by Hans Keilson
His mother thought he was just having a hard time at school, and that she could see through his confused explanations very clearly. They needed to take a hard line with him, she thought to herself. He’s confused like a little girl. He had lacked a father’s strong hand during those years when the war had emptied the country of fathers and made women be both mother and father to their children.
“You lazy bum!” she said. “You don’t have any real work to do, I can see that just as well as you, and I’ve known it for a long time. Everyone works around here—your father, your brother, me—only you fritter away all your time and get fancy ideas in your head too!”
Fritz felt hope for a moment. “Yes, Mother,” he said, “that’s probably true.”
Mother: “If you know it, why don’t you work at school and try to graduate as quickly as you can?”
Then the bell rang in the store. Frau Fiedler was back behind the counter in a flash.
Fritz stayed behind, dejected, completely helpless. His mother had every right to say those things—about sacrifices, his ungratefulness, the cares they had suffered for years for his sake, and more—but not what she’d said at the end, comparing him to his father and brother, and especially not calling him lazy. There she had made a mistake, no doubt about it. She’d never be able to make up for that. She had only reinforced Fritz’s way of thinking about things and made his decision easier.
It was about his future, after all, nothing less than that, and he had to come to a decision once and for all, there was no more putting it off. He had enough of an instinct to feel that something was in the air—a kind of need to come to new decisions, a fruitful agitation, anything but relaxing in a safe and comfortable position. He had grown up during the Great War, experiencing it as a child without knowing anything about victory and defeat, life and death. He grew older until he could see, and know, and what he knew was poverty and the collapse of everything all around him. It didn’t affect him personally—he had nothing to worry about himself—but the restlessness and confusion lay deep in his blood and slowly ate away at him.
“What else is left for me to do, Albrecht, if you’re honest with yourself about it?”
Albrecht thought it over. What should Fritz do? He had started by mentioning a trip he wanted to take soon, in fact right away. Now it was fully clear to Albrecht what this trip meant. He was shocked: desertion, running away, simply making off in the dead of night and leaving everyone else holding the bag. And maybe they deserved it, since they couldn’t understand anything about what Fritz was trying to tell them.
Still, the whole thing didn’t feel right to Albrecht. Granted, Fritz was having problems, circumstances were more and more against him, life around him was increasingly hard; maybe he was afraid that he’d miss his chance, not get there in time. He had the strength of a grown man and the restlessness of a boy; he wanted to take serious action for once and make something happen, but the first thing he had to do, if he wanted to keep any control of the situation at all, was act against his parents’ will.
But surely there were other circumstances at work here—even Fritz had said something earlier about the great deeds that the era was awaiting, the wider world, the courageous undertakings you had to put your whole life behind. Albrecht thought he could see flashes of restlessness, lust for adventure, erratic youth between the lines here.… It was suspicious, at any rate.
“Stay here,” Albrecht said, in a sudden burst of fear and worry for his friend. “You don’t need to let yourself be shot in the head for some South American country, just stay here and finish school, it’s better here and at least you’ll have a goal. You think everyone isn’t as tired of school as you are? I am too.”
“Oh, you too,” Fritz replied dismissively and at the same time a little enviously. “School doesn’t make your head split open, and everything is nice and easy for you at home—”
Albrecht interrupted angrily: “You don’t know that, you have no right to say that. Just because I look calm on the outside and don’t talk about it, you think…”
He couldn’t explain himself more clearly. His thoughts didn’t follow such a devilishly straight and tidy track like Fritz’s. He wasn’t about to throw himself into any big decisions at the moment, and probably not later either; he had to stay where he was and stick it out; he felt it himself, he would be needed later.
“Why aren’t things going well for you at home?” Albrecht went on. “What do you mean?”
Fritz had an answer for that too. He was ready for anything.
“My father’s a good, hardworking man,” he said, “no question about it. He’s made something of his life. He may have started off as nothing but a workingman, but now he’s practically middle-class: satisfied, well-off. But it doesn’t matter how you start—don’t you think?”
Albrecht thought about it. He wasn’t sure where this question was leading.
“Yes,” he said, “definitely, your father is now middle-class, if that’s how you want to put it, but where are you going with this?”
“Listen,” Fritz said, “I’ve thought this all out very carefully too. Do you know what it’s like to have coffee here?”
“No.…”
“It’s like this,” he continued. “There’s a big enamel pot that used to be white, which Mother carries into the little room and puts on the table. She puts different cups in different sizes and patterns next to it, the bread is sitting on an oilcloth, next to the pot of drippings and the butter. That’s how we have coffee. No tablecloth, nothing more than the barest necessities, no cozy comforts, no plates. Everything is a mess in the room: wires, lamps, lightbulbs, one of the apprentices or assistants coming by every minute, you’re never left in peace. We live very cramped at home even though my father owns the whole building.”
