Wolf Among Wolves

Chapter Three

Hunters and Hunted

I

At Neulohe Manor the little bailiff Meier, nicknamed Black Meier, was so tired out by eleven or twelve in the morning that he could have fallen into bed as he was, in coat and leggings, and have slept till next day. He sat, however, and nodded drowsily in the long dry grass at the edge of a rye field, well hidden from view by a group of pine trees.

He had been up since three o’clock that morning, handing out the fodder in the steaming stables, supervising the feeding, watching the milking, looking to the cleaning of the cattle. At four o’clock he had got in the rapeseed, which must be carted in the morning dew, so that it does not droop. At a quarter to seven, standing, he had swallowed a cup of coffee and some food. And from seven onward the usual routine. Then a message had come from the rye field that both reaping and binding machines had broken down. He had hurried thither with the smith, had tinkered with the machines; now they were rattling again; still rattling—how tired he was! He was tired not only because of yesterday: now he was also tired from today. How he would like to drop asleep, bask in the sun! But before twelve he had to be in the sugar-beet field to see whether the overseer, Kowalewski, and his gang were doing the hoeing properly and not scamping the work.

Meier’s bicycle lay in the ditch a few yards away. But he was too lazy to get on it; he simply couldn’t. His limbs and especially his throat felt as if they were smothered by a thick layer of fatigue. When he lay quite still this fatigue rested more lightly on him, so to speak, but if he moved only a leg, it irked as if made of bristles.

He lit a cigarette, puffed at it contentedly and gazed at his dirty and worn-out shoes. He needed new ones, but the Rittmeister was an unapproachable man, and 500,000 marks was an unheard-of salary for a bailiff. If he waited for the dollar rate on the first of the month, perhaps he would not even be able to have the shoes soled. There were many things needed on Neulohe Estate—two more on the staff, for instance—but the Rittmeister was a great man and had discovered that he could do everything himself. The hell he could! Today he had gone to Berlin to fetch harvesters; in any case he couldn’t rout a poor bailiff out of his morning nap. One was curious what sort of people he’d bring back with him. That is, if he brought any at all! Oh, damn—!

Meier lay back, his cigarette slipped into the corner of his mouth, and he pushed his trilby hat over his eyes as protection against the burning sun.… The women in the beet field could pickle themselves with their Kowalewski, for all he cared; they were a cheeky lot. Kowalewski, though, had a smart daughter; one would not have thought it of him. She ought to come from Berlin here for a holiday again; he could manage her all right. How warm it was! As hot as an oven. If only there was no storm! Otherwise all the crops, would get soaked, and he would have to clear up the mess. They ought to have got them in before, of course, but the Rittmeister was a great man and a weather prophet besides. “It won’t rain, don’t bring in the crops, selah!”

Thank God, the reaping and binding machines were still clattering, and he could go on lying here. But he mustn’t fall asleep or he wouldn’t wake up before evening, and the Rittmeister would hear about it at once and tomorrow he’d be thrown out. That wouldn’t be too dreadful; at least one could sleep one’s fill for once.

Yes, indeed, that Kowalewski girl wasn’t bad; she was sure to be up to her tricks in Berlin. But Amanda, Amanda Backs was by no means a back number either. Little Meier turned on his side, at last having repressed the uncomfortable thought that the Rittmeister had not actually said that the crops should not be brought in, but rather that one should be guided by the weather.

No, Meier did not want to think of that now; he preferred to think of Amanda. He felt more alive, drew his knees up and grunted with pleasure. This caused the cigarette to drop out of his mouth but it didn’t matter; he didn’t need a cigarette, he had Amanda. Yes, they called him Little Meier, Black Meier—and when he looked at himself in the mirror he had to admit they were right. Big, round, yellowish owl’s eyes looked from behind thick lenses; he had a flat nose, blubber lips, ears that stuck out and a forehead hardly two inches high—as far as that goes, the man himself was hardly five feet.

But that was just it: he looked so odd, so grotesque, had such a comically ugly mug, that the girls were all keen on him. When he had been still quite new at Neulohe and Amanda and her girl-friend had passed him, the friend said: “Amanda, you’ll need a step to reach up to him.” But Amanda had replied: “That doesn’t matter, he has such a sweet kisser.” That had been her way of declaring love; the girls here were like that, impudent and of a divine casualness. Either they were keen on you or they weren’t, but in any case they didn’t make a fuss about it. They were grand.

Look at yesterday evening when Amanda had climbed through his window—as a matter of fact he wasn’t keen himself, he was too tired and the mistress had rushed out of the bushes! Not the Rittmeister’s lady—she would only have laughed, being herself not a bad sport—but the old lady, the mother-in-law, from the manor house. Any other girl would have shrieked or hidden herself or called on him for help; not so Amanda. He could remain out of it and be amused. “Yes, madam,” Amanda had said quite innocently. “I only want to check up the poultry accounts with the bailiff; he never has any time during the day.”

“And you climb through his window for that!” the old lady, who was very pious, had shrieked. “You shameless creature.”

“But the house is already locked up,” Amanda had replied.

And as the old lady still hadn’t got her bellyful and couldn’t see that she was no match for the young of today, even with the help of religion and morals, Amanda had simply added: “This is my free time, madam. And what I do in my free time is my own business. And if you can find a better poultry maid for such low wages—but you won’t find one—then I can leave, of course; but not till tomorrow.”

And she had insisted that he shouldn’t shut the window. “If she wants to stand there and listen, let her stand there, Hans dear. It’s all one to us, and perhaps she gets some pleasure out of it. After all, she didn’t get her daughter in solitary prayer.”

Little Meier sniggered and pressed his cheek against his arm as if he were feeling the soft but firm body of his Amanda. Such a sport! She was just the right sort for a poor devil and bachelor. No soft stuff about love, faithfulness and marriage, but good at her work and ready with her tongue; so downright and free-spoken that sometimes she made you wince. But this was not surprising when you came to consider that she had grown up in the four years of war and the five years afterward.

“If I don’t snatch my food myself I don’t get any. And if I don’t smack you, you’ll smack me. Always stand up for yourself, young man, even against that old woman. She’s had her good times—why shouldn’t I have mine, just because they started a potty war and an inflation? It’s enough to make a cat laugh. After all, if I die, then as far as I’m concerned the world’s at an end. And she’ll have to squeeze out the tears which she’ll shed over my grave as a good girl; and as for the tin wreath which she’ll slap on my worm-chest, I shan’t be able to buy myself anything with it, and therefore we’d better be happy while we can. What do you say, Hans dear? Be sorry for the old woman and gentler with her? Well, who’s been kind to me? They were always boxing my ears, and if my nose bled, so much the better. And when I cried a bit I was told: ‘Shut up or you’ll get a few more where that came from.’ No, Hans, I wouldn’t say anything if there was any sense in it, but it’s just as silly and idiotic as my hens who lay eggs for our pleasure and then in the end are thrown into the stewpan. Not me, thank you! If you like it, do; but don’t ask me.”

The girl was right. Little Meier laughed once more and fell into a deep sleep and would have slept on till the evening dew—blow the work, blow the Rittmeister—if it hadn’t suddenly become extremely hot and even suffocating.

Starting up—no longer with a weary movement but leaping onto both feet—he saw that he had been lying in the midst of the excellent beginnings of a forest fire. Through the voluminous stinging smoke he saw a figure jumping about and stamping and beating out the flames; and he himself was jumping now, and stamping and beating them down with a fir branch, shouting: “It’s burning nicely.”

“Cigarette!” said the other man, and went on extinguishing the fire.

“I might have been burned to death,” laughed Meier.

“And no loss either.”

“Sez you,” cried Meier, coughing with the smoke.

“Shut up, man,” ordered the other. “To be suffocated isn’t fun, either.” And the two with all their might continued to put out the fire, the bailiff straining his ears in the direction of his two reaping and binding machines, to hear if they were still rattling. For it would not have been pleasant for him if people had noticed anything and told the Rittmeister.

Contrary to all expectations, however, they were carrying on their work, which in other circumstances would have annoyed the bailiff, for it showed that the fellows were drowsing in their seats and leaving not only the work but also the thinking to the horses, and, that, as far as they were concerned, the whole manor of Neulohe, with all its buildings and eight thousand acres of forest, might have burned down. On returning, they would have gazed at the ashes of the stables as if witchcraft had been responsible. But this time Meier did not get annoyed; he was happy about the ongoing clatter and about the subsiding smoke.

At last Meier and his rescuer faced each other, rather out of breath, across a blackened patch as big as a room. The rescuer looked a little neglected, with a flutter of reddish whisker round nose and chin; he had keen blue eyes, was still young, and dressed in an old gray tunic and trousers, although with a handsome yellow leather belt and an equally handsome holster. And there must be something—not merely lollipops—in it, that is, in the holster, for it swung so heavily.

“A cigarette?” asked the incorrigible Meier and held out his case, for he felt that he, too, should do something for his rescuer.

“Hand us one, comrade,” said the other. “My paws are black.” “Mine, too,” laughed Meier, and he fished out a couple between the tips of his fingers. Smoking, the two sat down comfortably in the grass under the scanty shade of fir trees a little way from the charred spot. They had learned enough from their recent experience for one to use an old stump as an ash tray, and the other a flat stone.

The man in field gray inhaled a few times, stretched his limbs, yawned unceremoniously and said, profoundly: “Yes … Yes …”

“Things are not too good,” agreed Meier.

“Not too good? Lousy,” exclaimed the other, screwing up his eyes to look at the country quivering in the heat. Seeming utterly bored, he flung himself on his back in the grass.

Actually Meier had neither time nor inclination to share in another morning nap, but he felt nevertheless obliged to stay with the man a little longer. So as not to let the conversation fade away entirely, he remarked:

“Hot, isn’t it?”

The other merely grunted.

Meier looked at him sideways and hazarded: “From the Baltic Army Corps?”

But this time he did not get even a grunt for reply. Instead, something rustled in the fir trees and Meier’s bicycle appeared, pushed by Forester Kniebusch, who threw down the cycle at Meier’s feet. Wiping away the sweat, he spoke. “Meier, again you’ve left your bicycle in the road. It isn’t even yours, but belongs to the estate, and if it runs away, the Rittmeister’ll storm at you.…”

And then he saw the blackened patch and flew into a temper (for with a colleague he could indulge in what he dared not risk where wood thieves were concerned), and started to blackguard Meier. “You damned lousy dolt, you’ve been smoking your cursed stinking cigarettes again and setting fire to my trees. You wait, my little friend, that’s the end of friendship and cards of an evening—duty is duty, and the Rittmeister’s going to hear all about it tonight.…

But it was fated that Forester Kniebusch should not end all his sentences, for in the grass he now discovered the highly suspicious fellow in shabby field gray, apparently sleeping. “Have you caught a tramp and incendiary, Meier? Splendid, that’ll mean praise from the Rittmeister, and he’ll keep his mouth shut for a while about slackness and inefficiency and being afraid of the laborers. Wake up, you swine,” he shouted, and kicked the man heavily in the ribs. “Get up and to jail with you.”

