Every Man Dies Alone (24 page)

“I don’t agree. I think you’re wrong. They can never do without their phrases, you know, their ‘fascist reactionaries’ and ‘solidarity’ and ‘proletariat’—but there’s none of that on this postcard. I don’t
think he’s a Communist or Socialist; I’d smell that ten miles off, against the wind!”

“Ah well, I do. They’ve all learned to camouflage themselves…”

But the Gestapo gentlemen didn’t agree with the brownshirt either. Incidentally, the report of the little fox was received there with great calm. They had plenty of other things to occupy them.

“Ah well,” they said. “Okay. We’ll see. If you’d like to take this up to Inspector Escherich, we can notify him by telephone, and he’ll get on the case. Give him a detailed report on the behavior of the two gentlemen. Of course no steps will be taken against them for the time being, but it’s useful material to have on file, you understand?”

Inspector Escherich, a tall, gangling man with a drooping, sandy mustache, in a light gray suit—a man so dry, you could easily take him for a creation of office dust; well, then, Inspector Escherich—turned the card in his hands.

“A new record,” he said. “I haven’t got this one in my collection. A heavy hand, hasn’t had occasion to do much writing in his life, a manual laborer, I should say.”

“Communist?” asked the little fox.

Inspector Escherich sniggered. “Communist? You must be joking! If we had a police force worthy of the name and we prioritized the case, we’d have the guy locked up inside twenty-four hours.”

“How would you do that?”

“Very simple! I would get data for all of Berlin, and see who’d lost a son in the previous two or three weeks—an only son, by the way, the writer only had one son!”

“How do you know that?”

“It says so in the first sentence, where he’s talking about himself. It’s in the second, when he’s addressing others, that he says sons, plural. Well, and people in that position in Berlin—there won’t be all that many of them—they would be my pool of suspects, and I’d have the writer put away in no time!”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I told you already. We don’t have the manpower for it, and second, the case isn’t important enough. You see, there are two possibilities. He’ll write another two or three postcards, and then he’ll have had enough. You know, it’s too much trouble, or the risk is too great. Then he won’t have done much damage, and we won’t have committed much in the way of resources.”

“Do you think all the postcards will be handed in to you?”

“Not all, but I would have thought most. On the whole the German people are pretty reliable…”

“Because they’re afraid!”

“No, I didn’t say that. For instance, I don’t think this man, here,” he taps his knuckle against the card, “is afraid. My hunch is for our second possibility: he will go on writing. Let him; the more he writes, the more he gives himself away. So far, he’s only given away a tiny bit about himself, that he’s lost a son. But with each card, he’ll give away a little bit more of himself to me. I don’t even need to do anything. I just need to sit here, stay alert, and one day—bingo—he’s mine! In our department we just need to be patient. Sometimes it takes a year, sometimes even a bit more, but in the end we get our man. Almost always.”

“And what then?”

The dust-colored man had pulled out a streetmap of Berlin and pinned it on the wall. Now he stuck in a red flag, exactly over the office block in the Neue Königstrasse. “You see, this is all I can do for the moment. But over the next few weeks, more and more flags will go up, and where the density is greatest, that’s where our Hobgoblin will be found. Because over time he will wear out, and he won’t want to go all that way to drop one of his postcards. You see, our Hobgoblin isn’t even thinking about this map. But it’s so simple! And then bingo again, and I’ll have caught him!”

“And what then?” the little fox asked again, impelled by a greedy curiosity.

Inspector Escherich looked at him a little sardonically. “Do you really want to hear the details? All right, I’ll tell you: People’s Court, and then off with his head! What do I care? Why did the guy have to write an idiotic postcard that no one reads and no one wants to read! That’s none of my concern. I draw my salary, and whether I sell postage stamps for it, or pin little flags on a map, I don’t really care. But I’ll think of you, I won’t forget that it was you who brought me the first news of this guy, and when I’ve caught him and the time has come, I’ll send you an invitation to his execution.”

“Oh, no thanks. I didn’t really mean it like that!”

“Of course you meant it like that. Why be coy with me? No man needs to be coy with me, I know what people are like! If we, here, didn’t know, then who on earth would? Not even God Almighty, I suspect. So that’s a deal then: I’ll send you an invitation to the execution. Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler! And don’t forget!”

*
From the proverb “He who has butter on his head should not go in the sun.”

Chapter 20

SIX MONTHS LATER: THE QUANGELS

After six months, the writing of the postcards on Sunday afternoons had become a habit, a sacred habit, if you like, that was part of their everyday lives, just like the profound quiet they lived in, or their relentless economizing. For them, these were the best hours of the week, when they sat together on a Sunday, she on the sofa with some mending or darning, and he at the table, the pen in his big hand, slowly crafting one word after another.

Quangel had now indeed doubled his initial output of one card per week. On some good Sundays, he even managed to turn out three. No two cards ever said the same thing. Instead, the more the Quangels wrote, the more mistakes by the Führer and his Party they discovered. Things that when they first had happened had struck them as barely censurable, such as the suppression of all other political parties, or things that they had condemned as merely excessive in degree or too vigorously carried out, like the persecution of the Jews—such things, now that the Quangels had become enemies of the Führer, came to have a completely different weight and importance. They proved the mendacity of the Party and its Führer. And, like all converts, the Quangels had the desire to convert others, and so the tone of their postcards was never monotonous, and they were never short of material.

