Authors: Hans Fallada
“My very words, Herr von Studmann, exactly what I told my wife. But you try telling a woman something when she’s got something else in her head! ‘Why are they in the penitentiary if they aren’t murderers?’ she says. ‘There are ordinary prisons for thieves.’ I can’t explain the whole penal code to the woman!”
“So what’s to be done?” asked Studmann. “What does Frau von Teschow want?”
“Then there’s the matter of our washhouse,” continued the Geheimrat. “Well, my wife placed it at your disposal for the cooking. But now she doesn’t want to. You don’t know how these things are, you bachelors. She’s moaning about her beautiful copper in which our washing’s usually boiled, not the food for your lot. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, of course they are not
your
lot. And she thinks it is not right for Amanda to spend only half her time on the poultry. This morning there weren’t so many eggs as yesterday.”
“The chickens certainly didn’t know this morning that the convicts were coming,” said Studmann with a smile.
“You’re right there! Ha-ha-ha!” The old man slapped his hand resoundingly on the desk. “I must tell that to my wife. That’ll put her back up! Marvelous! The chickens didn’t know! My wife has a weak spot for you, Herr von Studmann—well, this’ll cure her. Really excellent!”
Studmann was extremely annoyed at his mistake. The old man, with all his parade of honesty, was such a big scoundrel, exploiting every slip ruthlessly—well, one simply had to be more careful than ever. And never lose patience, for that was all he desired. “We don’t want our men to be a burden to your wife,” he said politely. “We’ll do what we can. We’ll give up the washhouse. We can set up a kitchen somewhere else, in the fodder room or in the Villa—I’ll see. Amanda shall be released. I’ll take Frau Hartig to help Fräulein Kowalewski.”
“Sophie?” cried the old man in astonishment. “Didn’t you know? Well, you do know a lot about your own business! Sophie was standing in the cellar passage, sobbing out that your warder had insulted her, she wasn’t going to work any more. Of course, I tried to calm her down, but you know what these girls are …”
“Thanks for trying to calm her down, Herr Geheimrat,” said Studmann a little sharply. “I’ll also find a substitute for Sophie. I shall forbid singing in the barracks. That would dispose of every objection, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s nice of you,” cried the old man, beaming. “It’s a pleasure to deal with you. If it had been my son-in-law, there would have been a fine row. But,” the Geheimrat shook his head sadly, “unfortunately that isn’t all, Herr von Studmann. When my wife sits at the window and sees these convicts’ uniforms, it upsets her. She’s an old woman; I must be considerate with her.”
“Unfortunately I am not allowed to dress the men differently,” said Studmann. “Otherwise I would have done that, too, you may be sure. But the Manor has four fronts—couldn’t your wife choose a window somewhere else?”
“My dear Herr von Studmann,” replied the Geheimrat, “my wife has sat at her window for, let’s say, roughly fifty years. You really can’t expect her to change in her old days just because you’ve imported convicts into Neulohe!”
“What do you want us to do?” asked Studmann.
“Why, Herr von Studmann,” said the old Geheimrat, beaming, “send the men back to where they belong—to the prison! Today, if possible!”
“What about the harvest?” cried Studmann, horrified.
The Geheimrat smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t ask this seriously, do you?” inquired Studmann incredulously.
“My dear sir!” said the Geheimrat rudely, “you don’t think I’d spend half an hour of my lunch time chatting with you for the fun of it, do you? The men are to leave Neulohe, and today!” He had risen from his chair and was regarding Studmann with an angry gleam. But, since a battle seemed imminent, the other was calm.
“Herr Geheimrat,” he said, “your objections come too late. You knew two weeks ago of our intention to bring a prison gang here. You raised no protest. On the contrary, you placed your washhouse and your poultry maid at our disposal. By doing so you expressed your agreement.”
“Look at him!” mocked the Geheimrat. “The little vest-pocket lawyer! But if you are clever, I can be clever, too. According to clause twenty-one of the contract of lease, the lessee has to remove at once any disturbance of the lessor’s right of residence. Your criminals are a disturbance of the right of residence. Immediately this disturbance was apparent I asked for redress. Well, let’s have your redress. Out with the men!”
