Behind me the door opened, and someone walked in. I took a look at him: it was another traveller. He put his little case down beside him, called out a hearty ‘Good morning!’ and looked hard at me, to see if I was from the other lot. I shook my head to indicate I wasn’t. The journeymen started scolding again: ‘Let them stand there, Master, till we’ve got a full dozen, then send them all away at once. It’s too bad!’ The master walked over to us: ‘All right, what do you want?’ After three words he interrupted me: ‘Subscribe, because you’re on the side of labour? Have you got them to lower taxes? Your syndic, don’t make me laugh! He’s best mates with the Treasurer in Town Hall. No. That’s enough. Not another word. Thank you!’ He turned to the newcomer: ‘And what do you want?’
If I had two such experiences in succession, I often wouldn’t feel like seeing anyone else at all, and would just walk in the park for hours. I would dream of finding money, vast sums of money. I walked around with my eyes to the ground scanning the paths, but I never found anything beyond a handkerchief and the occasional button. There were many days when I brought home no money at all. Willi had reverted to his previous snippiness.
A perennial hope of mine was a master baker on Lohstedter Straße. He never quite ruled out the possibility, and said: ‘Come by again. I’d like to think about it.’ And when I came the next time, he needed to think about it some more. He would always greet me with a cordial handshake, and say: ‘Well, young man, have you come up with a clinching reason why I should take out a subscription to the Chronicle? Because those I have aren’t quite sufficient. Almost, but not quite.’ Then I would try and bring up something or other. It took a very long time before I understood that I was one of his court jesters, to whom he looked for a pastime. I’m sure he had a lot of them contributing to his amusement, there were enough of us running around town.
Most people didn’t welcome being called on by so many travellers; for the majority we were a pest. Sometimes, on entering a house I would hear the next ring, I would hear my predecessor speaking, sometimes lively and hortatory, sometimes humbly hand-wringing. Then I would wait for my colleague to come down, and we would walk together a ways, and let off steam. Everyone grumbled, it didn’t matter whether they were fancy-dans travelling with vacuum cleaners or carried a box with sticking plasters and spare buttons. We grumbled about how badly we were treated, and then after a while we admitted that ‘actually’ the people were right, there were too many of us running around, in particular some who were just scouting out opportunities for break-ins.
It always felt especially bitter to me to be taken for one of these last. I had rung and stood patiently outside the door, and after a while I heard a scuffed footfall, and an eye appeared at the peephole. It always looked very dark with a lot of white, and you could never tell whether it was a man’s eye or a woman’s. So there you stood for what felt like a very long time, being looked at, and then the peephole would shut with a little clack, and the scuffed footfall would go away again. Or the door would open, but the chain stayed in front of it, and you started talking through the crack, and suddenly when you were halfway through your sentence the door would shut in your face, and you stood there, choking on the half-done sentence, before slinking back down the stairs.
Sometimes I had the feeling that all these humiliations were collecting in my chest, and I was never going to get rid of them and one day they would crush me. I understood better and better that almost every traveller would one day blow up, go drumming his fists and yelling at a particularly unpleasant locked door, or abusing a rude housewife. I understood it very well, but I still thought it wouldn’t happen to me, since it all struck me as being just temporary: in the end I would get to sit in a clean, well-lighted office again.
6
Then my day also came.
I had got on to master tailors. One of these was a woman, a Fräulein Kehding. The managing editor on the Chronicle had warned me: ‘She’s not a woman, she’s a devil. She’s the nastiest piece of work in the whole of Altholm. I’d give her a miss if I were you.’ Well, I did go to her, if only because it was a change from so many men.
From the steps you walked straight into the tailor’s workshop. Something had just happened, because one of the seamstresses was in floods of tears, and the others sat around looking awkward and not knowing how to behave. Fräulein Kehding was pacing up and down, and only stopped her scolding when she noticed me standing there. ‘And what do you want?’ she asked, but not unkindly. In fact, she disappointed me by looking rather decent for a devil, with a long, straight nose, bright eyes and a fresh complexion. While I was saying my piece, she stood there with her hands behind her, looking at me. She was actually one of the easier ones to talk to, she listened and put in the odd word herself: ‘Oh, does our syndic write for your pages?’ – ‘Absolutely, the crafts must hold together.’
When I was done, I had secured a new subscriber. Everything had gone unbelievably smoothly, and I was writing out the receipt. Fräulein Kehding stood a little to one side; while writing I looked across to the sewing machines, to the girl who had been crying. She was a pretty thing and, blinking back her tears, she smiled at me. I smiled back.
Then I heard a sort of hissing sound next to me, a suppressed cry of rage, and I looked up at the mistress. She was white with fury, presumably she was incensed that I had smiled at one of her girls. Carefully I held out the receipt to her. ‘One mark fifty, if you please.’
She took the receipt and looked at it. ‘You call this a receipt?’ she said. ‘Anyone can get hold of those.’
‘Those are Chronicle receipts,’ I said. ‘That’s the way they are.’
