Wolf Among Wolves

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.

If only it were over, thought the Lieutenant, his eyes never leaving the man in front. But this glade is really much too frequented. Better if they don’t find him for three or four days, when there’s no trace of me left.

These thoughts disgusted him. They seemed so unreal, like something from a wild dream. But here was the man before him, a real, living man. So it isn’t a dream. At any minute it can come true.

“Now to the left, up the footpath, Meier!”

Obedient as a lamb! Sickening! Yes, there at the top he would do it, he must do it.… A traitor is always a traitor; they never change, they don’t reform.… What’s the matter with Meier? What’s he shouting? Has he gone mad? Now he was running, shouting louder and louder. He had thrown down the bags at the Lieutenant’s feet.

The Lieutenant jerked his pistol up—too late; he must shoot at close quarters to make it seem like suicide.

“We’re coming, Herr Kniebusch!” shouted Meier, running.

There stood the forester. Beside him lay a man in the bilberries and moss, bound hand and foot.

“Thank God you’ve come. I couldn’t drag him any further, gentlemen. I’ve been dragging the fellow for hours.”

Freed at last from being alone with the dangerous fellow, the forester was quite talkative.

“It’s Bäumer of Altlohe—you know, Meier, the worst of the whole gang! I’ve made a very good catch, Herr Lieutenant. This man’s a criminal.”

The Lieutenant stood leaning against a tree, his face rather white. But he said calmly: “Yes, you’ve made a good catch, forester. But I?” Full of hatred, he stared at little Meier, who returned his glance defiantly, triumphantly.…

“Well, good morning and good luck to you,” said the Lieutenant suddenly, turning round and marching down to the glade again. Coming to the two cases, he could not restrain himself longer: he trod heavily first on one, then on the other.

“I say!” said the forester in amazement. “What’s wrong with him? Why’s he so queer? Did he have any trouble with his meeting? I ordered everybody to come, as he told me. Do you understand it, Meier?”

“Oh, yes,” said little Meier, “I understand it. He’s in a fearful temper with you.”

“With me? Whatever for?”

“Because you haven’t shot the stag, you know; for the young Fräulein, you know. Well, come along, Kniebusch, now we’ll go together to the farm; I’ll harness the hunting cart, and we’ll fetch this fellow and my bags.”

“Your bags? Are they yours? Are you going away, then?”

“Lord, no.… They’re the Lieutenant’s bags. I’ll tell you all about it. Come along now, it’s better if we walk side by side; I can’t tell it so well walking behind each other like this.”

III

The taxi stopped in Tannenstrasse. Only with difficulty could the driver be persuaded to come up and help carry the things.

“Yes, you say there’s no one about now, but the thieves here in Berlin are always about. Especially now. And who’s going to buy me a new tire, which you can’t even get now? You won’t, for certain.”

“Well, all right, seeing as you’re going on to the station, for a mug of beer and a schnapps, as they say, although I’d much rather have a coffee. I’m to be quiet? I’m as quiet as a Government when it’s going to pinch money! You don’t hear them, but you lose your money all right, take it from me.”

“Nice house—bit gloomy, though … I suppose there’s no central heating? But gas, you’ve got gas, ain’t you? ’Cause gas in the house saves briquettes, and saves you buying a rope to hang yourself with.… Yes, I’m being quiet; you ain’t half as quiet as I am. Take that lock, for instance; I’d have handled it more gently.… Doing a bunk, I suppose—bit behind with the rent, eh?

“Now, don’t be stuck up, I was in the war, too; if you bark at me, I’ll scream so loud that the pictures’ll slide off the wall. I say—so this is what you call your den, eh? Marvelous, with knobs on. I didn’t have this at my mother’s. And a wardrobe trunk as well—that’ll mean two journeys.

“I say! Who’s that lying on the sofa? Gave me a start! An old woman—and she’s sleeping quite peaceful. Well, I won’t make another sound now; we’ll let her sleep. She’s earned her sleep—she’s been packing the whole night, the old woman! She’s your mother, ain’t she? Well, I guessed it straight off. But here, I’d say good-by and bon voyage to her, seeing she’s been waiting the whole night for you.… Been kicking over the traces, eh? Well, youngsters ain’t got no feelings, I was no different when I was your age.… Now I’m sorry for it sometimes, now she’s dead and buried in St. Matthew’s churchyard.… Well, everybody keeps doing the same silly things; there’s always mugs about.