Albrecht was surprised: “What are you trying to say?”
“It’s totally different with your family.”
“With my family?” Albrecht repeated in disbelief.
“That’s right, your father comes upstairs at the same time every day, you sit at a cloth-covered table, the cups are on saucers with another plate for the bread, you have two rooms where you can sit undisturbed, everything is comfortable, neat and tidy.”
Albrecht stared at him. Fritz was saying these obvious things as though he had made some kind of big discovery.
“My point is,” Fritz said, “no good middle-class family lives the way we do.”
Albrecht looked up and laughed a little. “That’s nonsense! You’re all mixed up! I could make the same comparison just as well between my family and Herr Dalke’s across the street, they have a lot nicer things and a lot more impressive meals. But I never think about that, I’m satisfied with what I have, and my parents are too. What should I criticize them for? Everyone does whatever they’re used to and whatever they can afford to do in their position.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Fritz answered, annoyed. He had clearly had enough of trying to give explanations and express how he felt.
“And do you think workingmen have what you have?” Albrecht asked.
Fritz shook his head.
“No, no,” he answered quickly, “what I said about being neat and tidy—I don’t want to make that comparison, that’s dumb, I’m sure it depends on the individual case. I’m only trying to say that in our house we live like people who haven’t found any stability—everything is still undefined and up in the air. We could afford proper silverware and a comfortable place to live, we have enough money, that’s not what we’re missing, but it never crosses my parents’ minds to make their life match their outward success like that, to present a well-rounded picture to the world. Earlier, when my father didn’t have anything, he was a radical and out in the open about it too. Now, when he’s achieved something, he seems to have forgotten his past. He’s middle-class, conciliatory, politically moderate. And there’s a lot that goes along with that: he just doesn’t know it, or at least doesn’t seem to. Mayb
e he’s surprised himself with his rise, his success. But he doesn’t know where he’s going. I’d rather he knew exactly where he stood, then I would too.… Anyway, now you can go and tell them that I’m planning to run away.”
Albrecht, after a long while: “So that’s what you think of me.” He stood up. “Goodbye.”
Silence.
“My ship is leaving in six weeks, at ten a.m., from Genoa to Spain.”
Pause. Albrecht slowly walked back into the room.
“Spain?” he asked in disbelief. So Fritz actually had a concrete plan, more than he had let on at the start of their conversation. Spain—he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.
“Why do you need to go to Spain?” he asked, afraid. How did he arrive at that idea? Was he hoping he’d find some kind of job there?
Fritz stood facing him, standing up straight; if before he looked beaten and helpless, now he was confident—his whole powerful body quivered with confidence. He had a plan, he knew what he wanted, no power on earth would be able to stop him. Albrecht could feel the confidence and strength coursing through his friend’s body. It was depressing. This was his friend, but nothing Albrecht could say would make any difference. Fritz was trembling with excitement. What was Albrecht supposed to say? He said nothing. He felt his friend’s decisiveness and knew that nothing he said or did would make Fritz waver; his plan had put down roots too deep inside him. There was no point in even trying. Albrecht felt small and abandoned.
“But why?” he whispered again.
“I want to get as far away from my parents as I can,” Fritz said in a calm voice. “Otherwise they’ll bring me right back, I know they will, and I don’t want that to happen.”
“I see.” Albrecht thought hard. Was that the only reason? Didn’t Fritz realize what he was doing, did he really want to burn all his bridges? Had he thought about what it would be like to be suddenly all alone in a foreign country, whose language he didn’t know, a complete stranger no one knew? That was an adventure all right, Albrecht was sure of that. Should he try to talk his friend out of it? There was no point—he would just decide on a different country. So, off to Spain then, if that’s what he wanted. But Albrecht could not pretend to be happy about it.
There was much more to discuss, of course. For one thing, where was he going to get the money from? His plan certainly required money.
“I’ve been saving up for a long time,” Fritz said.
“Saving?”
“Yes.”
Now Albrecht knew just how much six months of the most disciplined saving could add up to.
“That’s enough for the boat and no more,” he said. “How will you manage on that?”
He could travel around the world with all the money he had.
Albrecht stared at him in disbelief. Fritz gave a mischievous laugh, however out of place it might seem at that point. Finally he explained: “The money I get from my parents would never be enough, I knew that from the start. So I had to figure out how I could cover the costs. Look, it’s no problem around here in this chaos. No one notices if you go to the cash register and take out a little money. My father knows absolutely nothing about it, it’s Mother who takes care of all the money. She keeps the day’s earnings in a drawer under the counter and takes out whatever she needs during the day. One time I found an envelope full of money under her bed. I’m just doing what she does, nothing more.”