But the other only pushed his field cap off his face, shot a keen glance at the angry forester, and exclaimed, even more sharply: “Forester Kniebusch!”

It was surprising for Black Meier, and even more amusing, to see the effect of this simple form of address on his brother-at-cards, that sneaking rabbit, Kniebusch. He jumped as if struck by lightning, the angry words sticking in his throat, stood instantly to attention and said humbly: “Herr Lieutenant!”

The man slowly and deliberately rose, brushed the dry grass and twigs from his tunic and trousers and spoke. “A meeting this evening at ten at the village magistrate’s. Inform our people. You can bring the little chap along, too.” He straightened his belt and added: “You’re to report what serviceable arms and ammunition are available in Neulohe. Understand?”

“Certainly, sir,” stammered the old graybeard, but Meier noticed that he had received a shock.

The mysterious individual, however, nodded briefly at Meier, saying: “All in order, comrade,” and was lost to sight among the bushes and young firs in the wood. He had disappeared like a dream.

“Confound it,” exclaimed Meier, his breath taken away, staring into the green depths. But everything was still again, shining in the noonday glare.

“Yes, confound it; that’s what you say, Meier,” the forester exploded. “But I’m to do the running round the village this afternoon, and I’ve no idea whether they’re agreeable or not. Some pull long faces and say it’s all nonsense and they had quite enough with Kapp. But,” he continued, even more depressed if possible, “you’ve seen what he’s like. Nobody dares to say it to his face, and when he whistles they all come. I alone hear their objections.”

“Who is he?” Meier was curious. “He doesn’t look so marvelous to me.” “I don’t know,” the forester rejoined angrily. “It doesn’t matter what he calls himself. He won’t tell us his right name, you bet. He’s just the Lieutenant.”

“Well, lieutenant doesn’t mean such a lot nowadays,” reflected Meier, who, however, had been impressed by the way in which the other had dealt with the forester.

“I don’t know whether a lieutenant is a lot or a little. Anyhow, people obey him,” grumbled the forester. “And they’re surely planning something big, and if it succeeds then it’s all over with Ebert and the whole Red gang,” he added mysteriously.

“Now, now!” said Meier. “Many have tried to bring that about. But red seems to be a fast color. You won’t scrape it off so easily.”

“This time it will be,” whispered the forester. “It’s said they have the Reichswehr behind them and they called themselves the Black Reichswehr. The whole district is swarming with them, from the Baltic Corps and Upper Silesia, and from the Ruhr, too. They’re called fatigue parties and they’re supposed to have no arms. But you yourself have seen and heard.…”

“A Putsch!” said Meier. “And I’m to join? I would have to think it over a good deal first. I’m not doing anything just because somebody says to me ‘All in order, comrade,’ you can bet your life.”

The forester paid no attention to him. “The old governor has four sporting guns and two three-barreled ones. And a rifle. The Rittmeister …” he said uneasily.

“Exactly,” cried Meier, relieved. “What’s the Rittmeister’s attitude? Or doesn’t he know anything about it?”

“If only I knew,” was the doleful reply. “But I don’t. I’ve asked all over the place. Sometimes the Rittmeister travels to Ostade and drinks with the Reichswehr officers. Perhaps we’ll come a terrible cropper, and if things go wrong I’ll lose my job and end my days in jail …”

“Now don’t start weeping, old walrus,” laughed Meier. “It’s quite simple. Why shouldn’t we ask the Rittmeister whether he wishes us to join or not?”

“My God,” ejaculated the forester, and threw up his arms in despair. “You’re really the biggest idiot in the world, Meier. The Rittmeister doesn’t know anything about it, and we’ll then have given it away to him. You’ve read in the newspapers: ‘Traitors punished by the secret tribunal, the Vehmgericht,’ and you know how I …” He suddenly realized what he was saying, the sky turned black, and he went cold with fright. “And I, the chump, have betrayed everything to you. Oh, Meier, do me a favor, give me your word of honor here and now that you won’t tell anybody. I shan’t tell the Rittmeister you set fire to the forest.…”

“First of all,” said Meier, “I didn’t set fire to the forest—your Lieutenant did. If you betray him you know what’ll happen. And, secondly, suppose I had set fire to it; well, I’m going this evening at ten o’clock to the village magistrate’s to belong to the Black Reichswehr. And if you betray me then, Kniebusch, you know how traitors are dealt with by the Vehine.”

Meier stood there, grinning in the middle of the path and looking impudently and defiantly at Kniebusch, the old coward. If the Putsch story does no other good, he thought, it puts paid to this miserable sneak—he’d better not risk saying another word about me to the old gentleman or to the Rittmeister.

The forester, however, stood facing him, alternately paling and flushing. He may have been thinking: I’ve managed in forty years of service to get along; with many scares and having much to put up with, but always hoping that life would become simpler. But, instead, it gets more and more complicated, and now even in my sleep I wake up with a start, fearing that something terrible has happened. I’ve never felt like that before. Before, it was only the timber accounts and wondering whether I’d added up correctly; or when the old gentleman wanted to shoot a buck and was waiting for it in ambush, whether it would come along that day as it usually did. But now I lie awake in the darkness with my heart beating quicker and quicker. Timber thieves and lieutenants about the place and this rotter getting cheeky, and a Putsch coming off.… It will end by my being in the soup, although I have nothing against the President of the Reich.…

But aloud: “We’re comrades, Meier, and have played many a game of cards together. I’ve never yet said a word about you to the Rittmeister, and what I said about the forest fire only escaped me in anger. I’d never have given you away, of course not.”

“Of course not,” and Meier grinned insolently. “Now it’s nearly twelve and I won’t have time for the beet field. But I must be present for the fodder, and so I have to cycle. You can run behind me, Kniebusch, you won’t mind that, will you?” And Meier got on his bicycle and pushed off, calling out: “All in order, comrade,” and was gone.

The forester stared after him, shaking his head gloomily and wondering whether to take the private path instead of the road to his house. On the road he might come across timber thieves, and that would be embarrassing.

II

The pawnbroker sat on a high stool writing in his account books, while an assistant negotiated in an undertone with two women, one of whom grasped a bundle of feather beds wrapped in a sheet, the other holding a black dummy figure like those used by dressmakers. Both had sharp faces and the elaborately unconcerned look of those who only rarely visit a pawnshop.

The shop itself, situated on the mezzanine floor of a busy building, looked, as always, dirty, dusty and disorderly, although it was scrupulously tidied. The light filtering through the frosted windows was gray and dead. As usual, a huge safe stood wide open, revealing a heap of small packets wrapped in white paper, suggesting costly jewels. As usual, the keys were in the lock of the little wall-safe which held the pawnshop’s cash. From dozens of errands it was so familiar that Wolf took it in without looking. It was quite usual, too, for Uncle to glance at him over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and then continue writing.

Wolfgang Pagel turned toward the assistant, who apparently could not come to terms with the woman wishing to pawn her tailor’s dummy. Lifting his suitcase onto the table he said in a low voice, but lightly: “I’m bringing the usual. Just have a look.” And he unlocked the case.

Everything was really there as usual, everything they possessed—a second pair of trousers very worn in the seat, two white shirts, three dresses of Petra’s, her underclothing (scanty enough), and the gem of the collection, a small real-silver handbag of hers, probably the gift of an admirer—he had never asked.

“Three dollars as usual, isn’t it?” he added, just to say something, for he thought the assistant was looking rather hesitatingly at the things. The man, however, replied: “Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”

And then when everything seemed settled, a high-pitched voice from the office stool exclaimed, quite unexpectedly: “No.”

Both Wolfgang, who was known there only as the Lieutenant, and the assistant, looked up surprised.

“No,” said Uncle once more, and shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant, but this time we can’t oblige you. It doesn’t pay us. You always come and fetch the goods the next day, and we have all that bother—and, besides, these dresses are going out of fashion. Perhaps another time, when you have got something … more up to date.”

He glanced once more at Pagel, pointed his pen at him—at least it seemed so—and went on writing. Without looking up, the assistant slowly closed the suitcase, snapping the catches. The two women looked at Wolfgang, embarrassed and yet somewhat malicious, like schoolboys with a fellow pupil who has been reprimanded by the master.

“Listen, Herr Feld,” said Pagel briskly and crossed the pawnshop toward the man, who calmly went on writing. “I’ve a rich friend in the West End who’s sure to help me out. I only want the fare. I’ll leave the things here and on my way back this evening, before you close, I’ll drop in and pay back the money. Fivefold if you like. Or tenfold.”

Uncle looked reflectively at Wolfgang through his glasses, frowned and said: “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant. We don’t lend money here, we only advance money on pledge.”

“But it’s only the miserable few thousands for my fare,” insisted Wolf. “And I leave you the things.”

“I am not allowed to retain the articles without a pawn ticket. And I don’t want to take them in pawn. I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant.” And the pawnbroker looked at Wolfgang with a puzzled frown as if he wanted to judge from his face the effect of his words; then he nodded slightly and returned to his books. Wolfgang, too, had frowned and nodded slightly as if indicating that he didn’t take the refusal too badly. But, turning toward the door, he was struck by an idea, and once more went up to Herr Feld. “Look here, Herr Feld,” he said. “Buy the things from me. For three dollars. Then the poor mind will be at rest.” It had occurred to him that the rich Zecke was sure to help him out with a largish sum, and it would be a huge joke to surprise Peter with an entirely new outfit. What would be the use to her then of the old rubbish? No, away with the lot.

Herr Feld went on writing for a while. Then he stuck the pen in the inkpot, leaned back a little and said: “One dollar—with the case, Herr Lieutenant. As I said, the things are not up to date.” He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes to twelve. “And at yesterday’s dollar rate.”

For a moment Wolfgang felt like flaring up. It was the most impudent swindle in the world; and he ought to consider Peter, too, her only possessions at that moment being some toilet articles and his very ancient summer overcoat. But just as quickly came the thought that Zecke would give him money. And if he didn’t, he had always managed to get some, somehow. With a quick gesture which was to show how little it mattered, he said: “All right, then. Hand out the dough. Four hundred and fourteen thousand.” It was really nothing when he considered that yesterday evening he had gambled away almost thirty millions on zero. And one had to laugh at such a microbe as this Feld, who toiled for such muck, for such ridiculous amounts.

