Authors: Hans Fallada
“No,” said Pagel, “I’ve not been up to anything.” He fell silent. Then, seeing the old man’s calm glance: “I only want to speak to my girl-friend. She’s inside there.” And he motioned with his head toward the door.
“Now?” The old man was almost indignant. “At night, between three and four?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have really been getting up to something which won’t let you rest?”
Pagel made no reply.
“There’s nothing doing. Visits aren’t allowed now. And anyway …”
“Isn’t it possible at all?”
“Absolutely impossible!” The old man reflected. At last he said: “And you know it as well as I do. You’re just standing here like this because it won’t let you rest.”
“I’m here in the police station quite by accident. I didn’t come here on purpose.”
“But you came to this door on purpose? It wasn’t easy to find at night, eh?”
“No.”
“There, you see,” said the old man. “It’s just the same with you as with those who come to give themselves up; they also say that they don’t come because of a bad conscience. Bad conscience! There’s no such thing anymore. Why do you come, then, at two or three in the night? That’s a strange time. A man’s alone with himself then; he suddenly gets very different thoughts from the daytime. And then he comes here.”
“I don’t know,” said Pagel gloomily. And he really did not. He didn’t want to leave Berlin without at least having asked her whether it was true. Sometimes
he told himself that the official must have misinformed him—it was preposterous. He knew Petra! And then again he told himself that an official wouldn’t tell him anything that was untrue; he had no interest in telling him a lie. Yes, the game was finished; victory had turned into defeat. How alone Peter now is. Peter—someone was once with him, something alive, that clung to him. Is everything now lost?
“I am going away early tomorrow morning,” he pleaded. “Can’t anything be done tonight? No one need notice anything.”
“What are you thinking?” cried the old man. “There are night warders inside. No, it’s absolutely impossible.” He thought for a moment, looked at Pagel critically. “And anyway …”
“What do you mean—‘and anyway’?” Pagel asked, somewhat angrily.
“And anyway, visitors are not usually permitted.”
“And unusually?”
“Unusually neither.”
“I see,” said Pagel.
“This is a police prison here,” said the old man, feeling there was some need to explain the situation. “In the remand prison the examining magistrate can give permission for visits, but here it’s not allowed. Most of them only stay with us a few days.”
“A few days? …”
“Yes. Perhaps you can inquire next week in Moabit Prison.”
“Is it quite certain that I can’t visit her tomorrow morning? No exceptions are made?”
“None at all. But naturally, if you know something to prove that your girlfriend is inside without cause, and tell it to the Commissar tomorrow, then she’ll come out—that’s plain.”
Pagel reflected.
“But you don’t look as if you had any information of that sort, do you? Otherwise you wouldn’t come here to me at night. You just want to have an ordinary talk with your girl-friend, don’t you—in private?”
“I wanted to ask her something,” said Pagel.
“Well, write her a letter, then,” said the old man kindly. “If there’s nothing in it about the charge she’s here for, then it’ll be handed over to her, and she’ll also be allowed to reply.”
“But it’s precisely about the charge that I want to ask her!”
“Well, young fellow, then you’ll have to be patient. If you want to inquire about that, you can’t do it in the remand prison, either. Until the charge has been tried, nobody is allowed to discuss the matter with her.”
“How long will that take?” asked Pagel desperately.
“Well, that depends entirely on the charge. Has she confessed?”
“That’s just it. She has confessed, but I don’t believe her. She’s confessed something she hasn’t done.”
The old man seized his newspaper very angrily. “Now run along to bed,” he said. “If you want to persuade a self-confessed prisoner to withdraw her confession, then you can wait a long time for permission to visit her. And you won’t be allowed to write to her, either, which is to say, she won’t get your letter. You certainly have a nerve. You want me to help you to visit her secretly. No, you go home. I’ve had enough.”
Pagel stood there, uncertain. “But it does happen sometimes that someone confesses to a thing he hasn’t done. I’ve often read it.”
“So you’ve read that, have you?” asked the old man almost venomously. “Then let me tell you, young fellow, anyone who makes a false confession has always been up to something worse. Yes, a man confesses to housebreaking because at the same hour he committed a murder. That’s how it is. And if your girl-friend’s confessed, then she’ll very well know why. I wouldn’t do any persuading if I was you. Otherwise she’ll find herself in a worse mess.” The old man squinted angrily at Pagel through his pince-nez.
