Authors: Hans Fallada
In this shop Frau von Prackwitz rules. Over the door is the name Prackwitz, but it would be more correct were it Teschow, for the one in power here is the authentic daughter of old Teschow. She keeps her amiability, her smiles, for the customers; her staff tremble before her. She has a cold, sharp tone, she is niggardly, she sweats overtime, she has an eye that sees all. And she has fallen out with her father—it has been agreed that she will not receive more than her strict inheritance—nevertheless she is a Teschow. She can be miserly when she has a purpose.
She has a purpose. She must earn money, a lot of money; she has to support two who are minors. Should she die there must be enough for them. She hates youth and health now; it makes her ill to see her young saleswomen
exchange glances with gentlemen. She thinks only of husband and daughter now. All three of them have been betrayed by life, so she grudges others everything. All that remains is to snatch, and she snatches.
Frequently, in the evening, a slender, white-haired gentleman stands in the shop; he has dark eyes—he looks distinguished. He seldom says anything, but he has a gracious, somewhat shadowy smile—the customers like him very much. A gentleman of the old school—a
grand seigneur
—one sees what blue blood is.
The old gentleman chuckles. He accompanies a shopper almost to the door of the shop, and confirms that it is really warm out. Then he makes a little bow, watches the woman open the shop door, turns back in, and returns to his wife. His brain is asleep; an ice-age has set in. Once he was the Rittmeister and gentleman farmer, Joachim von Prackwitz—now he is only a very, very old man. He no longer marches, either on his own or in formation. He is declining. But some little remnant of former times remains—he does not open the shop door for ladies nor shut it behind them. If he were at home in his flat in Bleibtreustrasse, he would be helpful, be the host, the gentleman, the cavalier. But he is not and will not be a businessman “serving” customers. He won’t have that. This little remnant of self-will has remained. It is not much, but it is something.
His daughter through weeks and months has grown accustomed to people again; now she can, without tears, listen to a kind word. She sits the whole day in the room behind the shop with the girls who carry out the hurried alterations. The machines hum, the girls whisper to one another, “Madam” is in the shop in front.
Violet von Prackwitz looks out of the window or at the flowers which stand before her in a little vase. She smiles, sometimes she cries a little, but she never speaks. A curse was laid upon her once; all her life she is to have a picture before her—she saw a dead man, and then came a period of which nothing is known.
Does she herself know anything about it? Does she remember anything about the man or his curse? The doctor says no; but why does she weep then? She weeps quietly, so that the girls at first often do not notice. But then one of them calls out: “Our Fräulein is crying.” And all stop speaking and look. They have tried everything already. Given her flowers and chocolate, cracked jokes—one cackled like a hen, the other danced about her paper doll—but nothing worked.
Madam has been called; she has left her best customer in the shop. She takes her child in her arms and covers her eyes. “Don’t cry, Violet. You must be merry.” And gradually the sick girl is soothed; she smiles, she watches the girls again. Frau von Prackwitz returns to the shop.…
The girls in the cutting room in the front of the shop are Berliners. They have the gift of gab, and speak often and harshly about the harsh woman who tortures them.… But there is always one who says, “But, oh, God—what that woman has to put up with! That husband
and
the daughter. We would certainly be no different.…”
“No, we wouldn’t be. Violet is now sixteen and has a long life before her.…”
“Yes,” say the doctors, “who can tell? Wait and hope—it is not impossible, madam.”
She waits and she hopes. She looks ahead, she economizes. All the gentleness and goodness she may have is devoted to the daughter. Her husband is barely noticed. Does she sometimes think of a certain Herr von Studmann? How far away—how foolish!
Sometimes she happens to meet a Herr Pagel in the street. She looks him coldly in the eye, she looks through him. She is sufficiently the daughter of her father to be able at last to see through that young fellow. He fraudulently obtained power of attorney from her, he misused this power; large sums of money found their way into his pockets. There are accounts made out by her father concerning the value of the things which that young man sold; there are statements of the amounts which he forwarded to her—enormous discrepancies! And these are charged to her inheritance! She also remembers that this Pagel has in his possession an IOU of hers for 2,000 marks. Let him keep it, she will never redeem it—a little punishment for all the mischief he has caused her.