Uncle, wicked tough Uncle, the microbe, slowly climbed down from his office stool, went to the safe, rummaged in it for a while, and then paid out Wolfgang four hundred thousand marks.

“But where are the fourteen?”

“It’s usual to deduct four per cent for cash payment,” said Herr Feld. “Really, only three hundred and ninety-eight thousand are due to you, but I make a present of the two thousand because you’re an old customer.”

Wolfgang laughed. “You’re smart, Uncle. You’ll get on, you see if you don’t. Then I’ll be your chauffeur. Yes?”

Herr Feld took it seriously. “Me be driven by you, Herr Lieutenant?” he protested. “No, not even free, since nothing matters to you, not even your things. Oh, no.” And once again the pawnbroker: “At your service when you have something else, Herr Lieutenant. Till then!”

Pagel rustled the notes and said laughingly: “Perhaps this will help me to get a car of my own.”

The pawnbroker still looked uneasy, and returned to his writing. Smiling, Wolfgang stepped into the street.

III

After the loathsome negotiations at the Harvesters’ Agency the Rittmeister felt that he deserved a little repose. But where could he go so early in the morning? This was an hour at which he had not hitherto been about in Berlin. Finally he thought of a hotel café in the Friedrichstadt where one could sit comfortably and perhaps see a few well dressed women.

And the first person whom he met in the hall of the hotel was, of course, an acquaintance. (Prackwitz always met acquaintances in the parts of the town he frequented—of course not at Schlesische Bahnhof. Or acquaintances of acquaintances. Or relatives. Or acquaintances of relatives. Or comrades from his regiment. Or comrades from the war. Or mere privates. He knew all the world.)

This time it was actually someone from his own regiment—Oberleutnant von Studmann.

Herr von Studmann stood in the hall, irreproachably dressed in a frock coat and brilliantly polished shoes (at such an early hour). He might have seemed momentarily embarrassed at the meeting; but the Rittmeister, in his pleasure at having found a companion for the two hours he had to wait, noticed nothing.

“Studmann, old chap—splendid to see you again. I’ve got two hours to spare. Have you had your coffee? I’m just going to—for the second time, that is; the first at Schlesische Bahnhof didn’t count—it was ghastly. When did we meet last? In Frankfurt, at the officers’ reunion? Well, never mind; in any case, I’m glad to see you again. But do come along; it’s quite comfortable here, if I remember rightly.”

Oberleutnant von Studmann replied in a low voice, distinct yet somewhat troubled: “With pleasure, Prackwitz—as soon as I’m free. I’m—er—reception manager in this joint. I must first attend to the guests coming by the nine-forty train.”

“Damn!” exclaimed the Rittmeister, just as softly, but quite downcast. “The inflation, I suppose? These swindlers! Well, I know all about it myself.”

Von Studmann nodded gloomily, as if he were past words. At the sight of that long, smooth, energetic face, Prackwitz was reminded of a certain evening when they had celebrated Studmann’s Iron Cross, First Class, at the beginning of 1915; actually the first I.C. First Class which had been allotted their regiment.… He would have liked to recall the face, laughing, cheerful, gay, and eight years younger, of this same Studmann, but the latter was already saying: “Certainly, porter, at once.” With a regretful gesture he turned from von Prackwitz and advanced on a rather bulky lady in a dust-colored silk coat. “Please, madam?”

For a moment the Rittmeister watched his friend standing there, leaning toward the lady and listening with a serious but friendly expression to her vigorous wishes or complaints. A deep sadness welled up within him, a formless, all-pervading sadness. Not good enough for anything better? Shame came over him, as if he had seen his friend doing something degrading. Quickly he turned away and entered the cafe.

Here prevailed the early forenoon silence, when only residents were there and the general public had not yet entered. In ones or twos the guests were dotted about at the tables. A newspaper rustled, a couple spoke in subdued voices, the little silver-metal coffeepots gleamed, a spoon clattered against a cup. The waiters, not yet busy, stood at their stations; one of them was carefully counting the silver, avoiding every unnecessary sound.

The Rittmeister soon found a seat to his liking. So good was the coffee, which arrived shortly after it had been ordered, that he resolved to give Studmann a few words of appreciation. But he rejected the idea. It might embarrass him. Oberleutnant von Studmann and a really fresh-made pot of hotel coffee!

He tried to make out why this feeling of embarrassment should overcome him again, as if Studmann were doing something illegal, even indecent. It was a job like any other. We’re no longer so narrow-minded that we consider one kind of work inferior to another, he thought. If it comes to that, I live at Neulohe only by the grace of my father-in-law, and I’ve the deuce of a job to scrape the rent together. So what’s the reason for it?

Suddenly it occurred to him that it might be because Studmann did this work only from sheer necessity. A man must work, certainly, if he wanted to justify his existence; but there ought to be freedom in the choice. Hated work, done only for the sake of the money, soiled. Studmann would never have chosen this job himself, he thought. He had no choice.

A feeling of impotent hatred overcame Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz. Somewhere in this town there was a machine—naturally a machine, for men would never submit to be prostituted for such a purpose—which vomited paper day and night over the city and the people. “Money” they called it; they printed figures on it, beautiful neat figures with many noughts, which became increasingly rounder. And when you had worked and sweated to put by a little for your old age, it all became worthless paper, paper muck. And for the sake of this muck his old friend Studmann had to stand in the hotel hall bowing and scraping. Good, let him stand there, let him bow and scrape—but not because of this muck. With painful clearness the Rittmeister recalled the kindly, serious face of his friend, as he had just seen it.

It suddenly grew dark, and then there was light once again. A small rapeseed oil-lamp dangled from the rough beams. It cast its warm reddish glow directly upon Studmann’s face—and this face laughed, laughed. The eyes sparkled with joy; a hundred little wrinkles twitched in their corners.

The joy of restored life is in that laugh, said a voice within the Rittmeister.

It was nothing, only the memory of a night spent in a dugout—where had it been? Somewhere in the Ukraine. It was a rich land; pumpkins and melons grew in the fields in hundreds, and of this royal abundance they had fetched some into the dugout, laying them on the shelves. They slept. A rat (there were thousands of rats) pushed a pumpkin down, and it fell on the head of a sleeper, on his face. He had yelled in fright, the pumpkin bouncing onward. There they lay, wide-awake, breathless, cowering in their blankets in the expectation of shell splinters from a direct hit. Moments of mortal fright—life rustles by and I am still alive. I want to think of something worthwhile, my wife, child, my daughter Vi. I have still got a hundred and fifty marks in my pocket; it would have been better if I had paid my wine bill; the money is now lost—and then von Studmann’s laugh: “Pumpkin, a pumpkin!”

They had laughed, laughed. Life restored was in that laughter. Little Geyer had wiped his bleeding nose and laughed too. Geyer was his name. He fell a little later; pumpkins were exceptions in the war.

But at the time it had been genuine fear and genuine danger and genuine courage. To tremble—but then to leap up, to discover that it was only a pumpkin and to laugh again! At oneself, at the fright, at this absurd life—to march on, down the street toward the non-existent point. To be threatened, however, by something which vomited paper, to be enslaved by something which made the world richer in noughts—that was shameful. It was painful for the man who did it; and it was painful for the man who watched the other do it.

Prackwitz scrutinized his friend. Von Studmann had entered the café and was listening to the waiter who a moment ago had counted the silver so carefully and now was holding forth excitedly. Probably a complaint about some colleague. From his own experience Prackwitz knew this kind of bickering. It happened with his staff at Neulohe. Quarrels forever; eternal tale-bearing. He would much have preferred to manage with only one employee and at least be spared that annoyance. He must really get an additional man, however. The thefts were increasing, and Meier could not cope with them, while Kniebusch was old and worn-out. Later, though. There was not enough time now; at twelve he had to be at Schlesische Bahnhof.

The waiter was still talking, talking himself into fire and fury. Kindly, attentively, von Studmann listened. Now and then he said a word, nodded at other times, shook his head. There was no more life in him, concluded the Rittmeister. Burnt out. Exhausted. But, he thought with sudden fright, perhaps I, too, am burnt out and exhausted—only I don’t know it.

Quite surprisingly, Studmann said a single sentence and the waiter, entirely put out of countenance, stopped. Studmann nodded once more at him and then came to his friend’s table.

“So,” said he and sat down, his face immediately becoming more animated. “I think I’ve half an hour. If nothing happens.” He smiled at Prackwitz. “But actually something always does.”

“You have a great deal to do?” Prackwitz asked, a little confused.

“Good heavens,” Studmann laughed abruptly. “If you ask the others, the elevator boys or the waiters or the porters, they’ll tell you that I’ve nothing to do, that I only stand about. And yet in the evening I’m as dog-tired as when we had squadron drill or the Old Man put us through our paces.”

“I suppose there’s an Old Man here, too?”

“One? Ten, twelve. Managing director, three directors, four assistant directors, three head clerks, two confidential clerks …”

“Stop, please.”

“But on the whole it isn’t so bad. It has much in common with the army. Orders. Obedience. A perfect organization.…”

“But civilians only,” murmured Prackwitz disparagingly, and thought of Neulohe, where obedience did not always follow upon orders by a long way.

“Naturally,” acknowledged Studmann. “It’s somewhat freer than at that time, easier. Therefore, more difficult for the individual, I would add. Someone gives an order, and you don’t know exactly whether he has a right to give it. No clearly defined authority, you know.”

“But it was sometimes like that with us,” argued Prackwitz. “An officer with special instructions, you know.”

“Certainly. But on the whole you can say it’s an amazing organization, a model large-scale undertaking. You should see our linen presses. Or the kitchen. Or the checking-in department. Amazing, I can tell you.”

“So you get some fun out of it?” the Rittmeister asked cautiously.

Studmann’s animation died away. “Dear, dear, fun? Well, perhaps. But that doesn’t matter. We have to live somehow, go on living after all that’s happened. We must go on living. In spite of the fact that at one time one had other ideas.”

Prackwitz cast a searching look at the clouded face of his friend. Why “must,” he thought, a little annoyed. Then he found the only possible explanation. “You’re married? Got children?” he asked.

“I?” Studmann was surprised. “No, no. What an idea!”

“No, no, of course not,” said the Rittmeister rather guiltily.

“After all, why not? But it didn’t turn out like that,” said von Studmann, pondering. “And nowadays? No, when the mark becomes worth less daily, when one has one’s work cut out to scrape together a little money for oneself—”

“Money? Muck!” said the Rittmeister sharply.