Pagel, however, stood as if thunder-struck. New light had been thrown on Petra’s confession. Yes, she had confessed to street-walking in order to escape something worse; she had confessed to street-walking in order to escape him. Prison was better than living with Wolfgang Pagel. Faith lost, confidence lost—gone from him, gone from the world, away from the intolerable to that which could be tolerated! A big win lost again—gone, vanished.…
“Thank you very much,” he said very politely. “You have given me good advice.” And he went slowly down the passage, followed by the old man’s suspicious glance.
It was the right hour to fetch his things from Tannenstrasse. At this hour his mother would certainly not be expecting him; she would be sound asleep. In Alexanderplatz he would certainly find a taxi. Thank God that Studmann had lent him some money. Studmann, the non-gambler, the only capitalist; Studmann the helpful. He could almost think of Studmann and Neulohe with pleasure.
Chapter Nine
A New Start to a New Day
I
A girl and a man are lying on a bed in a hotel room. The man is against the wall in the narrow bed. A light whistling accompanies his breathing through his nose. The girl has just awoken, her chin resting on her folded arms, lying on her stomach, blinking at the night table which is already bright.
Sophie Kowalewski had been on a jaunt in the old city and had then landed up in an hotel on Weidendamm Bridge. Hence the hooting of the steamer. Steamers sail on the Spree—or wasn’t this the Spree?
Quietly, so as not to wake the man, Sophie Kowalewski slipped out of bed, ran to the window, and raised a corner of the curtain. The sky stood a bright blue above the iron curves of the bridge.
I shall have wonderful weather in Neulohe, she thought. Marvelous thing, to lie under a tree at the edge of the wood and let yourself roast. No mistress. No bathing suit, thank you. And when there’s the moon, to bathe quite naked in the cold grayish pond in the middle of the forest.…
She let the curtain fall and quickly began to dress. She gave herself a slight rinse and gargled hastily—she could do all that thoroughly in the hostel; she would still have time before the train went. A joyful excitement, something like the anticipation of approaching happiness, filled her. Neulohe … the lilac bush behind the fire station, where she had experienced her first kiss—Oh, God! In the hostel she would put on fresh underwear. The things she had on filled her with disgust.
She was ready. Bag in hand, she peered hesitantly toward the bed. She made two steps in its direction and murmured very cautiously: “Dearie.”
No answer.
“I’m going now, darling.…”
No answer, only a light whistling through his nose.
It was not a sudden inspiration which made Sophie look at the sleeper’s clothes, untidily thrown over a chair. Ever since she woke she had been thinking that this stupid night might at least produce the fare to Neulohe. She had to be a little careful with her money now there were no fresh supplies to be got
at home. In a flash she was by the chair. She found the wallet at once (she had watched last night where he put it).
There was not much money in it—very little for a man who had spent several millions on champagne last night. For a moment she hesitated. With a woman’s eye she saw that his clothes were carefully kept, but were not new; perhaps he had scraped all his money together for this one big bust. There were such men, she knew. They saved and saved and promised themselves the world from such an evening, a happiness such as they had never yet experienced. Then they awoke next morning, sober, desperate, penniless.…
Sophie stood there undecided. Her glance wandered from the few bank notes to the clothes, to the sleeper.… This little bit of money wouldn’t be any use to her. And she was on the point of putting the notes back into the wallet.
But Hans would laugh at me, she thought suddenly. Hans isn’t so silly. “You must take everything,” he always says. “It’s the honest people who are soft.” No, it serves him right, he’ll take more care next time.… But I ought to leave him at least his fare. It’s certain he’s got to go to his office. At least I ought to let him get to his office in time. Oh, what do I care whether he gets there in time? Who ever bothered to see how I got home? The toffs left me standing in the street, too lazy to open the door for me; shoved me out of the taxi when they’d had what they wanted. What’s the idea, fare money?
She was proud of her decision as she stuffed the miserable money into her bag. “You’re right!” Hans would say. And she was right too. Whoever didn’t steal got robbed. Whoever didn’t bite got bitten. Good morning!
And nimbly she ran down the stairs.
