying his achievement with a loving eye. ‘That’s just about right. I’ve put it rather high, perhaps, but something is always knocked off.’
III
The large, green, closed car gave one raucous hoot outside the gateway, a warder’s face appeared at the window of the porter’s lodge, nodded to the police driver, and in a moment or two the great double gates swung slowly open.
The van drove under the archway, across a yard and stopped in front of the Administration Building.
The driver clambered down from his seat, two policemen emerged from the back of the van and almost at the same moment four officers appeared from a door, one in plain clothes.
‘Delivery,’ said one of the policemen.
‘How many?’ asked the man in plain clothes.
‘Five,’ said the policeman.
‘Right,’ said the other. ‘Anything special?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t particularly notice. We had to handcuff one, he’s got form.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Wait a minute. Here it is—Kufalt. Seven years. Robbery, burglary and I don’t know what else.’
‘Did he try to bolt?’
‘Dare say. No idea. He was quite quiet in the van.’
‘Fetch ‘em out, then.’
The two policemen went into the van and opened the cell doors. Out came a cloud of reeking tobacco smoke.
‘Pigs,’ said the policeman. ‘I particularly forbade you to smoke.’
Then the prisoners came out.
First, a little old man with a white death’s head, who looked nervously about him. Then a young man with black, curly hair, in a smart suit and faultlessly creased trousers, who surveyed the officers with a condescending air, whistled softly, and put his hands into his pockets.
‘Take your hands out of your pockets at once!’
The man did so, very deliberately.
‘A bit fresh this morning, Inspector,’ said he. ‘I think old papa has shat his trousers for fear.’
‘What?’
‘He stinks like a toilet anyway.’
‘Look,’ said an officer savagely to the old man, ‘is that true?’
‘Ohgod, ohgod,’ wailed the old creature. ‘Don’t be hard on me, sir . . . I couldn’t help it . . . ’
‘Stand right over there. The storeman will have a few things to say to you, I shouldn’t wonder . . . ’
Meantime, numbers three and four had clambered out of the van. There was a tall, lanky man in a very shabby suit. ‘Morrrning, Panje Inspector,’ he said.
‘Hold your tongue. Polish, aren’t you? We don’t want any good
mornings from the likes of you.’
But the fourth was a comfortable and corpulent personage who looked like a respectable taxpayer. ‘Good day, Deputy Governor Fröschlein. Good day, Herr Fritze. Good day, Herr Haubold. Good day, Herr Wenk. You’ve become a senior warder, have you? Fine, I congratulate you.’
And he added with an apologetic smile: ‘Here I am again, but it’s only a small matter this time. Nine months. An unfortunate little accident in my profession.’
The officers grinned delightedly.
‘Well, Häberlein, what was it this time?’
‘Oh, not worth talking about. People are so silly; they’ve got no sense of humour.’ And he continued, with a sudden air of anxiety: ‘Will I get my old job in the kitchen? No one cooks as well as I do, you know, Deputy Governor.’
‘And no one eats as much as you do, Häberlein. Well, I’ll have a talk to the work inspector. Now then, last man. Oh Lord, what an object!’
‘You may well say that,’ grumbled the warder.
Kufalt clambered painfully out of the van. His suit hung in rags, half his head was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage and one arm was in a sling.
‘What on earth have you been up to, my lad?’
‘I had a fight with a bloke,’ said Kufalt.
‘Looks as if the bloke won,’ observed the officer. ‘Warder, take off his handcuffs, he won’t try to bolt now.’
‘I certainly shan’t,’ said Kufalt. ‘I’m very glad to be here.’
‘Squealed on somebody, eh?’ said the officer. ‘Isn’t your friend coming here too?’
‘I don’t think so. He got hard labour.’
‘You ought to be glad; he’s a hard hitter, he is. Off you go!’
IV
‘What am I to do with you?’ said the storeman pensively. ‘It’s a regulation that a prisoner’s to take a bath on admission. But I don’t know how you’re going to manage it with all those bandages.’
‘Oh, that’ll be all right, Chief Warder,’ said Kufalt ingratiatingly. ‘It looks worse than it is. I’d like a bath very much. A bloke gets so dirty when he’s on remand.’
‘Just as you like. Peter, look after him. But don’t put him under the shower. This time we can use the bath.’
‘Right,’ said the storeman’s orderly, an elderly bald-head. ‘Come on, you fresher.’
‘Is there a warder present in the bathroom?’ whispered Kufalt.
‘He just has a look in at the most. Got anything?’