“Yes, of course,” replied Studmann in a low voice. “Muck—I quite understand. I also understood your question of a moment ago—or rather your thoughts. Why I’m doing this against my will, as you think, for such muck.” Prackwitz wanted to protest, in some confusion. “Oh, don’t talk, Prackwitz,” said von Studmann, for the first time with feeling. “I know you. Money—muck! That’s no mere inflation wisdom of yours; you used to think like that before. You? We all did. Money was something that went without saying. We had our allowances from home and a few pence from the regiment. One didn’t talk about it. And if now and then one couldn’t pay immediately for some article, the man just had to wait. Wasn’t it like that? Money wasn’t worth thinking about.” Prackwitz shook his head and wanted to make an objection, but Studmann went on hurriedly. “Please, Prackwitz, roughly speaking, it was like that. But nowadays I’m quite sure we took up a wrong attitude, not having the faintest idea of the world. Money, I’ve discovered meanwhile, is something very important, something which is worth thinking about.”

“Money!” exclaimed von Prackwitz indignantly. “If it were real money. But this paper stuff …”

“Prackwitz,” said Studmann reproachfully, “what do you mean by real money? Such a thing doesn’t exist at all, just as there exists no unreal money. Money is simply the basis of existence, the bread we must eat every day for the sake of living, the clothes we must wear so as not to freeze to death …”

“But that’s mysticism,” cried Prackwitz angrily. “Money’s quite a simple matter. Money is only—used to be, I mean—if you had a sovereign, but notes were all right, too. They were different then because you could exchange them for gold.… Well then, money, I mean any kind of money, you know …” He became furious with himself, stammering and stuttering; one ought to be able to say clearly and distinctly what one so clearly and distinctly felt. “Well,” he finished, “if I have money I want to know what I can buy with it.”

“Naturally,” said Studmann, who had noticed nothing of his friend’s confusion, busy with his own thoughts. “Of course we took up the wrong attitude. I’ve discovered that ninety-nine per cent of mankind have to torment themselves about money; they think of it day and night, speak of it, spend it, save it, start anew—in short, money is the thing round which the world revolves. It is only inexperience which makes us indifferent to money, not willing to speak about the most important thing which exists.”

“But is this right?” cried Prackwitz, in despair at his friend’s present frame of mind. “Is this noble? Merely to live in order to satisfy one’s private hunger?”

“Of course it isn’t right, of course it isn’t noble,” Studmann agreed. “But we’re not consulted; that’s how it is now. And if it’s like that, then we oughtn’t to close our eyes but should devote our attention to it. If we don’t find it noble, then we must ask ourselves how to alter it.”

“Studmann,” asked von Prackwitz, bewildered and despairing, “Studmann, you haven’t become a Socialist, by any chance?”

The former first lieutenant looked for a moment as perplexed and as startled as if he had been suspected of a murder. “Prackwitz,” he said, “old comrade, the Socialists think about money just as you do. Only they want to take it away from you, so that they can have it. No, Prackwitz, I’m certainly not a Socialist. And won’t become one either.”

“But what are you?” asked von Prackwitz. “You must eventually belong to some group or party.”

“Why?” asked von Studmann. “Why must I?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said von Prackwitz, a little perplexed. “We all eventually belong to something, for the elections if for no other reason. Somehow one has to subordinate oneself, to toe the line. It’s, so to speak, orderly.”

“But if no order exists for me?” asked von Studmann.

“Yes,” said Prackwitz. “I remember that I had a chap once in my squadron, a crank we always said—what was his name? Grigoleit, yes, Grigoleit. A proper orderly kind of man. But he refused to touch a carbine or a side-arm. Imploring him didn’t help, reprimands didn’t help, punishments didn’t help. ‘Yes, Herr Lieutenant,’ he’d say—I was a lieutenant, it was before the war. ‘But I’m not allowed to. You’ve your code and I’ve mine. And because I’ve my code I’m not permitted to disobey it. One day my code will be yours.’ And such cranky pacifist stuff. But he was a decent sort, not one of those shirkers who shout, ‘No More War’ because they’re cowards.… Well, we could have made his life a perfect hell for him, of course. But the Old Man was reasonable and said: ‘He’s only a poor idiot,’ and so he was reported as unfit for service, sub-section fifteen you know, because of insanity.”

The Rittmeister paused, meditating, perhaps recalling the fat, round-headed Grigoleit, with his platinum-blond hair, who did not at all look like a martyr.

Studmann, however, burst out laughing. “Oh, Prackwitz,” he cried, “you haven’t changed a bit. And now in all innocence you’ve certified me as suffering from imbecility and insanity! Without even noticing. That reminds me vividly how you tried to console our Old Man, when he cut a very poor figure in the maneuvers, with the story of a major who even fell off his horse in front of the assembled general staff and still wasn’t kicked out of the service. And do you remember …”

With that the two friends lost themselves in mutual reminiscences, and their voices became more animated. But that didn’t matter. The café had begun to fill, and the waiters were busy running about with beer glasses amid a hum of voices. The two men’s conversation was just one of many.

After a while, when they had remembered enough and laughed enough, the Rittmeister said: “I would like to ask you something, Studmann. I live so much alone on my bit of land and meet only the same people. But you are here in the capital and in such a swell place at that you must surely hear and know more than any of us.”

“Ah, but who knows anything nowadays?” asked Studmann, and smiled. “Believe me, even Prime Minister Cuno hasn’t the slightest idea what will happen tomorrow.”

But Prackwitz followed up his idea. He sat there, leaning back a little, his long legs crossed, smoking in ease and comfort. “You think, perhaps, I’m free from your worries—Prackwitz has an estate and is a great man. But I’m not very secure. I have to be very cautious. Neulohe doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to my father-in-law, old Herr von Teschow—I married little Eva Teschow long before the war—I beg your pardon, you know my wife, of course. Well, I’ve rented Neulohe from my father-in-law—and the old boy didn’t let me have it for nothing, I can tell you. Sometimes I’ve frightful worries. In any case, I must be very prudent. Neulohe is our only means of existence, and if things went wrong, the old man doesn’t love me and he’d take away my bit of land on the least provocation.”

“And what would happen to you?”

“Well, you know, I’m no hermit, and Eva still less, so we’ve our scrap of social life in the district and, of course, also with the comrades of the Reichswehr. And one hears all sorts of things and all sorts of rumors.”

“And what do you see and hear yourself?”

“That something’s on the boil again, Studmann. I’m not blind. The countryside is full to the brim with people—fatigue parties they call themselves, but you’ve only to look at them. ‘Black Reichswehr’ goes the whisper.”

“That may be because of the Allied Powers and the Control Commission, commission for snoopers.”

“They may be burying arms, of course, digging them up again and fetching them away; that might account for it. But it’s not only that, Studmann; there’s a good deal more than rumor, and there’s more going on than before. No doubt they are enlisting supporters among the civilian population, maybe in my own village—the proprietor is usually the last person to hear that his house is burning. Neulohe borders on Altlohe, where there are many industrial workers; that means, of course, war to the knife between them and us of the manor and the farmers at Neulohe. For one side has the food and the others the appetite, and it’s like a powder barrel. If it goes up in the air, I shall go with it.”

“I can’t see quite how you can prevent it,” said von Studmann.

“Prevent it? … But perhaps I’ll have to decide whether to join with them or not. One doesn’t want to stand out against one’s friends. They’re the old comrades in the Reichswehr, Studmann, and if they’re taking a risk in order to get us out of the mire and I haven’t gone in with them, I should die of shame. Yes, but perhaps it’s only talk, worked up by a few adventurers, a hopeless Putsch—and to risk for that one’s estate, living and family …” The Rittmeister looked questioningly at Studmann.

“Haven’t you got anybody in the Reichswehr whom you could ask in confidence?”

“Good heavens, Studmann. Naturally I could ask, but who knows? In this sort of thing only three or four people are ever really in the know, and they won’t give a definite reply. Did you ever hear of a Major Rückert?”

“No. In the Reichswehr?”

“You see, Studmann, that’s just it. This Rückert is said to be the man who … But I can’t even find out whether he belongs to the Reichswehr or not. Some say yes, others no, and the very cute just shrug their shoulders and say: ‘Perhaps.’ he doesn’t know himself!’ And this sounds as if others were backing him. It’s enough to drive me crazy.”

“Yes,” said Studmann, “I understand. If it’s necessary you’d join in at once; but if they’re crazy adventurers—no, thank you.”

“Quite.”

Both were silent. But Prackwitz still looked expectantly at Studmann, the former first lieutenant and present reception manager (nicknamed “Nursie” by the regiment). He had turned out to be a man with very curious, even suspicious, views about money and God-ordained poverty.… Looked at him as if expecting from his reply liberation from all doubts.

And finally Studmann said slowly: “I think you oughtn’t to worry, Prackwitz. You must simply wait. We learned that from the war. You worried and were afraid only when you were in reserve or lying quietly in the trenches; but once you got the order to advance, then you were all right and went ahead and everything was forgotten. You won’t miss the signal, Prackwitz. We learned in the trenches to wait quietly without brooding over it—why shouldn’t you do the same now?”

“You’re right,” said the Rittmeister gratefully, “and I’ll remember it. It’s funny that we seem to have lost the art of waiting. I think it’s this idiotic dollar. Rush, hurry, quick, go and buy something, make haste, run.”

“Yes,” said Studmann, “to chase and be chased, hunters and hunted at the same time—that makes people so bad-tempered and impatient. But there’s no need to be either.” He smiled. “But now I must be off; I’m not quite free from it myself. I see the porter beckoning me; perhaps a director is already chasing after me to inquire why I’m nowhere to be seen. And I shall chase after the chambermaids, so that the rooms of the departures will be free at twelve. So, good hunting, Prackwitz. And should you be in town tonight at seven and have no engagement—”

“By then I’ll be back in Neulohe some time,” said von Prackwitz. “But I’ve been tremendously pleased, absolutely tremendously pleased, to have met you again, Studmann, and if I come to town again …”

IV

The girl was still sitting on the bed, alone, motionless, idle. Her head drooped; the line of the shoulder, nape and head was feminine and soft. In the small bright face the lips were parted, and the eyes gazing at the worn floorboards saw nothing. Under the overcoat, which had fallen open, the skin glimmered light brown, firm.

The room was stuffy, full of smells. The house was wide awake now and carried on its routine; shouting, calling, weeping, banging doors, clattering up and down the stairs. In this house Life manifested itself mostly in noise and decay. In the copper workshop on the ground floor could be heard the screech of sawing copper, sounding like cats, or children being tortured. Then it was almost quiet again, with only the whirring and humming sound of the leather transmission belts.