‘Are they indeed?’ she asked mockingly, and getting going a bit. ‘You get them made out, and you cheat people of their money, and there’s no newspaper at the end of it. Where’s your ID?’
‘I don’t have an ID, these receipts are my ID.’
‘Where’s your commercial agent’s certificate then?’ she screamed – she was screaming by now. ‘You must have a commercial agent’s certificate to go in people’s houses like that.’ I had none, I didn’t know whether I needed one or not. ‘You’re a swindler!’ she screamed. ‘But you’re not going to fool me. Elfriede, run and get Sergeant Schmidt. We have a swindler here.’ The girl who had been crying got up timorously and walked over to the door.
I said, ‘Fräulein, here is my book of receipts, the counterfoils, there are the names of other tailors.’
‘Will you get moving, Elfriede!’ she screamed. ‘Shall I chase you?! Is that what you want, for this wretched man to make a clean getaway!’ The girl ran out and I started to feel flustered.
‘Fräulein,’ I said, ‘will you give me back my book of receipts. I don’t want your money. Let me go.’
‘Not likely!’ she cried. ‘So you can run off, eh? Toni, lock the door.’
‘Fräulein,’ I cried. ‘You’re being mean. I know why you’re doing it. Because I smiled at one of your girls. You want to make all the pretty ones cry, because you haven’t got a man.’
We got into a shouting match, Sergeant Schmidt didn’t understand what it was about, but he hauled me off to the station just in case. As I sat there on the bunk, I sobered up quickly enough. I regretted that I’d got so heated. My job was recruiting subscribers, not smiling at girls, and the Kehding woman was more right than wrong.
7
After the police had made a few enquiries, they let me go. I walked slowly over to the Chronicle, feeling pretty wretched. I wasn’t surprised to find the ‘mistress’ had been in to complain about me. ‘Enough,’ said the managing editor. ‘She’ll turn the whole small business community against us if I let you go on. You shouldn’t have gone there anyway. I told you not to.’
He gave me five marks, he was and remained a decent guy. When I got back to Starenstraße, Willi wasn’t home yet. The mere thought of his reproaches made me shudder. I threw my things in my suitcase and left them with the landlady. I would write for
them in the fullness of time. Then I walked out of the house, out of the town, onto the high road. It was the second week of December, light frost, a bit of snow. I had nine marks left. I would go to the city, and try and find something there.
A Bad Night
(1931)
Wrede walked into my room and asked crossly: ‘Why are you still here? It’s past eight o’clock.’
I helped myself to another piece of bread and butter. ‘People don’t go thieving that early. There’s still too many lights on in the village.’
‘If the lieutenant sees you’re not gone yet,’ said Wrede, ‘he’ll make a stink.’
‘The girl’s just brought me my supper.’
‘I need you to be on time!’ he screamed at me. ‘You leave at eight o’clock. It’s half past. If you don’t do exactly what I say, I’ll have you out on your ear.’
‘Just mind you don’t get thrown out yourself,’ I said viciously.
Wrede walked out and slammed the door. I went on eating my bread. When I was finished eating, I got the pistol out of the dresser and wiped and greased it. I was just finished doing that when Wrede came back. ‘All right. I’m on my way!’ I said hurriedly, and pulled on my watchman’s fur.
But this time he was all friendly. ‘What have you got there?’ he asked. ‘My word, it’s a cavalry pistol! Where did you get that from?’
‘I got it from the coachman,’ I said. ‘He brought it back from the war. There’s a hundred and fifty round of ammunition to go with it too.’
‘What did you pay him for it?’
‘Twenty thousand.’
‘Twenty thousand marks!’ he cried. ‘That’s not even forty pounds of rye. It’s under a dollar. I reckon you got the best of that one.’ I laughed. ‘You know what,’ he suddenly said, ‘sell it to me. You’ve got your nice little Ortgies, what do you need that heavy old thing for? I’ll give you forty thousand for it.’
‘No chance,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t sell it to you for four hundred thousand.’
Wrede had a think. ‘All right. I’ll give you half a mill,’ he said solemnly.
I caught my breath. ‘Right away?’ I asked.
‘Right away,’ he said.
Half a million; if I went into town bright and early tomorrow morning, I could buy myself a pair of shoes and a suit. And I could use them. I looked pretty shabby. ‘It’s a deal,’ I said.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the money.’
I heard him go into the office. He could be as careful as he liked, the safe door creaked when he shut it. Handy, I thought. Well, why should I care where he got the money from. I was selling it legally. I got the ammunition out of the dresser, put it on the table, filled the magazine, clicked it in and locked it.
Wrede came back and gave me the dough. ‘There,’ he said, ‘count it.’ He was in a bad mood again. ‘Count it so you don’t come wailing to me tomorrow that I didn’t give it to you.’ He was fiddling around with the pistol on the other side of the table from me.
‘I expect it’s right,’ I said. ‘Seeing as it’s not your money, it’ll be right.’