“Well, hurry up, mate, get this traveling wardrobe on me back. I’ll manage it by meself; I’ll be back in a jiffy.… No? You want to help me down with it? Well, all right; let everyone do what he likes—let everyone be as silly as he likes, say I.”

“Well, at least that’s something. Write the old woman a few lines; something nice, understand! Even if it’s a fib. Mothers are always pleased, they know the kids are fibbing, but still they’re pleased. ‘He doesn’t want to hurt me,’ they think.

“Well now, let’s hop it.… Gently, young fellow, careful with the door.… If we wake her up now, it’ll be tough luck.… Getting nabbed when you’re doing a bunk ain’t nice. Look out, can’t you! Careful, idiot! You’ll wake her up! Thank God, we’ve managed it.… Quietly with the passage door.… Quietly, I said. Quietly doesn’t mean kicking up a row! Lord, is your heart hammering like mine? I was afraid we’d wake the old woman; I’m queer that way. I could bust a man like you right on the jaw—I wouldn’t think twice about it—but an old woman like that …”

IV

It stank—it stank suffocatingly in all the corridors and stairways, in all the dormitories, in every cell, workroom and workshop of Meienburg prison. Of lavatory buckets, disinfectants, old oakum, dried vegetables that had gone moldy, dried fish and old socks, cocoa fiber and polish. Yesterday’s thunderstorm had also passed over Meienburg prison, but the cool rainy air had not been able to penetrate into the white structure of cement, steel and glass dominating the town.

“Hell! What a stink again!” said the warders on morning duty, who came at a quarter to six.

“Man, how it stinks in your cell!” The station warder woke his orderly, Hans Liebschner, with a vigorous poke in the ribs. “Get up, man; in ten minutes they’ll be emptying their buckets. Oh, God! It stinks so much already that all my breakfast is coming up.”

“I don’t smell anything, chief warder,” protested Liebschner as he slid into his trousers.

“I’ve told you ten times that I’m a principal warder, not chief warder,” growled the old man. “You won’t get favors from me by sucking up, Liebschner.”

“Yet there was one favor I wanted so much from you, chief warder,” Liebschner said flatteringly, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

“And what’s that, my lad?” The warder leaned against the door, swinging the heavy steel plate backwards and forwards with his shoulders, and looking not unkindly at his orderly. “You are a real gallows-bird.”

“I’d like to go on outside work, with the harvest crew,” begged Liebschner. “Would you suggest me for it, chief warder?”

“But why? You’ve got nothing to grumble about here as orderly.”

“I can’t stand the air,” complained the prisoner in a pitiful voice. “My head’s queer; I can’t eat anything, and I always feel so bad from the stink.…”

“And just before you couldn’t smell anything! No, my lad, I’ll tell you what’s on your mind. You want to make a getaway—you’d like to go off on the spree—with the little girls, eh? Well, you won’t. You’re staying here! Besides, a convict isn’t permitted to go on outside labor before he’s served at least half his sentence.”

The prisoner, his head lowered, tied his shoes. The warder went on swinging the steel door, at the same time observing the closely cropped skull.

“Principal warder!” said the prisoner Liebschner, looking up with determination.

“Well?”

“I don’t like squealing on anyone, but if I have to, then I must. I can’t stand it any longer in the cell; I’m going mad.”

“You don’t go mad so easily, my lad.”

“But I know someone who’s got a steel saw. Will you swear that I shall go on outside labor if I tell you his name?”

“No one’s got a steel saw here!”

“Yes—on your landing, too!”

“Nonsense. Besides, I don’t arrange who goes on the outside gangs; the work inspector does that.”

“But if you put in a good word for me, I’ll get out.”

Long pause.

“Who’s got the saw?”

“Do I get into the outside gang?”

“As far as I’m concerned. Who has the saw?”

“Quietly, principal warder, please, quietly! I’ll whisper it in your ear. But don’t give me away. They’d kill me when I go to the workroom.”

Softly the prisoner whispered in the warder’s ear. The latter nodded, asked something in a whisper, listened, nodded again. Below the bell began ringing; from landing to landing echoed the cry, “Buckets! Buckets!”