The girl heard a clock strike twelve. Instinctively she raised her head toward the door. If he was going to look in after the pawnbroker’s, bringing her something to eat, he ought to come now—he had mentioned something of having breakfast together. But he did not come, and she had a conviction that he would not. He was certain to go straight to his friend’s. If he got money he would come later; but he might also go straight on to the gambling club, and she wouldn’t see him until the early hours of the morning, either penniless or with money in his pockets. Anyway, she would see him again.

And then it hit her: Was it so certain she would see him again? He’d always gone away and he’d always come back. Whatever he’d done, or wherever he’d been, he always ended up with her in Georgenstrasse. He would cross the courtyard, go up the steps—and reach her, either excitedly happy or utterly exhausted. I’ve never made any demands on him, she thought. Why shouldn’t he come back? I was never a burden to him. But was this true? Had she not, in fact, made a demand, unspoken but insistent, that he should always return to her?

Even my love can become a burden to him, she reflected, filled with unutterable sadness, and then he won’t come back.

It grew hotter and hotter. She jumped up from the bed and went to the mirror. Yes, there she was—Petra Ledig. Hair and flesh, a sudden attraction, desire, consummation—the world was full of it. She thought of the thousand rooms in which at this hour the morning desire awakened. Kisses were exchanged, women were slowly undressed, bedsteads creaked, the transient sigh of lust escaped. And people separated at all hours in a thousand rooms, parted from one another every minute.

Had she believed she was secure? That it could continue? In her heart she knew, had always known, that it wouldn’t. In the streets people were all in a hurry, rushing to catch their trains, to meet their girls, to spend their money before it became valueless. What endured, then? How could love endure?

All was futile on which she had set her heart. That they should be married this morning had seemed important enough for her to make a scene about it. Could it change anything? And if she sat there hungry and in debt, was that any reason why he should return? Did it matter in what condition she was deserted—whether, for example, she had a car and a villa in Grunewald, or not? The significant fact was that he did not come back. Whether she jumped out of the window or sold shoes again or walked the streets was all the same in that case.

She remained standing in front of the mirror and looked at herself as if looking at a dangerous stranger she had to be careful of. The figure in the mirror looks very pale, a brownish pale, and as if consumed from the inside. Its dark eyes shone, its hair hanging, with some loose locks, over its brow. She looked at herself breathlessly. It was as if everything was holding its breath. The house seemed to heave another sleepy sigh and then go silent. She herself still breathed. She shut her eyes and an almost painful shudder of happiness ran through her. She felt how warm her cheeks grew; they became hot. A good warmth, a lovely heat! Oh life, oh, love of life! It’s led me from here via there, to here. Houses, faces, beatings, rows, dirt, money, fear. Hear I am, oh, sweet, sweet life! He can never leave me again. I have him inside me.

Life whirred, life bussed tirelessly up and down, stirring in every stone. It overflowed from the windows. It looked askance and it railed. It laughed—yes, it laughed as well. Life—wonderful, sweet, everlasting life! He can never leave me again. I have him inside me. Never thought of it, never hoped for it, never wanted it. I have him inside me. Life was racing, and we were just racing along with it. We never arrived anywhere. Everything slid away from us. Everything was lost. But something remained. Grass doesn’t grow over all footprints, not every sigh is in vain. I remain. And he remains. We!

She had opened here eyes and now looked at herself. This is me, she thought for the first time in her life: she pointed her finger at herself. She was now without fear. He would return. He, too, one day would understand that she was “I” as she understood it. Now that she was no longer “I” but “We,” she understood it too.

V

When the Rittmeister visited Berlin one of his chief amusements was to stroll along Friedrichstrasse and a stretch of the Leipziger, and look at the shops. Not that he made large purchases, or intended to—no, the show windows amused him. To the eye of a provincial they were so wonderfully arranged. In some windows there were delightful trifles which simply dragged you into the shop for the pleasure of pointing at them and saying: “That one.” And in others were to be seen such frightful atrocities that you were moved again and again to laughter. Often he was tempted to carry such an article home, to see how Eva and Vi would be amused at, say, a man’s head made of glass, the mouth serving as an ash tray. (One could also connect the head with the electric light and it would glow horribly red and green.)

But the experience that, after a few days, these curios stood about the house unnoticed, had made the Rittmeister cautious; he was now content to laugh by himself. If he wanted to take a present back—one may be ever so retired and white-haired a cavalry officer and yet like to stop before a lingerie shop to choose something silky or of lace. It was delightful to buy some trifle of that kind. Every time he entered such a shop the trifles had become lighter and more fragrant, ever more delicate in tint. You could squeeze in one hand a pair of knickers into a tiny ball, and it would spread out again, softly rustling. Life might have become gray and dismal, but female beauty seemed increasingly fragile and delicate. That brassiere made entirely of lace! The Rittmeister could well remember the gray drill corsets of prewar days, into which a husband had to lace his wife as if he were reining in a restive horse.

Or he entered a delicatessen shop. However worthless money might have become, here all the showcases were bursting: green asparagus from Italy, artichokes from France, fattened geese from Poland, Heligoland lobster, corn cobs from Hungary, English jams—the entire world had rendezvous here. Even caviar from Russia was back again; and foreign money, procurable only out of “friendship” and at exorbitant rates even so—here one could eat it up by the hundredweight. It was very puzzling.

After his talk with Studmann, the Rittmeister had plenty of time, so he strolled once again into his old haunts. But this time his joy was damped. Life went on in Friedrichstrasse rather as one imagined it must in an Oriental bazaar. Dealers, beggars, strumpets: almost shoulder to shoulder they stood on both sides of the pavement. Young men displayed suitcases filled with shining cut-glass bottles of perfume. One, yelling and shouting, flourished braces. A woman, disheveled and dirty, handled long, shimmering silk stockings which she offered, with an impudent smile, to the gentlemen. “Something for the little lady, Count. Put them on her yourself, and see what fun you’ll have for that miserable bit of paper, Count.”

A policeman came in sight, looking peevish beneath his lacquered military shako, and to keep up appearances the cases were shut and opened again as soon as his back was turned. Under the house walls, beggars squatted or reclined, all war-wounded, to judge from the placards they carried. But the very young ones could only have been in school during the war, and the old men must have been invalided out long before. Blind men whined monotonously; the palsied shook their heads and arms; wounds were exhibited, terrible scars gleamed fierily on scaly gray flesh.

But the girls were the worst. They strolled about calling, whispering, taking people’s arms, running alongside men, laughing. Some girls exposed their bodies in a way that was revolting. A market of flesh—white flesh bloated with drink, and lean dark flesh which seemed to have been burned up by spirits. But worst of all were the entirely shameless, the almost sexless: the morphine addicts with their contracted pupils, the cocaine sniffers with their white noses, and the cocaine addicts with high-pitched voices and irrepressibly twitching faces. They wriggled, they jigged their flesh in low-cut or cunningly-slashed blouses, and when they made room for you or went round a corner they picked up their skirts (which, even so, didn’t reach their knees), exhibiting between stockings and drawers a strip of pale flesh and a green or pink garter. They exchanged remarks about passing men, bawled obscenities to each other across the street, and their greedy eyes searched among the slowly drifting crowd for foreigners who might be expected to have foreign currency in their pockets.

Amid vice, misery and beggary, amid hunger, fraud and dope, young girls who had hardly left school flitted from the shops, carrying cardboard boxes and bundles of letters. They missed nothing, and it was their ambition to be as insolent as those others, to be got down by nothing, to be scared at nothing, to wear skirts just as short, to snatch as much foreign currency

“You can’t get us down,” said their glances. “You old people can’t take us in,” they said and flourished their boxes. “At present we’re only shopgirls, sales-girls, office-girls. But it only needs a man to cast an eye on us, the little chap here or the fat man there with the mutton-chop whiskers, flaunting his paunch in a pair of checked flannel trousers—and we drop our boxes in the street, and sit this evening in a bar and have a car tomorrow.”

The Rittmeister felt as if he heard them all running and shouting: “Nothing has any value but money. Money. But in point of fact money has no value; the greatest possible enjoyment has to be squeezed out of it moment by moment. Why save oneself up for tomorrow? Who knows where the dollar will stand, who knows whether we shall be still alive tomorrow? By tomorrow younger, fresher girls will be in the running. Do come, old man, you’ve got white hair certainly—but it’s all the more important not to waste any time. Come, dearie.”

The Rittmeister caught sight of the entrance to the Arcade from Unter den Linden to Friedrichstrasse. He always liked to look at the waxworks—so he fled into the Arcade. But he might have come from purgatory into hell. A closely packed crowd surged through the radiantly lit tunnel. The shops paraded huge pot-boiler pictures of naked women, repulsively naked, with revoltingly sweet pink breasts. Chains of indecent picture-postcards hung everywhere. There were trick novelties which would have made a hardened roué blush and the lewdness of the photographs that furtive men stickily pressed into one’s hand could not be rivaled.

But the young boys were by far the worst of all. In their sailor suits, with smooth bare chests, cigarettes impudently sticking in their lips, they glided about everywhere; they did not speak, but they looked at you and touched you.

A tall fair woman in a low-cut dress, very elegant, pushed through the crowd, accompanied by a train of such lads. She laughed loudly, spoke emphatically. The Rittmeister saw her quite close too, his eyes falling on the shamelessly uncovered and thickly powdered breast. Laughingly she looked at him. The pupils of her eyes were unnaturally enlarged, her lower eyelids painted blue-black. Shuddering nausea overcame him at the realization that this rigged-up woman was a man; she was the female for this repulsive crowd of loungers, and yet she was a man.

Regardless of others, the Rittmeister forced his way through the crowd. A whore shouted, “The old man’s got a screw loose. Emil, sock him one. He biffed into me.” But the Rittmeister was already outside and had caught a taxi. “Schlesische Bahnhof,” he directed and leaned back into the cushions exhausted. Then he pulled out of his coat pocket a white, freshly laundered handkerchief and slowly wiped his face and hands.

He forced himself to concentrate on something entirely different—and what was of more interest than his worries? Indeed, it wasn’t easy to manage Neulohe these days. Quite apart from his father-in-law being a rat (and on top of that his mother-in-law with her religiosity), the rent was really too high. Either nothing grew, as last year, or, if anything did grow, one had no laborers, as this year.

But after the conversation with poor Studmann, who had also been tainted by wrong views and was by way of imbibing cranky ideas, and after his little walk through Friedrichstrasse and the Arcade, the Rittmeister thought of Neulohe as an untouched island of purity. To be sure, there were eternal worries, trouble with the farm hands, trouble with the taxes, money troubles, trouble with workmen (and the worst of all was the “in-law” trouble). But at least there was Eva, and Violet, known from her babyhood as Vi.