II
It was already light even in the forest. Ex-bailiff Meier plodded along angrily: the suitcases were too heavy, his shoes pinched, he hadn’t enough money, the road was much too far to Grünow, he hadn’t slept enough, his head ached like seven monkeys.
In his path, as if sprung from the earth, suddenly stood the Lieutenant.
He was friendly, however. “Morning, Meier,” he said. “I just wanted to say good-by to you.”
Meier stared at him suspiciously. “Well, good-by, Lieutenant!”
“You can walk on. Take your bags and go on; we’ve got to go the same way for a bit.”
Meier remained where he was. “I like walking alone,” he said.
“Now, now!” said the Lieutenant laughing. His laugh sounded false, thought Meier, and his voice uneasy. “Surely you’re not afraid of me now, when you’ve got a pistol in your pocket.”
“It’s none of your bloody business what I’m carrying in my pocket!” cried Meier angrily. But his voice trembled.
“As a matter of fact that’s true,” admitted the Lieutenant. “But it’s important for me because now I won’t fall under suspicion.”
“What do you mean, fall under suspicion?” stammered Meier.
“If you are lying dead somewhere here in the forest, Herr Meier,” said the Lieutenant very politely, but bitterly in earnest.
“Me—dead—ridiculous,” stammered little Meier, deathly white, peering at the other’s face. “I haven’t done anything to you, Herr Lieutenant!”
Begging, anxious, Meier stared into the Lieutenant’s eyes, but there was nothing in them, only an ice-cold look.
“Your pistol and mine, you see, are the same caliber,” explained the Lieutenant pitilessly. “You’re a big fool, Meier, to have taken the pistol.… And then you’ve also recently fired it.… But I aim better than you, Herr Meier. And I am standing so nicely to the right of you. A close shot at six inches in the right temple—every gun expert would say suicide, my dear Herr Meier. And at home the plundered safe … the shot at the girl. No, no, Herr Meier, don’t you worry, there’s no doubt about it: everything points to suicide.”
The Lieutenant talked and talked. But he was not so calm as he pretended. It is one thing to shoot someone in battle or in passion; it’s quite another thing to slaughter in cold blood as a result of rational considerations. Once more he reminded himself that he was risking nothing, that he was not endangering the Cause, but saving it from a traitor. And yet all the time he was wishing—gun experts and risk notwithstanding—that Meier would reach for his pistol. The bullet with which the Lieutenant would anticipate him would be so much easier than the cold-blooded bullet into that gray face.
But Meier was not thinking of the pistol in his hip pocket. “Herr Lieutenant,” he stammered, “I swear to you I’ll never say a word about you and Fräulein Vi.… Nor about the
Putsch
.… I’ll keep to it, Herr Lieutenant. I would always be afraid you’d get me, you or one of your men. I’m a coward. Please don’t shoot! I swear to you by everything that’s holy to me …” His voice failed him, he gulped and stared fearfully at the other.
“But there’s nothing that’s holy to you, Meier,” said the Lieutenant. He still couldn’t make up his mind. “You’re a thorough swine, Meier.”
Black Meier stared breathlessly at the lieutenant’s lips and whispered quickly, “But I can still turn over a new leaf. Believe me, Herr Lieutenant, I can still become different, I’m still young. Please, please say yes! I’ll turn back, I’ll confess to the Rittmeister that I stole the money. If he sends me to prison I’ll go willingly. I want to reform. Please, please, Herr Lieutenant.”
The Lieutenant morosely shook his head. Why had he started talking to this fellow in the first place? He should have fired at once, without a word. But now it was getting more and more repellent. The Lieutenant was not completely depraved, nor did he deceive himself; he knew that he alone had got the fellow into this mess. Meier had to die because he, the Lieutenant, couldn’t restrain himself from an affair with the little Prackwitz girl. But it couldn’t be helped. Meier knew too much now, he was too dangerous, even more dangerous since he had seen the pistol aimed at him.
“Pick up your bags, Meier, we’re going along for a bit!”
Without a trace of resistance Meier obediently picked up his bags and looked at the Lieutenant questioningly.
“Up there along the glade!” came the order.
Meier went in front, his shoulders hunched up, as if that could stop the dreaded shot from behind. The bags were no longer heavy, his shoes no longer pinched; he walked quickly as though he could run away from the death that followed him.