He seemed so young, so amiable, so decent—one must beware of all youth, all amiability, all decency. This evening she must once more check the cash—Fräulein Degelow always wears new silk stockings now. She may have a friend, but she may also be delving into the till—be careful!
V
“Come in, young man. Step in the parlor. Of course she’s there. Why shouldn’t she be?” cries Frau Krupass in a loud, cheerful voice. But in a whisper: “Be a little nice to her today: she heard this morning that her old flame is dead.”
“At last?” asks the young man joyfully. “Well, thank God.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t be so heartless, Herr Schulze! Even if he was a swine, she’s upset just the same.”
“Hello, Amanda,” says Herr Schulze, truck driver at the paper factory, Korte & Körtig, into the kitchen where Amanda Backs is still washing up. “What have you been eating? Kippers? Shouldn’t eat them in hot weather; fish always stinks at once.”
“Eh, no! Not if it’s smoked!” objects Krupass.
“Don’t pretend, Schulzing, that you don’t know. I heard her whispering secretly with you at the door. Yes, he’s dead, my Hans—and if he was a rascal, all the same he loved me in his way just as I was, without anything.”
“If you think, Amanda, it’s because of that I …”
“Who says so? Who’s talking of you then?” Amanda throws the dish cloth in the dish water, with a splash. “You men always think people are talking about you. No, I was speaking about my Meier and that I can’t get over his dying a rascal. They killed him at Pirmasens; he was a Separatist—always with the French and against the Germans, just as in Neulohe, where I already gave him what-for for the same reason.”
“At Pirmasens!” says Herr Schulze, embarrassed. “Just the same, it’s a bloody while ago.…”
“The twelfth of February, a good four months back. But because he was only called Meier and they also had to find me, it took such a long time before they could inform me officially. And there it said in his pocketbook that I was his fiancée!” Amanda curls her lip in contempt. “What’s more, I never was; I only slept with him.”
There is a rather heavy silence, and the young man fidgets on his kitchen chair. At last Frau Krupass is heard.
“It’s very nice, Amanda, that you’re such a frank person, but too much of a thing is unhealthy. You’re stepping quite needlessly on Herr Schulze’s corns, when he’s only trying to be fair to you.”
“Now, say no more, Krupass, say no more!” says the driver. “I know Amanda; she doesn’t mean that at all.”
“What do I mean then?” cries Amanda with red cheeks. “That’s exactly what I do mean, exactly as I said it. You needn’t talk about Amanda and knowing her.”
“All right. Then that’s what you did mean. We won’t quarrel about that.”
“There you have it, Krupass! And he’s supposed to be a man! No, Schulzing,” she exclaims, genuinely grieved, “you’re a good fellow, but you’re too soft for me. I admit you’re reliable and you save up and you don’t drink, and as soon as possible you’ll buy a truck and I could be the wife of a truck owner, as you told me.… But, Schulzing, the whole day I’ve been turning it over in my mind. We won’t hit it off. To be caring is fine, but only to be caring, that’s no good either. I’m only twenty-three, and I’m not in such a hurry. Perhaps someone else will come along who can make my heart throb a bit. You don’t, Schulzing.”
“Amanda, you only think that now because you got that letter. I know I’m a little slow; but in my business that’s what’s wanted. Smart driving, they can
do all that; but drive carefully and turn with a truck and a trailer in a yard not much larger than your kitchen without a scratch, only I can do that.”
“There you go speaking again about your stupid truck. Go and marry one.”
“Certainly I’m speaking about my truck, but you must let me say what I have to, Amanda. I’m slow, as I said, but just as I succeed with my truck because I’m capable, so I’ll succeed in marriage. Take it from me, Amanda, it’s like this: they can all cut a great dash and drive up smartly, but you look at that sort of marriage months later! Driven into a smash-up. With me you’ll keep safe; nothing’ll happen to you with me—I’m as certain of that as of my driving license.”
“Yes, you’re a good fellow, Schulzing. But fire and water don’t mix. You say nothing’ll happen to me—good, but I don’t know if that’ll be all right for me. Too quiet is no good either.”
“Oh, well.” Young Schulze stands up. “I won’t try to persuade you. What isn’t, isn’t. Oh, no, I don’t take it bad of you, Amanda, not a bit. The bakers don’t all bake the same bread. You can’t help it, and I can’t help it. Good evening, Frau Krupass. Thank you, too, for letting me sit here in the evening and for all the good food.…”
“Now he’s talking of the food as well!”