Albrecht was shocked. Fritz always had a lot of money—he was often generous and liked to spend—and Albrecht had never thought about how he came by the money. He didn’t have much himself, not even an allowance; his father paid for everything and added an extra couple of marks for the piggy bank, especially at the end of the month when he balanced the books. Albrecht would never have dreamed of taking money from the till on his own. His father always knew exactly how much was there at any moment and demanded a detailed report of every single mark that the family spent—any tiny amount Albrecht took would have been quickly discovered. Money was at the center of their lives, not that they worshipped it and danced around it, but its well-ordered movements in and out of the house were what guaranteed a secure and dignified existence. To work and to make money: these two concepts were the foundation on which life was built. Was it possible that there was another way to live?
* * *
Friday. The factories handed out wages on Thursdays, but only on Friday did the women come in to shop, pay their debts, and make new ones. Like a sack that you don’t finish mending in one place before it needs mending somewhere else. The Seldersens stood in the store and waited.
It had been three weeks already since Frau Köppen had come in. She still had debts on her tab from the previous year. But there she was with her son, coming out of Wiesel’s store with big packages. Suits for her boys, no doubt; one of them is about to be confirmed next Easter.
“If I see her on the street I’m going to have a word with her,” Mother said. “I’ve wanted to for a while. And old Frau Lorenz and her daughter-in-law—when they need something on credit they come to us, and then they spend their money somewhere else.”
Father defended them: “Her husband’s sick, her child’s in the hospital! It’s too hard.”
Shopkeepers always have a precise picture of their customers’ family situations.
The first customers showed up around five and walked up to the counter with resounding footsteps. Mother was sitting there.
“I have money for you, ten marks.”
“That’s good. Out alone in the city today? What’s your mother doing, is she here too?”
She didn’t expect an answer most of the time, and when one came she rarely paid attention to it. The amount would be crossed off the sheet of paper that recorded the total tab and the figure would be noted down in the books. Every client had their own account that they could look at whenever they wanted. Three long thick lines meant it was paid off. Then they started over on a new page.
“I need a Sunday suit.”
“Yes, we have nice suits. Come back next Thursday.”
The customer stood rudely in the doorway, not budging. He actually needed the suit that day, but he didn’t say so.
“It won’t be too much?” he asked.
“No, no, we’ll work something out, just come by on Thursday.”
The suits were hanging in the corner on the racks; he could see them there in their long rows and he looked at them greedily. So, next Thursday. He’d much rather get it today, but dammit, anyone could see that he didn’t have any money in his pockets today.
People came in who slaved away from early till late seven days a week and still never managed to get ahead. They walked in and excused themselves; they don’t have much on them at the moment, but next time they’ll definitely have more, they have to pay for the furniture at the carpenter’s, the potatoes—it never rains but it pours. What they say sounds memorized. It was as though they had only a few naked words at their disposal. Mother, at the counter, tried to calm the woman—she praised her for coming in and telling them where things stood, gave her credit, and walked her to the door. The woman offered more and more apologies while Mother was more and more generous; finally, the woman left the store, saying: “Thank you, thank you so much.”
Frau Seldersen, still in the doorway, turned around with a look on her face as though asking: Okay, now what? Father stood in the background, his head tilted to one side, as though he wanted to rest it on his own shoulder, he was so tired. His fingers fidgeted with the stays in his shirt collar.
“She’ll pay,” he said, “obviously, but we need the money today. It’s hard for people, they’re really struggling.”
Silence.
The dark fabrics made the shop look gloomy. The white lightbulbs come on overhead, and a woman walks in with a long story to tell. They all have a lot to say, not always lies, but hardships make a person hard and blunt. This one has some money with her: not enough to clear her account. When that’s taken care of, she hesit
ates a moment, then says, as carelessly as she can—it’s clearly a piece of artful diplomacy on her part—that she still needs a lot of things, can she buy more items and put them on her tab?
Yes, they’ll give her more, up to a point. She is one of the worst, who has bought a lot and not paid much yet. A big family. She lists off what she needs: sheets, stockings, fabric for clothes, and much more.
Frau Seldersen throws the stockings back in the box and says: “Sorry, cash only.” Her tab is too big, she needs to pay off at least half first. Then she can buy more.
The woman starts to groan, and launches into her story again from the top. They believe everything she says but it’s just not possible, not with the best will in the world; at some point enough is enough. She leaves the store sadly, turns around one more time, and promises to come back soon with money.
Albrecht, who has followed the whole conversation, goes over to his parents and asks: “Why didn’t you give that woman anything? She only owes twenty marks, there are a lot of people with much bigger totals in the book.”
Father says nothing. Mother: “We can’t sell our goods if we only see the money a year and a half later. If that’s how we wanted to do business we might as well shut our doors tomorrow, Father could go peddling, and we”—she corrects herself—“and you, what would become of you?”
“Ah, I see,” the boy says, “it’s because of us, right? Yes, I understand now, it’s because of us.”
He leaves the store.
* * *