He looked up at me. ‘Tell me what you mean by that! Tell me right away what you mean!’
‘I don’t mean anything by it!’ I laughed. ‘Because you always have the correct change, that’s what I mean. How would I get change for a fifty-thousand-mark note? No one would change it.’
‘Fucker!’ he said.
Suddenly I realized he’d been drinking. A wave of schnapps breath wafted over the table. ‘Wrede!’ I called. ‘That pistol’s loaded, be careful. With the lever like that, the safety catch is off.’
‘It’s on!’ he cried furiously. ‘If you see the “S” it’s on.’
‘Baloney,’ I said. ‘When the little lever’s over the “S” the safety is on. Now it’s off.’
‘Baloney?’ he yelled. ‘Who are you saying baloney to? I’ll give you baloney. The safety’s on. I’ll prove it.’ He raised the pistol and aimed it at me.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I yelled. ‘It’s off!’ I threw myself to the side. The shot rang around the little room like a thunderbolt, it passed over my head. I ran to the window. It passed through the curtain and the glass, and must have buried itself in the barn wall opposite.
I stood by the window for a moment, breathing hard. I heard people cursing from the farmyard, but no one came in. They were used to our antics. In our cups, we sometimes aimed at the office from our room. I wasn’t afraid that Wrede would shoot a second time.
When I was perfectly calm again, I turned round. Wrede was standing by the table, the pistol still in his hand, white as a sheet. I picked up my Ortgies, stuck it in the pocket of my fur, and went out without a word. He could stay there for ever if he liked, I didn’t care.
Outside it was cold, dark and windy, the snow hadn’t come yet. I crossed the yard, the cowshed was already dark, but there was a light on in the stables. In front of the big house was the boss’s car; Siebert the chauffeur was running up and down, trying to keep warm.
‘Where are you off to then?’ I asked.
‘They’re going to the theatre. Madam isn’t ready. What was that shooting about?’
‘Wasn’t me. It was Wrede. Just a shot.’
‘The way you two carry on, I’m surprised you’re alive.’
‘Quality’s built to last.’
‘Yes, and weeds never die.’
The lieutenant came out with his wife. She was in her fur, with a silk scarf over her hair. She clumped down the steps in her big galoshes, with the lieutenant holding her arm so she didn’t fall. Her throat looked very white.
The boss and Siebert wrapped her under the rugs. The boss told him to drive like blazes so that they made it by the interval at least. I would have loved to go along, instead of keeping watch for the whole long, cold night. The whole drive smelled of Madam’s perfume.
Then the lieutenant called out to me: ‘And you keep a better watch. Last night two potato clamps were open. Let’s go, Siebert!’ And the car hummed off.
I headed slowly in the other direction, towards the woods, to the fields. It was completely dark, and the wind whistled across the bare fields. I kept to the middle of the path and tried to see into the shadows of the trees. Every twenty paces or so I would switch on the bull’s-eye and lit a piece of my way, as well as I could.
It was nine o’clock now. I had to run around here all night, till six in the morning, watching for thieves, and I felt desperate. Wrede was definitely not going to relieve me tonight, I had provoked him too much. Two clamps open, the lieutenant said. Let him stand watch out here. You couldn’t do a bloody thing about it.
‘Halloo! Halloo!’ It was Maison the old gamekeeper, whom I’d brushed with my light. He came tottering along, when we met we both stopped. He was a couple of feet from me, and in spite of that I could hardly see him.
‘Is that you, Maison?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Are you going out now? Bloody weather.’
‘Yes, it’s getting colder.’
‘Yes. The rye’s perishing in the ground. There could be snow. Mind yourself,’ he said. ‘In section seventy-three I found a heap of potatoes covered over with fir twigs. Thieves will have put them aside for later. Go and have a look.’
‘I’m buggered if I’m going into the woods alone on a night like this,’ I exploded. ‘If I turn on the light, then I give them something to aim at, and if I go in the dark I don’t see a sausage, and will just get one over the head.’
‘Is Wrede not coming?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Listen,’ Maison creaked confidentially in his old man’s voice in the dark. ‘Wrede talks ill of you in the village. Have you two had a falling-out?’
‘Not especially. What do you mean, talks ill of me? What does he say?’
‘Well, his money. He says there’s some missing from petty cash, that kind of thing.’
‘So?’
‘Well. You know!’
‘L
et me tell you something,’ I said, and I suddenly felt angry. ‘I don’t give a shit about Wrede and his gossip. If there’s something wrong with his balances, then you need to ask the publican and his girlfriend how much he spends there every night. And then take a look in his wardrobe and see how many suits he’s got hanging there. And ask around in Stettin how he paid for his motorbike.’
‘I’m only saying what he said. I didn’t say I believed him.’
‘Yeah, but you pass it on. Good night, Maison, I suggest you go to the office and tell Wrede everything I’ve just said. And then you can tell him from me that the next time he takes a pot-shot at me, to expect one back, you got that? He’ll understand. G’night!’