Authors: Hans Fallada
She recalled the path she had traveled under this name, a stormy, hurried, flowery path at first. Then the endlessly long years at the side of her paralyzed husband who, growing more and more of a stranger, had painted contentedly while she pursued the health which he no longer seemed to crave. Finally she remembered the awakening, the resurrection of the man with the graying temples, who had entangled himself in the most absurd coxcombry and had been carried home shamefully killed.…
Every step on this long road had been painful; no year had passed without trouble; sorrow had been her bedfellow and grief her shadow. But out of that she had become a Pagel; out of the sweet illusions of youth there had arisen the
determined woman who now and forever was Frau Pagel. In heaven she would still be a Pagel; it was impossible that God would ever make her anyone else. But all for which she had fought so hard, this metamorphosis, this agonizing fulfillment of her destiny, had fallen into the lap of that young thing as though it were nothing. As casually as they had met, so were they united. “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. My people shall be thy people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.” Yes, so it was written; but they knew nothing of that. To be Frau Pagel was not merely a name, it was a destiny. They, however, had stuck up a notice, had the words “half-past twelve” inserted, and that was all there was to it.
Minna said, to console her (but she was right all the same) : “It will only be at a registry office, madam, not a church.”
Frau Pagel sat up. “Isn’t that so, Minna; you think so too? Wolfgang hasn’t properly considered the matter, he does it only because the girl’s forced him. He too doesn’t consider a registry office sufficient; he wouldn’t cause me that pain.”
“It’s no doubt,” explained the inflexibly honest Minna, “because the registry office is compulsory, while church is not. He’ll be short of money, the young master.
“Yes,” said Frau Pagel and heard only what pleased her. “And those who have come together so hurriedly will just as lightly part.”
“The young master,” ventured Minna, “has always had too easy a time. He’s no idea of how a poor man earns money. First you made it easy for him, madam—and now the girl does. Some men are like that—all their life they need a nursemaid—and what’s so extraordinary, they always find one.”
“Money,” repeated the old woman. “They will have hardly any money. A young thing is vain, likes to dress nicely. If we were to give her money, Minna?”
“She would only give it to him, madam. And he would gamble it away.”
“Minna!” Frau Pagel was shocked. “What are you thinking of? He’ll not gamble any more now, when he’s married. There may be children.”
“There could have been children before, madam. That has nothing to do with gambling.”
Frau Pagel did not want to understand; she was staring across the table at the empty seat.
“Do clear away, Minna,” she cried. “I can’t look at food any longer. Here I’m eating a little pigeon—and he has married.” She wept again. “Oh, Minna,
what are we to do? I can’t go on sitting here in my flat as if nothing had happened. We must do something.”
“Suppose we went there?” suggested Minna cautiously.
“Go there? Us? And he doesn’t come here! And he hasn’t even written to tell me he’s going to get married! No, that’s quite impossible.”
“There’s no need to behave as if we knew anything.”
“I deceive Wolf? No, Minna, I won’t start that now. It’s bad enough to realize that he doesn’t mind deceiving me.”
“And suppose I went there alone?” Minna again asked warily. “They’re used to me, and I’m not so particular about a bit of deceiving.”
“That’s bad enough, Minna,” said Frau Pagel sharply. “Very disgusting of you. Well, I’ll lie down now for a short time. I’ve a terrible headache. Bring me a glass of water for my tablets.”
And she went into her husband’s room. For a while she stood before the picture of a young woman, thinking perhaps: She can never love him as much as I did Edmund. They may separate very, very soon.
She heard Minna go to and from the other room, clearing away. She’s an old donkey, she reflected angrily. She was to bring me a glass of water; but no, first she must clear away. Well, I won’t do what she wants. She has her afternoon off the day after tomorrow; she can do what she likes then. If she goes today the girl will know at once why. One knows how mercenary these young girls are. Wolf is a fool. I’ll tell him so, too. He thinks she’s taking him for his own sake, but she has seen the flat and the paintings; she’s known for a long time what prices they fetch. And that this picture really belongs to him. Funny, he’s never asked me for it. But that’s just like Wolf. He isn’t calculating.
She heard the water tap flowing in the kitchen. Minna probably wanted to bring some ice-cold water. Quickly she went to the sofa and lay down, covering herself with a blanket.