The warder straightened himself. “Very well, then, Liebschner, if it’s true you’ll go on the outside gang. What a low-down trick! I’d have been in a nice mess! Now hurry up, man, quick, empty your bucket. Make it snappy, so that we’ll get the stink over quickly!”

V

In Meienburg prison the morning bell rang at six o’clock; in Alexanderplatz police prison in Berlin it was half-past six before the prisoner was allowed to get up, before he knew that the night was over and something new would happen—perhaps even to him.

Petra was awakened by the hurried clanging; for a moment she still had Wolf’s image before her. It laughed—then many things went dark. An old woman (Wolfgang’s mother?) said many bad things to her in a harsh tone. A tree appeared out of the dark, leafless, with skeletal, threatening branches. A line of poetry that Wolfgang often sang sounded in her ear, He doesn’t hang from a tree, from rope hangs he. Then her eyes were wide open. The gypsies were chattering again in the corner, gesticulating, crouched upon their mattress; the tall girl was still lying in bed, her shoulders shaking—so she was crying again; the little fat woman was standing in front of the cell mirror, no bigger than a hand, wetting her finger in her mouth and then smoothing her eyebrows with it. And Frau Krupass sat up in her bed, braiding her miserable plaits. On the floor the Hawk, in her bundle, lay motionless.

Outside, divided by iron window bars, the sky was pale blue and softly touched by sun. A new day. Now for new work! How was one to wash? There was hardly any water left in the jug. “Listen, girlie, what we agreed on last night stands, eh? Or have you changed your mind?” said the old woman.

“No,” said Petra.

“I’ve got a feeling that you’ll be getting out today. If we don’t see each other again, you’re to go to Killich—Lawyer Killich, on Warschauer Brücke. Will you remember that?”

“Lawyer Killich, Warschauer Brücke,” repeated Petra.

“Good. You are to go there right away. But what a sight you are! Still thinking of that fellow?”

“No.”

“Now, now!”

“But I believe I dreamed about him.”

“Well, you won’t be able to do anything about that for the moment. That’ll go away by itself in time, that dreaming. But don’t eat roast potatoes in the evening; tell Randolf’s wife she’s always to give you cold meat. Roast potatoes in the evening, and especially with onions, always bring on dreams; you mustn’t eat anything like that, girlie—understand!”

“Yes,” said Petra. “But I am really not so sensitive.”

“What do you want to get all upset about a fellow like that for? There are plenty of men, much too many—don’t you bother with them. Always cold meat and a glass of beer, then you’ll go to sleep easier. Well, you’ll get over it. I’m not worried about it.”

“I’m not, either.”

“Well, go and look after your patient; I can see you’re dying to. Once a fool, always a fool. You’ll never learn. I say, girlie!”

“Yes?” Petra turned round.

“I think you won’t stick it, you know. If he’s standing on the other side of the street and whistles and beckons, then you’ll run off, out of my nice flat and away from the good food and the bath and the bed—you’d run to him just as you are, wouldn’t you?” There was suspicion in the old woman’s eyes.

“But Ma Krupass,” said Petra smiling, “he no longer comes first now. Now I think first of it.”

Then she started to unroll her enemy, the Hawk.

Hubert Räder was already up and at work when Vi with highly flushed cheeks entered the Villa.

“Morning, Hubert!” she cried. “Good Lord, are you making everything so terribly tidy again? Mamma has so often forbidden you to do it.”

“Women don’t understand anything about it,” declared Räder unmoved, and regarded his work with a stern but approving eye. Since the Rittmeister was returning today, his room had to be thoroughly cleaned out. The manservant’s procedure in this was first to sweep, wipe, wax, polish and dust one side of the room before beginning on the other half, by which he reduced Frau von Prackwitz to complete despair. Time and again she had explained to him that the clean side always got covered with dust again while the other half was being cleaned …

“Yes, madam,” Räder would say obediently, “but if I am called away to some other work, the Rittmeister will at least have one clean side on which he can live.” And obstinate as a mule he would go on cleaning in his own way.

Now he said meaningly: “Madam has already sneezed twice, Fräulein!”

“Yes, yes, Hubert,” said Vi. “That will be all right. I shall go straight up to my room, wash, change and disarrange the bed to show I’ve slept in it. Oh, no, I don’t think I need do that after all. I shan’t need to have been lying in bed if Mamma and Papa hear of all that happened last night!”