“We refuse! We shall prove that a barracks occupied by Polish reapers with their wives and children is much more disturbing than convicts subject to strict discipline. We shall prove further—”
“In court, eh?” said the Geheimrat contemptuously. “Just go to court, my clever fellow! Any appeal to law dissolves the lease. Clause seventeen of the contract. Go on, appeal—I’ll be glad to take over the harvest.”
Studmann mopped his brow. Poor Prackwitz. If only he were here! But he’d no notion, and never would have. The old man wanted everything. He must have read the letters with the offers made by the corn dealers. Pagel was much too unobservant, too trusting. The old man was greedy—he not only wanted to clear out his son-in-law, he wanted the harvest as well. One must think of a way out.
“Well, Herr von Studmann?” said the old man with satisfaction. “Farming is different from the hotel business, eh? Why do you want to worry yourself here? My son-in-law certainly gives you no thanks for it. Send the men away and, if you’re sensible, go away yourself. This place is a burst balloon; even you won’t put any air into it.”
Studmann stood at the office window. “A moment,” he said, looking over at the barracks. Out of the door came Pagel; one, two, three convicts, then a warder. They went off, disappearing down the drive, probably to the toolshed.… All that could be seen from the Manor. There was no way out. Of course, he thought, it’s me he really wants out of the way. He’d make easy work of Prackwitz. Prackwitz would just throw the whole thing up and give him the harvest.… No, no.
A thought came to him which he immediately rejected. He looked more sharply at the barracks. Its pointed red gable faced the staff-house and the Manor. In the gable was a door and a fanlight; the two long sides were hidden by lilac and guelder-rose bushes. No, the idea was not bad; it was
the
idea.
He turned round abruptly. “The lessor raises four objections,” he said. “First, Amanda.”
“Right,” assented the Geheimrat, looking pleased.
“Amanda will be released. Suit you?”
“Right.” The old man grinned.
“The use of the washhouse will be given up.”
“Good!” laughed the old man.
“There’ll be no more singing.”
“Fine, fine. But with all your cunning you won’t fill the fourth hollow tooth, Studmann, my lad.”
“I am not a dentist. Fourth objection: The men can be seen from the Manor.”
“Right,” grinned Herr von Teschow.
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else!” laughed the old man.
“It shall bother you no longer.” Herr von Studmann was unable to prevent a note of triumph creeping into his voice.
“How do you mean?” The old man was taken aback. “Are you going to …”
“Going to what?”
The old man mused to himself. “Transfer the barracks? Can’t be done. Quarter the men elsewhere? Can’t be done, either, since their quarters must be secure. What else?”
“You will excuse me, Herr Geheimrat,” said Studmann, with all that pleasant graciousness of which only a victor is capable. “I must at once give
all the necessary instructions, so that the objection will be removed by evening at latest.”
“But I should like to know …” said the old man, letting Studmann hustle him out of the office without a protest. “You’d better see that everything is arranged by the evening, though!” he cried, relapsing into his threatening mood of before.
“Everything will be arranged by evening,” declared the cheerful Studmann, ostentatiously pocketing the office key instead of placing it as usual in the tin letter box. “Please give my kindest regards to Frau von Teschow.” And he strode toward the farm like a conqueror, the Geheimrat gazing after him open-mouthed.
VII
While Herr von Studmann was negotiating, discussing, disputing with the Geheimrat; while he was dashing over to the farmyard and rounding up men to whom he gave instructions; while in the barracks he was informing young Pagel of the turn of events, not omitting to warn him against any more familiarity with jovial old gentlemen; while he spoke with the prison warders, entreating them not to feel offended—that is to say, during the whole afternoon in which he was talking, flattering, scolding, exhorting, sweating and smiling, in order to save his friend Prackwitz from his father-in-law’s persecution—all that time Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz lay in a temper on his couch, sulking over his friend Studmann. He was furious with Studmann the guardian; cursed Studmann the nursery-governess; laughed contemptuously at Studmann the know-all; smiled scornfully at Studmann the prophet of evil!
As for old Geheimrat von Teschow, he merely cast one glance through the curtain at the beginnings of Studmann’s labors, and immediately nodded his head. “The fellow’s got brains all right,” he said. “I should have had a man like that for my son-in-law, not a long-shanked blunderbuss.”