“You could have brought me the water five minutes ago, Minna. You know that I’m lying here with a frightful headache.”
She looked angrily at the old servant. But Minna wore her most wooden expression; you couldn’t read her thoughts if she didn’t want you to.
“All right then, Minna. And be very quiet in the kitchen-I want to sleep a little. You can have your afternoon off today. You may leave once you’ve finished the dishes. Leave the window cleaning till tomorrow; you’re bound to make a noise. You’ll make such a clatter with the pails that I shan’t be able to sleep.”
“Good-by, madam,” said Minna and went, closing the door very softly, avoiding any clatter. Silly woman, thought Frau Pagel. How she stared at me—just like an old owl! I’ll wait till she goes, then I’ll hurry along to Betty’s. Perhaps
she was at the registry office or sent somebody there—no one’s so inquisitive as Betty. And I’ll be back before Minna-no need for her to know everything.
Frau Pagel glanced once again at the painting on the wall. The Woman in the Window was looking away from her. Seen thus, the dark shadows behind her head made it seem as if a man’s lips were approaching the nape. Frau Pagel had seen it often like that; today it annoyed her.
This damned sensuality, she thought. It spoils everything for the young people. They are always taken in by it.
It occurred to her that, since the couple were married, half of the picture belonged to the young wife. Was it not so?
But only let her come! I wish she would. I slapped her once and there is more waiting for her.…
Almost smiling she turned over, to fall asleep the next minute.
Chapter Four
An Oppressive Afternoon in Town and Country
I
“Listen,” said the Governor, Dr. Klotzsche, to the journalist Kastner, who had chosen that day of all days to visit Meienburg Penitentiary during his tour through Prussia’s strongholds. “Listen. You need attach no importance to the gossip you hear from the townsfolk. If ten prisoners make a noise, in this reinforced concrete building it sounds as if it were a thousand.”
“But you telephoned for the Reichswehr,” the journalist pointed out. “It’s unbelievable!” Governor Klotzsche was about to fly into a rage over Press spying, which went as far as listening-in to trunk calls, when he remembered that this Herr Kastner carried a letter of introduction from the Minister of Justice. Besides, although Cuno was Reich Chancellor, his position according to rumor was shaky, and it was therefore wiser not to be on bad terms with the Social Democratic Party whose Press Herr Kastner represented. “It is unbelievable,” he continued, but in noticeably more moderate tones, “how gossip in this town exaggerates the putting into force of a regulation. If there is unrest in the penitentiary, I have as a precautionary measure to inform the police and Reichswehr. Within a very short time I was able to cancel the warning. You see, Herr Doctor—”
But even that title did not soften this man. “Still, in your opinion there was a possibility of serious unrest. Why?”
The Governor was extremely annoyed, but it didn’t help. “It was on account of the bread,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t good enough for one of the convicts, and he shouted. And when they heard him, twenty others joined in.”
“Twenty, not ten then,” corrected the journalist.
“A hundred for all I care,” cried the Governor, whose gall was overflowing. “For all I care, sir, a thousand, all of them! I can’t alter it; the bread’s not good, but what am I to do? Our food appropriations are four weeks behind the mark devaluation. I can’t buy the best flour—what am I to do?”
“Deliver decent bread. Make a row with the Ministry. Incur debts on behalf of the administration and don’t worry. The men are to be fed according to the regulations.”
“Certainly,” said the Governor. “I’m to risk my neck so that my gentlemen get the best of food. And the unpunished population starves outside, what?”
But Herr Kastner was not accessible to irony and bitterness. Seeing a man in convict garb polishing the corridor floor, he called to him, suddenly very amiable. “You there. Your name, please?”
“Liebschner.”
“Herr Liebschner, tell me quite honestly—how do you find the food, in particular the bread?”
The prisoner glanced swiftly from the Governor to the gentleman in mufti, uncertain of what they wanted to hear. You couldn’t tell; the stranger might be from the Public Prosecutor, and if you opened your mouth too wide you fell in the soup. He plumped for caution. “The food? I like it.”