“You’d better hurry up,” said Räder. “Madam always gets up immediately after she has sneezed.”

“Oh, Hubert, don’t be so silly!” cried Vi reproachfully. “You are bursting with curiosity. Just imagine, little Meier ran off with the cash. But he’s back again now. And old Kniebusch has caught Bäumer, but he hasn’t got him here yet; he’s lying tied up in the forest, and Hartig and Kniebusch and Meier have gone to fetch him with the cart. He’s unconscious. Don’t stand there so stupidly. Put that polisher down. What do you think about it, Hubert?”

“You talk to me too familiarly, Fräulein,” said Räder coldly. “The Rittmeister won’t have it, neither do I think it quite right.”

“Oh, you old fathead! I don’t care how I talk to you. I won’t be polite to an old haddock, either. Yes, that’s what you are—you’re an old haddock! You’d better pay attention to what I tell you—you were there, too. And don’t go and make a hash of it all if Mamma asks you.…”

“Excuse me, Fräulein, I was not there. If anything as outrageous as that happens then I am not there. I have got to think of my reputation. I don’t mix with safe-breakers and poachers. It’s just the same as with uniforms—I don’t mix with them.”

“But Hubert, you know that Mamma said you were to go with me. You are not going to let us down.”

“Very sorry, Fräulein, it can’t be done. Would you mind stepping off the rug? I have to comb its fringes. Why do people make fringes like that on carpets anyway? They always look untidy and bedraggled. I suppose it’s just to give us more work.”

“Hubert!” said Vi very appealingly, and suddenly despondent. “You won’t tell Mamma that you didn’t go with me because of the things that happened, will you?”

“No, Fräulein,” said Hubert. “My nose began to bleed in the farmyard, and I said I’d come on later and didn’t find you because you’d taken the path by the coach-house and I went up the glade by the deer’s feeding ground.”

“Thank God!” Vi breathed with relief. “You’re a decent chap after all, Hubert.”

“And I’d spend a little time if I were you,” continued Hubert unmoved, “thinking about what you’re going to tell madam. I wouldn’t say too much about Bailiff Meier. And how about the poacher, Bäumer? If the forester caught him, then you must have been there, Fräulein. What story have you fixed up with the forester?”

“I haven’t fixed up any story, Hubert. He went straight back to the forest again—with the bailiff.”

“There, you see! And did you shoot the stag or did he shoot it? Or hasn’t it been shot at all? I thought I heard a report toward morning.”

“Oh, Hubert—but that’s the craziest thing of all; I haven’t told you about that yet. That was little Meier. He fired at the poultry maid, Amanda Backs. Really!”

“Fräulein!” said Hubert sternly, turning his expressionless fish’s eye on her. “I didn’t hear that, I know nothing of any such wild goings-on.”

“But he didn’t hit her. He was drunk.”

“Go up to your room now and change,” said Hubert Räder, as agitated as it was possible for him to be. “No, you must get out of here now, I’ve got to tidy up, you’re disturbing me.”

“Hubert, don’t be impertinent. If I want to stay here I’ll stay.”

“And if I were you I’d think out carefully what I was going to say—and the best thing for you is to say nothing. Say that you turned back with me when my nose began to bleed.… But you’ll never manage that—and so this afternoon there’ll be the prettiest gossip going around, and this evening we’ll have the police in the house.… But I’ve taken every precaution as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got two blood-stained handkerchiefs, and at half-past one I knocked at Armgard’s door and asked her what the time was, because my alarm clock had stopped. Not that it had. So I know nothing, and I haven’t spoken to, you either. I haven’t seen you since my nose began bleeding.… Good morning, madam, I hope you slept well. Yes, I’m making it thoroughly clean here, except that the vacuum cleaner’s broken. But that was Armgard’s fault, madam. Still, I can manage … And I must ask you to excuse me for not having accompanied Fräulein Violet into the forest. You see, my nose began to bleed frightfully because I can’t bear sleeplessness. I suffered from that as a child. If I didn’t get enough sleep …”

“Please, Hubert, would you mind being quiet now? As I say, when once you open your mouth! And you, Violet—still in hunting dress! May I congratulate you, or was the expedition in vain?”