Certainly Eva was a bit too vivacious: the way in which she danced and flirted with the officers in Ostade would once have been regarded as improper and Vi also had picked up a rude manner (it was often enough to make her grandmother swoon)—but what was this compared with the misery, the indecency, the demoralization which manifested itself in Berlin in broad daylight? Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz was made otherwise and had no intention of changing: in his view a woman was of finer stuff than man, she was a delicate creature, one to be protected. Those girls in Friedrichstrasse, they were no longer women. A real man could think of them only with horror.

In Neulohe they had a garden where they sat in the evening. The manservant Hubert brought shaded candles and a bottle of Moselle; at the worst the phonograph with its “Yes, we have no bananas” gave a townish flavor to the foliage and the blossoms. But the women were protected. Pure, clean.

One could no longer go with a lady to Friedrichstrasse, in particular when that lady was one’s daughter. And to think that a splendid fellow like Studmann wanted somehow to make this street scum happy, to place himself in some respects on the same footing, merely for the reason that he had to earn money as they did! No, thank you. At home in Neulohe one might think that the Deutsche Tageszeitung exaggerated when it called Berlin a morass of infamy, a Babel of sin, a Sodom and Gomorrah. But when you’d had a sniff of it you realized that those remarks were an understatement. No, thank you!

And the Rittmeister calmed down so far that he lit a cigarette and, contented with the business he had concluded and the prospect of an early return home, approached the station.

His first action was to go to the refreshment room and have a couple of strong cognacs, for he had a presentiment that the sight of his newly engaged harvesters would not be an unmitigated joy. But it wasn’t so bad after all: as a matter of fact only what he expected. The faces were perhaps rougher, more impudent and shameless than before—but what did that matter, as long as they worked and got in the harvest? They oughtn’t to have too thin a time—decent allowances, every week a sheep slaughtered and once a month a fat pig.

Only, the foreman was just the kind of man utterly obnoxious to him, treading on those below, bending the knee to those above. He cringed before the Rittmeister, spewed out a flood of half-German, half-Polish words praising the strength and efficiency of his men, and then kicked a girl’s behind unexpectedly when she didn’t get through the door quickly enough with her bundle.

Incidentally, when the Rittmeister wanted to get a party ticket, it turned out that the foreman had brought with him not fifty but only thirty-seven hands; and in reply to the Rittmeister’s questions he again poured out a welter of confused phrases which became more and more Polish and less and less intelligible. (Eva was quite right, of course. He should have learned Polish, but he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so.) The foreman seemed to be affirming something; he tensed his upper-arm muscle and looked laughingly, coaxingly, with his small, mouse-quick eyes at the Rittmeister. In the end Prackwitz shrugged his shoulders and bought the ticket. Thirty-seven were better than none, and in any case they were trained agricultural workers.

Then came the noisy departure to the platform; the boarding of the waiting train; the abusive guard who wanted to push into the carriage a bundle which was blocking the door, although it was being pushed out again, together with the girl who carried it; the quarrel between two lads; the wild gesticulations and cries of the foreman who meanwhile was incessantly addressing the Rittmeister, asking, demanding, begging his thirty dollars.

At first the Rittmeister was of the opinion that twenty were sufficient, since a quarter of the people had not turned up. Hotly they bargained and finally, when the last man had found a place in the train, the Rittmeister, tired of the argument, counted out three ten-dollar notes into the foreman’s fist; who now brimmed over with gratitude, bowed, hopped from one foot to the other, and finally contrived to snatch the Rittmeister’s hand and kiss it fervently. “O Lord, holy benefactor.”

Somewhat disgusted, the Rittmeister looked for a place in a second-class smoking compartment right in front. Sitting down comfortably in the corner he lit a cigarette. All in all, he had done a good day’s work. Tomorrow the harvest could begin in real earnest.

Rumbling and puffing, the train got under way, steamed out of the sooty, neglected hall with its broken windows. The Rittmeister was waiting for the guard to pass, as he then intended to have a nap.

At last the man came, punched the ticket and gave it back. He did not go, however, but stood as if expecting something.

“Well?” asked the Rittmeister sleepily. “Rather hot outside, what?”

“Aren’t you the gentleman with the Polish reapers?” asked the guard.

“Certainly.” The Rittmeister sat up.

“I only wanted to report,” said the guard with a trace of malicious joy, “that they all alighted at Schlesische Bahnhof. Made themselves scarce.”

“What?” shouted the Rittmeister and leaped toward the compartment door.

VI

The train gathered more speed. It dipped into the tunnel; the lighted platform was left behind.

Pagel sat on the fire extinguisher box in the overcrowded smoking carriage and lit a Lucky Strike from the packet he had just bought with the proceeds of their goods and chattels. Splendid! He had last smoked on his way home from gambling the night before; therefore this cigarette tasted all the better. “Lucky Strike,” it was called. If his school English had not quite forsaken him it meant that this fortunate cigarette ought to be an omen for the rest of the day.

The fat man over there snorted angrily, rustled his newspaper, looked around restlessly—all that won’t help, Pagel thought; we know it already: the dollar is valued at 760,000 marks, an advance of over fifty per cent. The cigarette merchant, thank God, didn’t know it or else he couldn’t have afforded this cigarette. You too have backed the wrong horse, fatty; your snorting gives you away, you’re furious. But it won’t help you. This is an ingenious, entirely modern postwar invention; they rob you of one-half of the money in your pocket without touching the pocket or the money. Yes, brilliant brains, brilliant brains. The question now is whether my friend Zecke has backed the right or the wrong horse. If he’s backed the wrong one he may be rather hard of hearing, though this isn’t certain; but if devaluation has suited his purpose he won’t mind parting with a handful of 1,000,000-mark notes. Even 2,000,000-mark notes had been current for a day or two; Pagel had seen them in the gambling club. For a change they were printed on both sides and looked like genuine money, not like those scraps of white paper printed on one side only. People were already saying that these 2,000,000-mark notes would forever remain the highest denomination; and because of such a fairy tale the fat man snorted, having perhaps believed in fairy tales.

It was unlikely that Zecke had backed the wrong horse. As long as Pagel could remember Zecke had always backed the right one. He had never made a mistake in summing up a teacher; he had had a hunch as to what questions would be asked, what themes would be set, in the examination papers. In the war he had been the first to organize a magnificent system of leave in order to distribute Salvarsan in the Balkans and in Turkey. And when this business became precarious he was again the first who, before he gave it up entirely, filled the Salvarsan packages with rubbish. Then he had exported sixth-rate singing and dancing girls to the Bosphorus. A choice fellow, all in all; a fool in some respects, in others as sharp as a needle. After the war he had gone in for yarn—what he now dealt in, Heaven alone knew. It didn’t matter to him—he would have made a corner in bull elephants had there been any money in them.

Really, when one came to think of it, there was no reason why this so-called friend should give away his money—Pagel admitted it. He had never hitherto attempted to touch him. But another feeling dwelt also in Wolfgang Pagel’s breast—the feeling that Zecke was now “ripe,” that he would undoubtedly do what was expected of him. A gambler’s instinct, so to speak: a hunch, the devil knew why. He would certainly give the money. There were such moments. Suddenly you did something which you would not have done yesterday at any price. And out of that automatically followed something else—for instance, this evening you would win a tremendous sum—and again everything was suddenly changed. Life would run at right angles to its hitherto straight course. One could buy twenty tenement houses in the city (the hovels were to be had for next to nothing) or open a giant super bar (eighty girls behind the counter)—not a bad idea, indeed; or for a change you need do nothing at all, sit and twiddle your thumbs, take a real rest, eat and drink well and enjoy Peter. Or still better, buy a car and travel with Peter all over the world. Show her everything—churches, paintings, everything; the girl had potentialities—of course. Did anybody deny it? He didn’t, in any case; a splendid girl, never awkward! (Or hardly ever.)

Retired Second Lieutenant Wolfgang Pagel alighted at Podbielskiallee and sauntered down a street or two to the Zecke villa. In the heat. Lazily and leisurely. Now he stood in front of the house; that is to say, in front of the front garden, the laid-out grounds, the park. And not directly in front of it; there was, of course, a wrought-iron railing and some hewn stone (let us say limestone) in the form of pillars. And a very small brass plate was also there, inscribed with nothing else but “von Zecke,” with a brass bell-push. Well polished. One couldn’t see much of the house—it was hidden behind bushes and trees; one only got an impression of big shining windows and of a gracefully designed housefront, not too tall.

Pagel took a look at the whole bundle of tricks; there was plenty of time. Then he turned round and had a look at the villas on the other side. Pompous. So here dwelt the grand folks who could not under any circumstances live in a backyard off Alexanderplatz. Himself Wolfgang Pagel considered capable of both; at one time Dahlem, at another Alexanderplatz; he didn’t mind which. But perhaps he was living not in Dahlem but in Georgenkirchstrasse just because he didn’t mind.

He turned round again and eyed the name plate, bell-push, flowerbeds, lawn, house-front. It remained a puzzle why Zecke should burden himself with such stuff, for after all it was a burden, owning a house, a huge villa, almost a palace, which eternally demanded something of you: either to pay the taxes or have it done up or see about electric current failing or the coke that had to be bought. Zecke, in any case, must have changed a good deal. Formerly he, too, would have thought it a burden. The last time he saw him Zecke had had two very elegant bachelor rooms in Kurfürstendamm (with girl-friend, telephone and bath)—and that was more in keeping with him. Not this.

Possibly he was married. Any incredible change in a friend was explained by the fact of his having married, of a woman being there. Well, one would probably see her, and she would guess immediately that this old friend of her husband’s wanted to touch them for some money. Whereupon she would treat him with a mixture of annoyance and contempt. But for all he cared she could do as she pleased; the man who in the evening prowled about as the unwanted gambler was proof against female moods.

He was just about to ring the bell—one had to do it sooner or later, however pleasant it might be to stand lazily in the sun and think of the nice sum of money which he was going to lift from Zecke presently—when he remembered in time that he still carried nearly a hundred thousand marks in his pocket. To be sure, there was the saying that money is attracted by money, but this proverb was not properly worded. It ought to run—a lot of money attracts a lot of money. And that hardly applied to the sum Pagel was carrying. In the circumstances it would be better if he stood before Zecke utterly penniless. One pleaded for a loan much more convincingly when one hadn’t even got the fare home. For his hundred thousand he could get, say, two small cognacs, and these would add weight to his application for a loan.

He sauntered down the street, went to the right, then the left, again right, and to and fro; but it proved difficult to convert his money into alcohol. In this very smart residential district there seemed to be neither shops nor taverns. Everything, of course, was brought to the door; such people kept wine and schnapps by the cellarful.