“Ah, Herr Liebschner,” said the journalist, who was not speaking with a prisoner for the first time, “I’m from the Press. You needn’t be afraid of me. You will come to no harm if you speak frankly. We shall keep an eye on you. What was wrong with the bread early this morning?”
“I beg your pardon,” cried the Governor, pale with fury. “This borders on instigation …”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Herr Kastner barked. “If I’m asking this man to speak the truth, is that instigation? Speak freely—I am Kastner from the Social Democratic Press Combine. You can always write to me.”
But the prisoner had made his decision. “Some will always grumble,” said he and looked frankly at the journalist. “The bread is the same as it ever was and I like it. Those here who complain the loudest go shortest when they’re outside and haven’t a whole pair of trousers to their behinds.”
“So,” frowned the journalist, visibly dissatisfied, while the Governor breathed more easily. “So! What have you been sentenced for?”
“Fraud,” replied Herr Liebschner. “And then they say harvest crews are to go out; tobacco and meat as much as you like.”
“Thanks,” said the journalist curtly, and turned to the Governor. “Shall we continue? I should like to see a cell. Besides, I don’t set much store by an orderly’s gossip; they’re all afraid of losing their jobs. And fraud! Frauds and bullies are the most untrustworthy people in the world.”
“But at first you seemed to attach importance to this swindler’s evidence.” Behind his fair beard the Governor smiled.
The journalist paid no attention. “And then harvest crews. To do work for the big agrarians which even the Poles consider themselves a cut above. And for wretched wages. Is that an arrangement of your own?”
“No, not at all,” said the Governor pleasantly. “It’s a decree of your Party comrade in the Prussian Ministry of Justice, Herr Kastner.”
II
“Frau Thumann,” said Petra, firmly buttoned up from top to toe in the shabby summer overcoat, and without taking any notice of the lodger from the room opposite, the jaunty but debauched Ida of Alexanderplatz, who sat at the landlady’s kitchen table soaking delicious glazed brioche in her milky coffee, “Frau Thumann, haven’t you anything for me to do?”
“Lor’, girl,” groaned Madam Po at the sink. “What do you mean by something to do? D’you want to watch the clock to see if he’s coming, or do you want some grub?”
“Both,” said Ida in a voice hoarse with drink, and sucked her coffee audibly through a lump of sugar in her mouth.
“I’ve already cleaned the fresh ‘errings and you don’t do the potato salad as Willem likes it—and what’s left?”
Madam Po glanced round, but nothing occurred to her.
“I’ve been working my guts out so I’d be at the church door in time for the grand wedding, and now it’s twenty to two and the bride’s still hopping round in a man’s overcoat and bare legs. I’m always being cheated of something.”
Petra sat down. She felt queer in the stomach, a tugging sensation with a hint of pain to come, a weakness in the knees and now and again a flush of perspiration which couldn’t be altogether caused by the sultry air. Nevertheless she felt quite contented. An enormous and happy certainty was within her. She could let them talk as they liked; her previous pride and shame were gone, she knew whither she was going. What mattered was not that the path was difficult, but that it led to a goal.
“Sit down gently on the chair, my lady,” jeered the dashing Ida. “Or else it won’t bear you till the bridegroom comes to take you to the wedding.”
“Don’t be too hard on her in my kitchen, Ida,” cautioned Madam Po at the sink. “Up till now he’s always paid his way, and you have to be kind to paying guests.”
“But there’s an end to everything, Thumann,” said Ida sagely. “I understand men. I know when the dough gets short and he wants to hop it—hers has hopped it today.”
“Don’t say that, Ida, for God’s sake,” wailed Frau Thumann. “What am I going to do with a girl with bare legs, with nothing on but an overcoat? Oh, God,” she screamed, and flung a pan down with a clatter. “I’ve no bloody luck. P’raps I’ll have to buy her a dress to get rid of her.”
“Buy a dress?” said Ida contemptuously. “Don’t be a mug, Thumann. You only need tell a policeman certain things—by the way, there’s one living in the front part of the house—tell him, for instance, she’s swindling—and off she goes to the police station and Alexanderplatz. They’ll give you a dress there, Fräulein—you know, a dark blue uniform and cap.”
“Why try to worry me?” said Petra peaceably. “No doubt you’ve been thrown over once too.” She had not intended to say it, but out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh—and she had spoken.