“Oh, Mamma, what a time we had! It was marvelous. Yes, the stag was shot but I didn’t shoot it, it was, now think—but you’ll never guess—it was Bäumer who shot it. Oh, you know, Mamma, the poacher from Altlohe whom Grandpa is always cursing. And Kniebusch caught him, Bäumer of course, but we’ve got the stag too. And now they’re in the forest, fetching him, but he’s unconscious. And Bailiff Meier …”

“May I get on with my cleaning?” interrupted Räder with quite unusual emphasis.

“All right, Vi, come into my room. To think of you present at all this! I’m sure to get a fright when you tell me.… But Papa will be pleased that Bäumer’s been caught. How is it that he is unconscious? Did Kniebusch shoot him? I’m always telling father that Kniebusch is better …”

They were gone.

For the moment everything is all right, thought the servant. But if the Rittmeister comes and asks? What then?

VII

Von Prackwitz sprang from the taxi and ran up the steps into the entrance hall of the railway station. It was a good half an hour before the train was due to start, but he had still to take over his men from the agent, pay him, get a party ticket made out …

Despite his sleepless night the Rittmeister felt enterprising and hopeful—it was a good thing that he was not returning to Neulohe alone, without friends. And then something of the country was in the station air. At Alexanderplatz one still thought only of Berlin; here in Schlesische Bahnhof one thought of fields and harvest … He had a feeling that he would bring in the Neulohe harvest successfully!

The Rittmeister stood as if thunderstruck. Impatiently he motioned a porter away with a shake of his head. Then he stepped back a pace or two, afraid of being discovered. It was a thing which could happen only to him: the employer hiding himself from his workers, frightened at the sight of them.

There they stood on the steps, a swarm, a horde—the Rittmeister didn’t doubt for a moment that these were his men, although the agent was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, God!” he groaned, stricken to the heart, “and that lot want to cut my rye, want to dig potatoes! That gang living in Neulohe!”

Young fellows, caps jauntily tipped over their ears, cigarette stubs in the corner of their mouths, with extremely wide trousers whose beautiful creases extended to the toes of their shoes, Chaplin sticks modishly in their hands; and other louts, shaggy, either without collars or with dirty open ones, their shirts gaping over chests tattooed like their arms in blue and red—in ragged trousers, barefooted or with worn-out plimsolls … Two street-girls with hair almost bleached white, silk dresses and high-heeled patent shoes … An extremely ancient man with nickel-rimmed spectacles, his black frock coat hanging over his withered loins, a botanist-box slung on string from his sloping shoulders … Another girl with some sort of green-striped flannel blouse over breasts like sacks of flour—a screaming child on her arm …

“Oh, my God!” groaned the Rittmeister again.

And not a scrap of luggage, not a margarine box, not even a cigarette carton—only this one battered green botanist-box, their communal luggage. Sixty tooth-brushes wouldn’t even go into the thing, let alone sixty shirts!

And all that crowd jostled one another in the best of moods, laughing, chattering, whistling popular hits, and bawling; two of them were already cuddling, sitting on a step.… They called out cheekily after travelers hurrying by, jeered at them, begged things of them … “A cigarette, guv’nor, please give us a cigarette.” And the scamp took the lit cigarette from the dumbfounded man’s mouth. “Thanks, guv’nor, I ain’t so particular, we’re all suffering from the same disease.”

The journey to Neulohe and the gathering of the harvest were a country excursion, a welcome spree for these hooligans! “Yes, hooligans,” growled the Rittmeister. And excitedly to von Studmann who had come up with a suitcase: “Look at these hooligans! And they want to work on the land. In patent shoes and pressed trousers!”

“Bad!” said von Studmann after a short scrutiny. “You shouldn’t take them. You asked for land workers!”

“But I must have men. My harvest is rotting out there!” said the Rittmeister with some embarrassment.

“Well, look for others. It won’t matter if we’re a day late. Let’s travel tomorrow!”

“But you can’t get proper men now, in the middle of harvest time. Everyone holds tight to what he’s got. And not a soul wants to go to the land!—They prefer to starve here in their cinemas.”

“Then take these—you will be able to use them for something.”

“And my father-in-law? My mother-in-law? I shall make myself absolutely ridiculous, they’ll laugh at me. I’ll be done for if I arrive with these people. They’re all pimps and prossies!”

“They do seem rather down at heel. But if you’ve got to have workers! What do you want to do, then?”