The Rittmeister realized that he had been made to look completely ridiculous. Wife and friend had entered into a competition to see who could shame him the more. While his wife had ridiculed him before his friend by accusing him of exaggerating a little domestic intermezzo, in which, after all, he had been perfectly justified, his friend had represented him to his wife as an absolute nincompoop in business matters. He had cunningly deprived him of the whole management, and had even made him promise not to tell his father-in-law what he thought! This talk about the pitfalls in the lease was utter nonsense. By carefully avoiding details, the Rittmeister came to the conclusion that he
had always done quite well in Neulohe, had always made a living—he hadn’t brought conceited fellows from Berlin to prove to him that he wasn’t.
He had wanted a friend, a companion to talk to, not a guardian. He wouldn’t put up with it, he shouted in his head. The fact that it was inaudible made it no less intense. The worthy Studmann had been afraid that he would be in an ungovernable rage with his father-in-law. What his father-in-law did, that ridiculous old man of seventy in breeches, didn’t mean a thing to him—he was furious with his friend, the friend who had mortally offended him.
In the harvesters’ barracks everything appeared to be in order. Studmann ran sweating to the Manor washhouse. Three village women, who had been hastily rounded up, followed him with flying apron strings, clucking like hens, full of noisy expectation as to what could be happening again. Having arranged the transfer of the cooking utensils to the fodder-kitchen in the cattle-shed, having ordered an almost religious purification of the Teschow copper, desecrated by the convicts’ food, Studmann ran at full speed to the village, to the house of Overseer Kowalewski, to discover from Sophie what had been the matter. He wanted to put things right with the girl, and perhaps at the same time find out what form the Geheimrat’s kind exhortation had taken. But Sophie, he was told, had gone to a friend at the other end of the village. Herr von Studmann had sweated a lot already; a little more sweat would not matter. Herr von Studmann ran to the other end of the village.
From the park the old Geheimrat saw how he ran. “You can run!” he said cheerfully to himself. “But even if you took along all my Belinde’s archangels and heavenly hosts, you wouldn’t save my son-in-law!” Saying which, the Geheimrat went deeper into the park, to a spot he knew well. He who digs a ditch twice gets what he wants.
“Madam says, would you please come to coffee, sir.”
“Thanks, Hubert. Ask her to leave me alone. Don’t want any coffee, I’m ill.”
“Are you ill, Achim?”
“Leave me alone!”
“Hubert says you are ill.”
“I know what I said! I’m not ill! I don’t want to be eternally treated like a child.”
“I’m sorry, Achim—you are right, you are really ill!”
“Heavens, woman, leave me alone, can’t you? I’m not ill! I just want to be left in peace.”
He was left in peace. He heard his wife talking quietly to Vi in the next room, at coffee. They ought to talk loudly; otherwise he would only think they were talking about him. Of course they were talking about him! They ought not
to whisper like that! He was not
ill!
He had told her he wasn’t, hadn’t he? God in heaven, they were forcing him, although he needed peace and quiet, to get up and sit at the table—just to have their own way! Well, he wasn’t going to. But they shouldn’t whisper like that, otherwise he would have to.
“Talk louder, can’t you!” roared the Rittmeister furiously through the closed door. “That whispering gets on my nerves! How can a man rest when all that rustling’s going on!”
“What are the men doing, I wonder?” said Frau von Teschow to Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “I think they’re building something.”
The two women were sitting in their window seats, gazing at the most interesting spot on Neulohe today, the harvesters’ barracks. (They usually slept at this time.)
“Everything comes to him who waits,” replied Jutta von Kuckhoff. But even she found waiting difficult. “You’re right, Belinde, they look as if they’re building something.”
“But what can they be building?” The old lady was excited. “The barracks has been like that ever since Horst-Heinz built it in ‘ninety-seven. I’ve got used to it. And now suddenly alterations without any warning! Please, Jutta, ring for Elias.”
Jutta rang.
“That young man, that so-called Herr Pagel, is directing the gang. I never trusted his face, Jutta. Why does he always run about in a field gray tunic, when they say he’s got two trunks full of suits? Elias, hasn’t that young man got some other suits?”
“Yes, madam, in a traveling wardrobe and in a large suitcase. Minna says he also has silk shirts which button all the way down like the Rittmeister’s. Silk, not linen. But he doesn’t wear them.”