“Why shouldn’t I talk about it? One ought to return thanks for everything given us in life. I haven’t been given such a lot for me to find thanks too much. Good night, Amanda, I wish you everything good also.”
“Thank you, Schulzing. You too—and most of all a nice wife.”
“Well, no doubt I shall find someone else. But I would have liked it the other way, Amanda. Good night.”
Not till they hear him say good night to the foreman outside in the square does Frau Krupass say: “Was that right, Amanda? He’s a very respectable young man, really.” Amanda Backs says nothing. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s all right as far as I’m concerned if you stay here another ten years in the yard with me. I like Petra very much, but I can’t talk to her as I do to you. And you’re better in the business.” Ma Krupass stands up yawning. “Well, I’m going to hit the hay now. We’ve got the truckload of bottles tomorrow, and we must get up by five—aren’t you going yet?”
“I’ll sit here a little while and look out of the window. And I’m not angry with you. I know very well that I alone am guilty with him.”
“Don’t get in the dumps now. Think of Petra—she was properly in the dirt, worse than you; and what is she now? A real lady.”
“Oh, lady!” says Amanda contemptuously. “I don’t give a damn for that. But he loves her, that’s it—and Schulze was thinking more of your depot here, and you saying you’d provide for me, than of love.”
“Lawd, Amanda, love! Now don’t start about love, too. Staring in the sky at evening and love as well! That’s not healthy; all you’ll get is a cold. A real good sleep’s better than all your love. Love only makes people stupid.”
“Good night, Ma Krupass. But I’d like to know what you’d have said if someone had told you that forty years ago.”
“Ah, dear, why that’s quite different. Forty years ago and love! They were other times then. But nowadays even love’s good for nothing.”
“Rubbish,” says Amanda, pulling her chair up to the window.
VI
We must go on. We’re in a hurry! Must we still go to Neulohe? Hello, hello! Careful! Get out of the way—here comes a cart heavily laden with sacks. They have no horses. All the horses are at work in the fields, not one can be spared—and so the people are pushing the fifty hundredweights over the bumpy yard toward the barn.
Who is coming across the yard? Who is shouting that it must go quicker? Old Geheimrat von Teschow. He has become his own bailiff, forester, clerk; now he becomes his own draught horse, too. He strains at the shaft. “Push, men. I’m seventy and you—you can’t even do a few hundredweights? Weaklings!”
Hardly is the cart at rest than he must be off. Oh, he has so much to do, exhorting, supervising, calculating; from early morning onwards he is half dead from overwork. That delights him. He has two tasks. He must build up Neulohe again, despoiled by his son-in-law and his own daughter, in conjunction with a gang of thieves and criminals. And he must refill his money chests emptied by the Reds!
His activity is tireless; he is miserly, close-fisted. He robs his own wife of the eggs in the larder, to sell them; he is constantly inventing new ways of economizing. When the men complain: “Herr Geheimrat, you must let us live,” he shouts: “Who lets me live, then? I have nothing more. I’m a poor man. I have debts—that’s how much they robbed me!”
“But, Herr Geheimrat, you have the forest.”
“The forest? A few pine trees! And what do you think the Treasury demands from me? Before the war I paid eighteen marks income tax a year. And now? The scoundrels want thousands! Well, they don’t get them! No, you economize; I have to.”
He is full of ideas. If in the mornings he has the bell to start work rung five minutes too early, he’ll sweat five hours’ unpaid overtime out of sixty people. He cheats them in the wages; if he diddles everyone once a week over no more
than a pfennig, he’ll have saved thirty marks in the year. He must hurry up; the shares which he purchased during the inflation are worth nothing.
“But a bit more, Elias, than you get for your thousand-mark notes.”
“You wait, Herr Geheimrat, just you wait.”
But he can’t wait, the old Geheimrat. His property, in shares, in cash, has dwindled away. When he dies there must be at least as much as he received from his father. Why? For whom? The daughter is restricted to her inheritance, and from this are deducted all amounts already received. He has also fallen out with the son. For whom? He doesn’t know. But he rushes around, he calculates—and apart from that he’ll grow very old. He has no intention of departing these next twenty years; he’ll see many a young man die yet.