The Rittmeister avoided a direct answer. “I tell you, Studmann,” he said irritably, “I haven’t taken on an easy job. I’m no farmer, my father-in-law’s right about that. I study, I reflect, I run about from morning till night, but still I make a mess of things, admitted! Simply because I haven’t got the knack of it … And now I’ve really managed to get something to grow, not a bumper harvest, but tolerable—it’s standing out there, it should have been got in—I’ve this: no men! It’s enough to drive one to despair.”

“But why haven’t you any men, when others have? Excuse me, Prackwitz, but you yourself said they all hold tight to them.”

“Because I’ve got no money. The others engage their men in the spring. I put off engaging them to the last moment, so as to save the wages … Look, Studmann, my father-in-law is a rich man, a very rich man, but I have nothing. All I have is debts. He leased the farm to me as it stands, with all the stock; I required no money for that. Up till now I have always scraped along somehow, selling a few potatoes, some cattle—and that brought in enough for wages and our living expenses. But now I must have money! Otherwise I’m finished, completely bankrupt. And the money’s there, standing in the field. All I need is to bring in the harvest and I shall have money. And then I get men like that! I feel like hanging myself.”

“I don’t know how many million unemployed we have,” said von Studmann, “but they increase from day to day. Yet for work there are no workers.”

Prackwitz had not been listening. “I’m not taking this lot,” he said with grim determination. “Perhaps they’d even do a little work to begin with, as long as they didn’t have their return fare and were hungry. But I am not going to be laughed at by the whole district and my dear relatives! I’m not going to turn my reapers’ barracks into a brothel. Just look at those two cuddling around on the stairs. Disgusting. Damned disgusting! I’m not going to spoil Neulohe; it’s already bad enough with the people from Altlohe.… No, I am not taking them.”

“What are you going to do instead? Since you have got to have men?”

“I’ll tell you what, Studmann. I shall phone up the prison. Meienburg prison is near us, and I shall ask them to send me a prison gang. I’d rather have those scamps with a few proper warders in attendance, rifle in hand, than these. The governor of the prison can’t refuse me—and if need be we’ll both drive over to him. I’ve got you to help me now.”

The Rittmeister smiled. He realized once more that from now on he had close to him a real friend with whom he could discuss everything. That was why he had said more in the last five minutes than in the preceding five months.

“Now look, Studmann, my father-in-law is right again: I’m no businessman. Here I travel to Berlin at the most pressing time, leave all the harvest on which everything depends to an empty-headed fool for twenty-four hours, spend a mint of money, gamble away still more, return with a pile of debts to you and young Pagel, and then bring no men but have to do what my neighbors advised me to four weeks ago; that is, take a prison gang.” Von Prackwitz smiled and so did Studmann, but very cautiously. “All right, then, I’ve done it all wrong again. But what now? We all make mistakes, Studmann. My father-in-law, too. But the main thing is to realize our mistakes. I realize mine and I shall correct them. I’m going to carry on, Studmann, and you are going to help me.”

“Of course! But isn’t it time for our train? You’ve still got to talk to the agent, haven’t you? And young Pagel isn’t here yet, either!”

But von Prackwitz was not listening. Was his friend talking? Or was it the upsetting experience in the night? Prackwitz was talkative. Prackwitz wanted to unburden himself. Prackwitz wanted to confess.

“You’ve been working now for so long in a hotel, Studmann, you must certainly have learned something about bookkeeping and budgeting and handling men. I just yell at them. We’ve got to manage it. What? Manage so that I can keep the farm! I know my father-in-law would be only too glad to have it back. Excuse me for talking so much about him, but he’s my pet aversion. I can’t stand him and he can’t stand me. The old man can’t bear seeing me run the farm. And if I don’t scrape the rent together by the first of October, I’ve got to get out—and what shall I do then?” He looked at Studmann angrily. “But it’s standing out there, Studmann, and we’ll get it in; and now that I’ve got you we’ll make Neulohe into a model farm. Studmann, it was a lucky stroke meeting you. But I must confess to you that I really had a shock when I saw you there, bowing obsequiously in your black coat to every loudly dressed female. How you’ve come down in the world, Studmann! I thought.”

“There comes Pagel!” cried Studmann, all hot and cold at these confessions of a man who was usually so reserved. For the good fellow would bitterly regret it one day. And then he would be annoyed with his friend for having spoken to him like that.