Pagel came across a newspaper seller, but he didn’t want to invest his money in newspapers. No, thanks, he didn’t want to have anything to do with them. When he read the headline: “Trade Barriers Lifted in the Occupied Territory,” it didn’t matter to him. Do what you liked about it, it was bosh anyway.

Next he came across a flower girl selling roses at a bus stop. The idea of appearing with a miserable bunch of roses before Herr von Zecke, who had a whole garden full of them, was so attractive that Pagel almost bought some. But he shrugged his shoulders and walked on. He was not quite sure whether Zecke would see the funny side of it.

The money must be got rid of, however. So much was certain. He would most have preferred to give it to a beggar—that always brought luck. But here in Dahlem there were no beggars; they found it better to sit in Alexanderplatz among the poor, who always managed to spare something.

For a time Wolfgang followed an elderly skinny lady whose worn short jacket, with its faded lilac facings and black bugles, gave him the impression of a poor woman ashamed to beg. Then he gave up the idea of pressing the money into her hand. It would be the worst possible omen if he did not rid himself of it at the first try, but had it thrust back on him.

Finally the dog turned up. Pagel was sitting, enjoying himself in a quiet way, on a bench, and he whistled to a stray brown-and-white fox terrier. The dog was brimming over with whimsical energies; he barked at the cajoler defiantly; challengingly; then, suddenly becoming amiable, he put his head scrutinizingly on one side and wagged his stump of tail. Wolf had almost got him when, in a flash, he was yelping joyfully on the other side of the ornamental gardens, while a maidservant swinging a leash hurried after him, calling in a despairing voice: “Schnapps, Schnapps.”

Confronted by the choice between the peacefully smoking man and the excited girl, the terrier decided in favor of the man. Beseechingly he pressed his nose against Pagel’s leg, and in his eyes could be read an invitation to a new game. Wolf shoved the notes under his collar just as the girl approached, hot and indignant. “Let our dog go,” she gasped.

“Ah, Fräulein,” said Wolfgang, “we men are all for Schnapps. And,” he added, for in the fresh summer dress there was a pleasing girl, “and for love.”

“Oh, you!” said the girl, and her annoyed face changed so suddenly that Wolfgang had to smile. “You’ve no idea,” she went on, trying to put the dancing, barking terrier on the lead, “what a lot of trouble I have with the dog. And gentlemen are always speaking to me—but what’s this?” she asked, surprised, for she had felt the paper under the collar.

“A letter,” said Pagel, departing. “A letter for you. You must have noticed that I’ve been following you every morning for a week. But read it later, when you’re alone. It explains everything. So long.”

And he went hastily round the corner, for her face was shining too brightly for him to wish to see her discover the truth. And round another corner. Now he could probably slow down, safe. He was sweating again; as a matter of fact, however slowly he walked, he had been sweating ever since alighting at Podbielskiallee. And suddenly it struck him that it was not the warmth of the sun which made him so hot; at any rate, not the sun only. No, it was something different, something quite different. He was agitated, he was afraid.

With a start he stopped and looked round. Silently in the midday light the villas stood within the shelter of the pines. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner was humming. Everything he had done up to now to delay pressing the bell had been inspired by fear. And the fear had started much earlier than that; otherwise he would not have bought his Lucky Strike cigarettes instead of breakfast for both. Had it not been for fear he would not have let the pawnbroker have their things. “Yes,” said he, and went slowly on, “the end is at hand.” He saw their situation as it really was—in debt, with nothing for the following day, Petra almost naked in a stinking den, he himself in the wealthy quarter in his shabby field-gray tunic, and not even the fare home in his pocket.

I must persuade him to give us money, he thought. Even if it’s only a very little.

But it was lunacy, utter madness, to expect a loan from Zecke. Nothing that he knew of Zecke entitled him to expect him to lend money—with very little prospect of getting it back. Suppose he said no? (And he would, of course, say no, Wolfgang needn’t worry himself about that.)

The long, rather wide avenue, at the end of which Zecke’s villa was situated, opened before him. He went along slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, as if he were running down a steep hill toward his fate.

He must say yes, Pagel thought. Even if he gives ever so little. Then I’ll finish with gambling. I can still become a taxi driver—Gottschalk has definitely promised me his second car. Then Petra will have an easier time, too.

Now he was quite close to the villa; he saw again the limestone and railings, brass plate and bell-push. Hesitatingly he crossed the street. But he would say no, of course … Oh, damn, damn!—for at the end of the street he saw a girl approaching; the fox terrier straining and yelping at the leash revealed who she was. And between the argument there and the request here, hunter and hunted, he pushed the button and sighed with relief when the electric door-catch softly burred. Without a glance at the approaching girl he carefully pulled the door to behind him and breathed again as a turn of the path brought him under the cover of bushes.

After all, Zecke could only say no, but this wench could make an infernal row—Wolfgang hated scenes with women. You never knew where they would end.

VII

“So here you are, Pagel,” said Herr von Zecke. “I’ve rather been expecting. you.” And as Wolfgang made a gesture, he added: “Not exactly today—but you were due, weren’t you?”

And Zecke gave a superior smile, to Pagel’s annoyance. Zecke, it occurred to him, had always loved an affectation of mystery; he had always had this supercilious smile, so irritating to Wolfgang. Zecke smiled in that way whenever he considered himself particularly smart.

“Well, I only mention it,” grinned Zecke. “After all, you’re sitting here—you won’t deny that. Well, never mind. I know what I know. Shall we have a schnapps and a cigarette and a look at my pictures?” Pagel had glimpsed the pictures on entering.

They were sitting in a big, very well-furnished sun-porch. A couple of doors opened on to the terrace, steeped in the glowing sun. Through them could be seen a lawn bright with summer; but it was, nevertheless, pleasantly cool inside. Light, radiant and dark at the same time, and, above everything else, cool, filtered through green venetian blinds.

They sat in pleasant chairs, not in those smooth, cold leather things which one now saw everywhere, but in deep, roomy easy-chairs upholstered in some flowery English material—most likely chintz. Books a third of the wall high, and above them pictures, good modern paintings, as Pagel had seen at once. But he did not react to Zecke’s question. He realized that the atmosphere was not unfavorable, that his visit somehow suited Herr von Zecke. Zecke, of course, wanted something, and so he could quietly wait and be a little difficult. (He would get his money!) He pointed at the books. “Nice collection. Do you read much?”

But von Zecke was not so silly as all that. He laughed heartily. “I read? You’re still the same old joker, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like me to say yes, so that you could bore me stiff with what’s written in Nietzsche, there!” His face changed, became pensive. “I believe they’re quite a good investment. Full-leather binding. You have to see how to invest your money in stable values. I understand nothing of books—Salvarsan’s simpler—but I’ve got a little student who advises me …” He deliberated a moment, probably considering whether the little student was worth the money he paid him. Then he asked: “Well, and the paintings?” But Pagel was not biting. He indicated some carvings, figures of apostles, a Virgin and Child, a crucifix, two Pietàs. “You’re collecting medieval wood-carvings also?”

Zecke pulled a doleful face. “Not collect, no. Invest money in. But I don’t know what’s happened, it’s beginning to amuse me. Have a look at this one, the fellow with the key, Peter, of course. I got him from Würzburg. I don’t understand anything about it, it doesn’t look much, not at all impressive and so on—but I like it. And this Angel light-bearer—the arm’s probably restored. Do you think I’ve been done?”

Wolfgang Pagel cast a searching glance at von Zecke. He was a little man; in spite of his twenty-four or twenty-five years he was already rotund and, his hair having retreated at the temples, his forehead was high. In addition he was dark—and all this annoyed Wolfgang, together with the fact that von Zecke liked carvings and that his pictures seemed to cause him real concern. Zecke was a profiteer, nothing more, and he had to stay one. For a man like that to take an interest in art was ridiculous and disgusting. Wolf was most indignant, however, at having to ask this transformed Zecke for money—Zecke was capable of giving it out of sheer decency. No, the man was a profiteer and must remain so, and if he lent money he ought to take exorbitant interest; otherwise Wolfgang wanted to have nothing to do with him. He didn’t want to receive money as a gift from a man like Zecke. Looking disapprovingly at the torch-bearing angel, he said: “So now it’s the turn of angels—you no longer deal in variety tarts?”

At once he saw from Zecke’s reaction that he had gone too far, that he had made a fatal mistake: They were no longer at school, where one had to put up with such familiarities, where they were considered to be a form of sport. Zecke’s nose turned pale, while his face remained extremely red, a sign known to Pagel from those earlier days.

But if von Zecke had not yet learned to read books he had learned to control himself (and in this respect he was far ahead of Pagel). He behaved as if he had heard nothing, put the angel slowly down, gently stroked the probably restored arm, and said: “Yes, yes, the pictures. You must still have some very fine ones at home, of your father’s.”

Aha, so that’s what you’re after, thought Pagel, completely satisfied. “Yes, some very fine specimens are still there,” he replied.

“I know,” said Zecke, pouring out another schnapps, first in Pagel’s glass, then in his own, and seating himself comfortably. “So, if you’re in need of money—I buy paintings as you can see …”

That was a facer, a belated reply to his impertinence, but Pagel did not show it. “I don’t think we’re selling any.”

“You’re not quite informed there.” Zecke smiled charmingly. “Only last month your mother sold ‘Autumn Trees’ to the art gallery in Glasgow. Well, your health!” He drank, leaned back satisfied and said innocently: “Well, what’s the old woman to live on nowadays? What she had in stocks and shares is worth less than nothing today.”

Zecke didn’t grin, but Pagel felt very strongly that the designation of “good friend” which only that morning he had applied to him was an overstatement. He had already been stung by two darts, and he wouldn’t have long to wait for the third. True, von Zecke had always been a snake, a bad enemy, so it would be better to advance to the attack himself—then the matter would be settled and finished with. Trying to speak as easily as possible, he said: “I’m a bit hard up, Zecke. Could you help me out with a little money?”

“What do you call a little money?” asked Zecke.

“Well, not much, a trifle to you. What do you say to a hundred millions?”

“A hundred millions,” murmured Zecke dreamily. “I didn’t make as much as that on all the variety tarts.”

The third blow, and this time it really seemed a knockout. But Wolfgang Pagel did not so easily take the count. He started to laugh, heartily and unconcerned. “You’re right, Zecke. Splendid! I talk big and then it turns out I only want to touch you for money. But, you know, something put my back up immediately I came in. I don’t know whether you understand what I mean … I live in a kind of hole in Alexanderplatz, you know!” Zecke nodded as if he knew. “With nothing at all … and then to come here amidst all this splendor! Not at all like the parvenus and profiteers, but really well done, and I don’t believe the arm’s restored either.”