Anna Quangel had long since forsaken her quiet listening role.
Now she sat on the sofa, speaking animatedly, suggesting topics, formulating sentences. They did their work in the most harmonious togetherness, and this deep, inner togetherness that they had only discovered now, after long years of marriage, became a great source of happiness to them, spreading its glow across their weeks. They saw each other, so to speak, with a single glance, they smiled, each knowing that the other had just thought about their next card, or the effect of their cards, of the steadily increasing number of their followers, and of the public that was already impatiently waiting.

Neither Quangel doubted for one moment that their cards were being passed from hand to hand in factories and offices, that Berlin was beginning to hum with talk about these oppositional spirits. They conceded that some of their cards probably wound up in the hands of the police, but they reckoned no more than one out of every five or six. They had so often thought and spoken about the great effectiveness of their work that the circulation of their cards and the attention that greeted them was, as far as they were concerned, no longer theoretical but factual.

And yet the Quangels didn’t have the least actual evidence for this. Whether it was Anna Quangel standing in a food-queue, or the foreman with his sharp eyes taking up position among a group of chatterers—bringing their prattle to an end merely by standing there—not once did they hear a word about the new struggler against the Führer and the missives this unknown sent out into the world. But the silence that greeted their work could not shake them in their faith that it was being discussed and having an effect. Berlin was a very large city, and the scattering of the postcards took place over a very wide area, so it was clear that it would take time for knowledge of their activities to permeate everywhere. In other words, the Quangels were like most people: they believed what they hoped.

Of all the precautions that Quangel had deemed necessary at the outset only one had been dropped: the gloves. Careful consideration had led him to conclude that these awkward accoutrements that did so much to slow down his work were of no practical value. He presumed the cards would go through so many pairs of hands before one ever landed with the police that not even the most sophisticated detective would be able to work out which set of prints was that of the author. In other respects, Quangel continued to observe extreme caution. He always washed his hands before sitting down to write, held the cards gently and by the edge, and when he wrote he always kept a piece of blotting paper under his writing hand.

Meanwhile, the act of dropping the cards in large office buildings
had long since lost the charm of novelty. The drops, which had once seemed so fraught with danger to him, had, over time, turned out to be the easiest part of his task. You walked into a busy building, you waited for the right moment, and then you were on your way back downstairs, a little relieved, a little easier in the gut, with the thought in your mind, “Another one that passed off well,” but otherwise not particularly excited.

At first Quangel had dropped the cards on his own, and Anna’s company had been particularly unwelcome to him. But then it came about quite of itself that here, too, Anna had become his active accomplice. It was a strict rule with Quangel that cards—whether one or two, or even three—always left the house the day after they were written. But there were days when he couldn’t walk because of his rheumatism, and other days when caution demanded that the cards should be left in widely distant parts of the city. That implied time-consuming train rides, which a single person could hardly hope to accomplish in the course of a morning.

So Anna Quangel took over her share of the work in the deliveries as well. To her surprise she discovered that it was far more nerveracking to stand in front of a building, waiting for her husband to emerge from it, than to go in and drop the cards herself. When doing it herself, she was always the embodiment of calm. As soon as she had entered a likely or designated building, she felt secure in the press of people going up and down stairs, she abided her opportunity patiently, and quickly set down her card. She was perfectly sure that no one had seen her making the drop, and that no one would remember her well enough to give a description of her person later. In truth, she was much less eye-catching than her husband with his sharp birdface. She really was every inch the little working-class woman, trotting off to the doctor.

There was only one occasion when the Quangels were disturbed during their Sunday writing. But even then, they hadn’t shown the least agitation or confusion. As they had talked through many times, Anna Quangel had quietly crept out into the corridor at the sound of the ring and had looked at the visitors through the peephole. In the meantime, Otto Quangel had packed away the writing things and slipped the card, still in progress, inside a book. He had just written the words: “Führer, lead—we follow! Yes, we follow, we’re a herd of sheep for our Führer to drive to the abattoir. We have given up thinking…”

Otto Quangel slid the card inside a radio-kit manual of his dead son’s, and when Anna Quangel came in with the two visitors, a short,
hunchbacked man and a dark, tall, tired-looking woman, he was already sitting over his whittling, tinkering with the bust of their boy, which was now pretty well advanced, and, as Anna Quangel thought, becoming a better and better likeness. It turned out that the little hunchbacked man was Anna Quangel’s brother; they hadn’t seen each other for almost thirty years. The little hunchback had previously worked in an optical factory in Rathenow, and had recently been brought to Berlin to work as a specialist in a firm producing equipment for use on submarines. The dark, tired-looking woman was Anna’s sister-in-law, whom she had never met before. Otto Quangel had not met these two relatives, either.

On that Sunday, there was no chance to do any more writing, and the half-finished card remained in Ottochen’s radio-kit manual. However much the Quangels were opposed to visits, to friendship and family, for the sake of their peace and quiet, they couldn’t find it in themselves to object to the unexpected appearance of this brother and sister-in-law. The Heffkes were quiet people themselves, members of some religious sect, that, to go by occasional hints they dropped, suffered persecution from the Nazis. But they hardly talked about such things, and politics formed little part of the conversation.

But Quangel listened in astonishment to hear Anna and her brother, Ulrich Heffke, swap childhood reminiscences. For the first time he heard what Anna had been like as a child, a girl full of glee, wickedness, and tricks. He had met his wife when she was almost middle-aged; it had never occurred to him that she had once been completely different, before her arduous and joyless years as a maidservant had robbed her of so much of her strength and optimism.