But von Prackwitz was as if intoxicated. It must be the air at the Schlesische Bahnhof.

“You’ve got enough baggage, Pagel,” he said very benevolently. “I hope you’ll be able to stand it long enough to wear everything you’ve got there. In the country we work, you know, we don’t play! All right, all right, I didn’t really mean it that way! Come to that, I’ve been playing about myself. And now be so good as to get three second-class tickets at the booking office, as far as Frankfurt. Then we’ll dash through at the last minute.”

“But don’t you want to talk to the agent first? After all, the men have been told to come here.”

“Well, you go and get the tickets and then come straight back here, Pagel. What do you want me to say to the man? He tried to do me down; now I am doing him down.”

“But that sort of thing isn’t done, Prackwitz. You don’t have to be afraid of explaining things. You are fully within your rights to refuse to have the men—they aren’t land workers. One doesn’t go sneaking off—like a schoolboy.”

“Studmann, I am not a schoolboy! I must ask you …”

“Like a schoolboy, I said, Prackwitz.”

“All right, then, Studmann, I shall do as I think fit.”

“But I thought, Prackwitz, you wanted to have my advice.”

“Of course, Studmann, of course! Now don’t pull faces. I’m always glad to hear your advice, only this time, you see … the truth is I told the agent that the men could look as they liked so long as they had hands to work with.”

“I see!”

“But I didn’t think he’d send a gang like that. I can’t pay a couple of hundred gold marks commission for that. Now please, go on ahead with Pagel, I’ll come after you. Let me do the thing this once, as I like.”

“All right, Prackwitz,” said von Studmann after brief reflection. “Just this once. It isn’t really right nor is it a good beginning to our co-operation but …”

“Off with you!” cried the Rittmeister. “Second-class smoker! Another eight minutes and good-by Berlin—thank God!”

Ascending the stairs to the platform with young Pagel, von Studmann was very thoughtful. So don’t let’s consider it the beginning of our cooperation. But rather the end of Berlin. He was glad that he need not see how his old comrade, by a dash to the train, avoided paying an agent’s commission. Once the sight of the Rittmeister at other storming parties had helped him. What cursed times these were that could so change a man!

“So you have decided to come after all,” he said to young Pagel. “It’s very nice of you.”

VIII

Left alone, the Rittmeister gnawed his lip and looked at the ticket in his hand, undecided. The enthusiastic mood which had made all his confessions easy vanished with his two companions. Now he was overwhelmed by the situation, which was simply sickening. Angrily wrinkling his brow, he peered into the station hall. The men had become uneasy with the approach of the time due for departure; those sitting on the steps had got up; groups formed and were carrying on excited discussions; on the landing stood the bony agent attempting to reassure those crowding round him. His eyes searched the hall.

The Rittmeister retreated further behind his pillar. He saw no possibility of getting through this gang of hooligans unseen. Why hadn’t the damned platform more entrances?

I’m not going to take the men, I won’t take them under any circumstances. I’m not going to make myself the laughing-stock of the whole district. Farming in silk dresses and high-heeled shoes! Not a spare shirt, not a spare pair of trousers. If the rascals should ever get wet they’d all sit stark naked on their bunks till their things were dry again. What a fine state of affairs! No, the convicts for me.

The Rittmeister peered round the pillar, drew back quickly. The agent had left his elevated point of vantage; with the girl in the shabby blouse on one side of him, the old boy with the botanist-box and frock coat on the other, he was struggling toward the platform entrance, talking excitedly. The Rittmeister would have liked to creep into the pillar, turn to stone, dissolve—so terrified was he of this trio.

And just at that moment, at that most critical of critical moments, a girl’s voice, somewhat harsh but by no means unpleasant, sounded in his ear. “Oh, the Rittmeister!”

He swung round and stared.

Yes, it was true; before him stood, as if she had fallen from heaven, the daughter of his overseer Kowalewski, a girl whom he had always liked to see on account of her fresh appearance and dainty beauty, so different from the rest of the silly, clumsy girls working on the farm. He had often favored her with a fatherly word.

“Sophie!” he said. “What are you doing here, Sophie?”

“I’m going to spend a holiday with my parents,” she laughed, looking at him in quite a daughterly way.