He stopped to look scrutinizingly at Zecke. He couldn’t say more, he simply couldn’t bring himself to say another word. But when Zecke didn’t make a move, he added: “All right, don’t give me any money, Zecke. I don’t deserve any; I’ve behaved like an idiot.”

“I don’t necessarily say no,” explained Zecke. “I only just want to hear what you have in mind. Money is money, and you don’t want it as a present, do you?”

“No, as soon as I can you’ll get it back.”

“And when will that be?”

“Under favorable circumstances, if all goes well, tomorrow.”

“Really,” said Zecke, not particularly enthusiastic. “Really. Well, let’s have another schnapps. And what do you need the money for?”

“Oh,” said Pagel, getting confused and annoyed, “I’ve got a few debts with my landlady, trifles really—you know, a hundred millions sounds a tremendous lot, but one way and another it’s not much more than a hundred dollars, not so alarming.”

“So, debts with the landlady,” said Zecke quite unmoved, his dark eyes looking attentively at his friend. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” replied Pagel vexed. “I’ve also got a few things in pawn.” In the same moment it occurred to him that this was really not quite true, but in speaking he hadn’t considered the distinction between what’s sold and what’s pawned, and so he left it at that. It really didn’t matter one way or the other …

“So, a few things in pawn,” said von Zecke, still scrutinizing him. “You know, Pagel, I must ask you something else—you must excuse me. Money’s money after all, and even a very little, a hundred dollars, for instance, is to some people quite a lot—for instance, to you.”

Pagel had made up his mind to take no notice of these pin-pricks, for, after all, the main thing was to get the money. “On with your questions!” he said peevishly.

“What are you doing? I mean, what are you living on? Have you got a job which earns you something? Are you a traveler on a commission basis? Employee with a salary?”

“At the moment I’ve got nothing,” said Pagel. “But at any moment I can get a job as a taxi driver.”

“Indeed.” Zecke seemed quite satisfied. “If you want another drink please take one. I’ve had enough for one morning. A taxi driver, then …” And this shady profiteer, this vampire, this criminal (sand instead of Salvarsan!) started to prod him again. “Taxi driver—a good job and handsome earnings, no doubt.” (How the venomous monkey sneered!) “But surely not so much that you can return my money tomorrow? You said, tomorrow if all goes well, you remember? But taxi driving doesn’t pay so well, does it?”

“My dear Zecke,” said Wolfgang getting up, “you want to torment me, isn’t that it? But the money’s not so important as all that.” He was almost shaking with fury.

“But, Pagel!” cried Zecke, startled. “I torment you? Why should I? Look here, you purposely haven’t asked me for a gift—otherwise you would have got a couple of notes long ago. You want a loan and you made statements about repayment—so I ask you how you figure it out, and you start a row. I don’t understand.”

“I spoke without thinking,” said Pagel. “In reality I could only pay the money back in weekly installments, perhaps about two millions a week.…”

“That’s of no consequence, old boy,” cried von Zecke cheerfully. “That’s of no consequence with old friends like ourselves. The chief thing is that you don’t lose the money gambling. That’s the position, isn’t it?”

The two looked at each other.

“It isn’t the slightest use shouting,” said Zecke, at once hurriedly and softly. “I’m so often shouted at that it has no effect. If you want to assault me you’d better do it very quickly—you see, I’ve already rung the bell. Yes, Reimers, the gentleman would like to go. Show him out, will you? So long, Pagel, old friend, and if you want to sell a painting of your father’s I’m always at home to you, always.… What’s the matter, have you gone crazy?” For Pagel had started to laugh with unrestrained amusement.

“Good God, what a swine you are, Zecke,” he said laughing. “It must have hurt you damned hard about the tarts if you have to discharge your venom in this way. Your chief used to trade in music-hall tarts,” he told the man behind him, a cross between master and servant. “He doesn’t wish to acknowledge it anymore, but it still hurts if it’s mentioned. But, Zecke,” went on Pagel, with the dead earnestness of the expert, “I’m inclined to the view that this torch-angel’s arm is stuck on, and badly, too. I should like to do—this …”

And before Zecke or his man could prevent him, the figure had lost its arm. Von Zecke screamed as if he himself felt the pain of amputation, and the servant made to attack Pagel, who, despite inadequate nourishment, was still a powerful young man. With one hand he warded off the manservant, in the other he held the angel’s amputated arm with its lamp socket. “This gross forgery I would like to keep in remembrance of you, my old friend Zecke,” said Wolfgang pleasantly. “You know—The Light That Failed—and so on. So long, and do enjoy your lunch, both of you.”

Pleased and satisfied, Pagel made his exit. If von Zecke really wished to enjoy the the thought that he had not given him any money, he would also have to remember the angel’s arm now in Pagel’s pocket. And the pain would outweigh the pleasure.

VIII

Unmolested he arrived at the gate of Zecke’s villa, and as he pulled it open, saw a girl standing outside, a girl with a terrier straining at its leash, a girl with a very red face.

“Good heavens, Fräulein, you’re not still standing here!” he cried in dismay. “I had completely forgotten all about you.”

“Listen,” said she, and her anger had lost none of its heat through her long wait in the sun. “Listen,” and she held out the notes, “if you think I’m that sort of a girl, then you’re wrong. Take your money.”

“And so little!” said Pagel quite unconcerned. “It wouldn’t buy even a pair of silk stockings.… No,” he added quickly, “I don’t want to pull your leg any longer. In fact, I want your advice.”

She stood there gaping at him, the notes in one hand, the leash with the fox terrier in the other—utterly confounded by the change in his manner. “Listen,” she said once more, but the threat in her voice had lost its vigor.

“Let’s go,” suggested Pagel. “Come along. Don’t be silly, come a part of the way with me, Lina, Trina, Stina. I can’t do anything to you in the street and I’m not crazy either.”

“I’ve no time. I ought to have been home by now. My mistress …”

“Tell your mistress Schnapps ran away, and listen. I’ve just been with that fine fellow in the villa there, a school friend of mine, trying to borrow some money.…”

“And then you put your money in my dog’s …”

“Don’t be a goose, Mitzi.”

“Liesbeth.”

“Listen, Liesbeth. Naturally, I didn’t get anything with you standing outside with my money. A fellow can’t get any money as long as he has any left, and that’s the reason I stuck what I had in the dog’s collar. Do you get me?”

It took her quite a while, however. “So you haven’t been running after me for a week, then, and you haven’t put in a letter either. I thought the dog had lost it.…”

“No, no, Liesbeth.” Pagel grinned impudently, but was nevertheless feeling abject. “No letter—and I didn’t want to buy your chastity with the money, either. But the question I want you to answer is this: what am I to do now? I haven’t got a penny. I have a dirty hole in Alexanderplatz for which the rent isn’t paid, and my girl’s sitting there as a kind of pledge, dressed in nothing but my summer overcoat. And I sold all our things to get here.”

“Serious?” asked the girl. “No more kidding?”

“No more kidding. Dead serious.”

She looked at him. She gave the impression of being unbelievably fresh and clean, in spite of the heat—she smelled, so as to speak, of Sunlight Soap. Perhaps she wasn’t as young as he had at first thought, and in addition she had a rather determined chin.

She realized now that it was indeed serious, looked at him, then at the money in her hand.

Will she give it back to me? he wondered. Then I’ll have to go to Peter and do something. But what I’d better do I really don’t know. I’m not keen on anything. She shall tell me.

The girl had smoothed out the money and put it in her pocket.

“There,” she said, “you must come with me first. I’m going home now—and you look quite done—in to me and as if you could do with a bit of lunch in our kitchen. The cook won’t mind, nor the mistress. But to think that your friend’s sitting in your room in your summer overcoat and perhaps nothing in her stomach, either, with a rude landlady into the bargain! And a chap like you puts money in dog collars and wants to pick up another girl right away—you men are rotters, upon my word you are.”

She was talking faster and faster, dragging at the dog, walking more and more hurriedly, not doubting for a moment that the young man was coming with her.

And follow her he did, he, Wolfgang Pagel, son of a not-unknown painter, former second lieutenant, and gambler at the end of his tether.

IX

The letter had come by the second post at eleven o’clock, but Frau Pagel was still out attending to various details, so Minna had put the letter on the console table under the mirror in the hall. There it lay, a gray envelope of embossed, rather imposing handmade paper; the address written in a bold, stiff handwriting, and every free space on the front and back covered with 1,000-mark postage stamps of various denominations, although it was merely a local letter.

When Frau Pagel returned from town, somewhat late and hot, she cast only a fleeting glance at the letter. Ah, from cousin Betty, she thought. But I must first see about the lunch. I’ll know soon enough what the old gossip wants.

Not till she was sitting at table did the letter come to her mind and she sent Minna for it—Minna who, as always, was standing behind her in the doorway, while as usual the cover was laid for Wolfgang at the other end of the table. “From Frau von Anklam,” she said to Minna over her shoulder and tore open the envelope.

“Goodness, it can’t be so urgent, madam, that you should let your food get cold.”

But from the silence, the rigid attitude, the flabbergasted way in which Frau Pagel stared at the letter, she guessed that it was important after all. Silently, without moving, Minna waited quite a long time; then she coughed, and at last said meaningly: “The food is getting cold, madam.”

“What?” Frau Pagel almost shouted, turning round and staring at Minna as if she were a total stranger. “Oh, yes.” She recovered herself. “It’s only … Minna, Frau von Anklam writes me.… It’s only—our young master is getting married today.” And then it was all up. The head with its white hair lay on the table; that back which will power had kept erect was now bent—and the old woman wept.

“Good God!” said Minna. “Good God!

She came nearer. Certainly she did not consider this marriage to be so very bad, but she understood the pain, grief and desolation of her mistress. Cautiously she put her work-worn hand on Frau Pagel’s shoulder and said: “It needn’t be true, madam. Not everything that Frau von Anklam says is true by a long way.”

“This time it is,” whispered Frau Pagel. “Somebody read the banns after they had been put up and told her about it. Today at half-past twelve.”

She raised her head and looked as if for help at the walls, recollected herself, and glanced at the watch on her wrist. “It’s half-past one,” she cried. “And the letter has been waiting a long while. I could have known of it in time!”

True suffering finds food in everything, even in the unreasonable. That she had not known in time, that at half-past twelve she had not been thinking, Now they are being married … this increased Frau Pagel’s grief. With streaming eyes and quivering lips she sat there, looked at her Minna and said: “Now we needn’t lay a place anymore; Wolf is gone forever, Minna. Oh, that terrible woman. And now she is Frau Pagel, just as I am.”

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.