“Ah, Sophie,” he said eagerly. “You come as if you were really sent from heaven. See that man on the other side of the pillar, with a bald head, yes, the tall one—don’t stare like that, Sophie!—he mustn’t see me under any circumstances. I’ve got to get to the train and there’s only three minutes more. Can’t you get him away somehow, just long enough for me to flit through the entrance hall? I have my ticket. Thanks, thanks, Sophie, I’ll explain it all in the train. You’re still the same splendid girl. Hurry!”

He heard her voice, loud, very quarrelsome. “I say, don’t stand in the way! I’ve got to get to my train. Here, you’d better take my bags.”

Fine girl! But she’d changed a lot. A bit flashy …

He raced off as fast as he could, not at all like a Rittmeister, not at all like an employer. The barrier. There in front was the barrier.

But perhaps the fellow had platform tickets. Queer shadows under her eyes. And her face had got fat, all its fineness gone. Bloated, yes, as if from drink … “I know, thanks; yes, I know, the train on the left—not the first time I’m traveling here. Thanks!”

Thank God he’d made it! But he would only be safe when the train was moving.… Yes, he was afraid little Sophie had already in the past got a little mixed up with the young fellows in the village, so he had heard—and Berlin was a very slippery place. He knew that to his own cost.… Thank God, there was Pagel waving! “Well, gentlemen, I’ve made it. Please, Studmann, please, Pagel—stand at the window so that no one can look in; the fellow’s quite capable of inspecting the carriages. I must first mop myself; I’m simply dripping. What a run, early in the morning.”

“So you got through without being molested?” asked Studmann.

“It wasn’t easy! And do you know who helped me? My overseer’s daughter! She happened to turn up, traveling home on holiday; she’s maid to some countess here in Berlin.… As a matter of fact, you might keep an eye open to see whether she still makes the train; it’s due to start at any moment now. You might ask her to get in here. I should like to find out how she’s getting on. A fine girl—she understood straight away, without a word!”

“Yes, but what does she look like? Old, young? Fat, thin? Fair, dark?”

“Ah, Berlin hasn’t done her much good. No, you’d better leave it. There would only be talk afterwards, and it would be awkward in Neulohe when we meet again. After all, she’s only the daughter of my overseer! Always keep to that rule, Pagel. Keep your distance from the men—no familiarity, no mixing with them. Understand?”

“Yes, Herr Rittmeister.”

“Thank God, we’re off. There, spread yourselves out comfortably. Let’s have a smoke. It’s fine, though, to travel out of this city into the summer, eh, Studmann? Eh, Pagel?”

“Marvelous!” said Studmann. “Something has just occurred to me, Prackwitz—doesn’t the man know your name?”

“Which man?”

“Why, the agent!”

“Yes, of course—why?”

“Well then, he’ll write to you and ask for compensation.”

“Damn it! I didn’t think of that. All that farce for nothing! But I won’t accept the letter; I’ll refuse to take it—no one can compel me to accept it.” The Rittmeister ground his teeth with rage.

“I’m very sorry, Prackwitz, but that will scarcely help.”

“Yes, you are sorry, Studmann. But you should either have told me that downstairs in the station or not at all. Now it’s too late! My whole journey’s spoiled! And it’s such nice weather!”

The Rittmeister stared angrily out of the window at his nice weather. Before Studmann could make any reply, however (and it was doubtful whether he had any great desire to do so), the door to the corridor opened and, instead of the guard, there appeared a very smart young girl. Smilingly she raised her hand to her little hat. “Orders executed, Herr Rittmeister!”

The Rittmeister jumped up, beaming. “This is fine, Sophie; so you caught the train, after all! I was already beginning to reproach myself. Gentlemen, this is Sophie Kowalewski, I’ve already told you … Herr von Studmann, Herr Pagel. The gentlemen are—ahem!—my guests. Well, that’s that. And now sit down here, Sophie, and tell me all the news. Cigarette? No, of course not. Very sensible. Young girls shouldn’t smoke at all, I always say that to my daughter. Fräulein Kuckhoff is right: women womanly—men manly. And you think so too, eh, Sophie?”

“Of course, Herr Rittmeister. Smoking is so unhealthy as well.” And with a glance at the two men listening: “Are the gentlemen coming only for the week-end or are they staying longer in Neulohe?”