Locking the cupboard, she pocketed the key. Gustäving was very young but hunger made the smallest children ingenious. One morning not so long ago, he had got the cupboard open somehow. Terrible days had followed. She was used to being hungry herself but – deny her child the commonest necessities of life? ‘I can’t let him go hungry for four days,’ she had pleaded at the Rationing Bureau. ‘He would starve to death.’
‘They’ve all got some tale or other,’ the clerk had replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘This one’s cards have been burnt, someone else has had them stolen, another’s lost them, and now your child’s eaten up all your bread. You should look after him better. No, you won’t get any more here.’
In the end her sister-in-law Eva had come to her aid.
She shook the cupboard door gently once more: the cupboard was closed. Once again she looked at Gustäving. He was asleep. She switched off the light and went onto the landing. It had just turned five o’clock, high time to start.
The stairway was dark, but footsteps were soon descending, and heavier feet were coming up. A door opened on the first floor, a man came out, and Gertrud saw him kiss his wife goodbye in the twilight of the corridor. Then he felt his way downstairs next to her and suddenly grabbed her and whispered, ‘Well, my sweetie? Out of bed already, too?’
She pushed her hands against his chest. She knew it was the foreman from the munitions factory. He was incorrigible! He’d been a perfectly decent man, but he’d been spoiled by the war, which had emptied Berlin of men. There were enough women now to run after every pair of trousers. So he thought every woman fair game.
‘Leave me alone, Herr Tiede!’ she shouted, fiercely defending herself against him in the dark. ‘I’m only the cripple from the fifth floor.’
‘Gudde? That’s something different.’ And, pressing her hard, he whispered: ‘Be nice to me, little one! You’re just what I want. I’ll give you half a pound of butter if you’re a good girl. Word of honour!’
She succeeded in freeing herself from him, and ran across both courtyards as if being hunted. She breathed again when she reached the street. By the light of a gas lamp she inspected the coat he had torn. Thank goodness, it wasn’t so bad and could be repaired so that it would hardly be noticed.
She hurried to a butcher’s shop in a small side street, but she was a bit late there, despite her rush and early rising. There was already quite a queue outside the door.
‘That makes nineteen,’ said the woman in front.
‘Then I’ll doubtless get something after all,’ said Gertrud hopefully.
‘No one knows how many pigs he has been allotted. But they haven’t forbidden us to hope yet.’ The woman’s voice was incredibly bitter. Gertrud Gudde – it was not only the icy wind that made her shudder – thrust her hands into her coat pockets and stood on tiptoe. In this way one’s feet didn’t freeze so much. And she would have to wait a long time because the shop didn’t open before eight.
For a while she stood there, freezing. The tiredness she’d just managed to overcome came back. But it didn’t bring sleep, only depressing, dark thoughts. She was wondering what she would get – whether a nice piece of the head or only a few bones; it was all a matter of luck, and mostly she had little or no luck. People were prejudiced against a hunchback. But, miserably inadequate though it might be, one had to take what one could get of this unrationed meat – bones and offal that the butcher could not otherwise use. Anyhow, it gave a flavour to the swedes.
‘What’s the time?’ enquired the woman in front.
‘Twenty-five to six,’ replied Gertrud Gudde.
‘And my feet are like ice already. I shan’t be able to stick it till eight o’clock. Keep an eye on my place, will you? I’m number eighteen.’
Gertrud agreed, and the other negotiated also with the woman in front. It was heartbreaking to lose a place after getting up so early and freezing for so long, and one had to make certain of one’s neighbours in the queue. The woman, who was wearing clogs, ran clattering up and down the street, sometimes stopping to beat her arms against her body. But nobody joked about it. ‘If you only have the strength to keep it up, you get quite warm in time,’ said someone thoughtfully. No one else spoke.
The woman came back. ‘There,’ she said, in quite a different tone, ‘now I can stand it a little longer. Do you want to go? I’ll keep your place.’
But Gertrud Gudde, although she was freezing, shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she said in a low voice; she was shy of exposing her deformity. All, it is true, were poor and downtrodden, but there are always some who, however poor, look down on those still poorer. Besides which she was really afraid of losing her place – so many were now waiting behind her. The butcher wouldn’t have enough bones for all that number. And only six o’clock! She prayed that a policeman might pass at eight o’clock and shepherd the people into the shop, a few at a time. Otherwise there would be a free fight when the door opened and she would be pushed aside.
Two of those behind were talking loudly about a new decree concerning leave from the Front. ‘It’s a fact,’ said one; ‘for every gold coin you hand over your husband gets a day’s extra leave.’
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said the other. ‘Only the rich would benefit. In the trenches, at least, everyone’s equal.’
‘The rich, eh?’ said the first voice bitterly. ‘The profiteers and hoarders, you mean. Every decent person handed over his gold long ago, when they first asked for it. Dirty dogs! The decent people have been fooled again, and there are plenty who’re hanging onto their gold, you bet. They’ll get their husbands home for ten days or a fortnight, p’r’aps three weeks … and in the meantime one of ours may be killed.’
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said the other, a little doubtfully now. ‘That wouldn’t be just.’
‘Just!’ shouted the first woman angrily. ‘Don’t talk such rubbish. Justice? Where d’you find any justice? Hand over your gold and you can go to bed with your husband; no gold and you can go to blazes.’
‘People talk so much,’ said the other hesitantly.
‘Justice?’ shouted the other woman, who couldn’t stop herself. ‘They’ve just put a piece of paper through my door. I don’t generally read such things – it’s all rubbish. Says we should break our chains. People who print such things should do it first, to show us how! If they’d broken their own chains they wouldn’t have to slip notes secretly through the doors, would they?’
A few people laughed.
‘Aren’t I right?’ asked the woman, a bit more friendly. ‘It’s all rubbish! But I’ve read the note. “Menu” was written on it. That means something to eat. “Imperial Headquarters” was written on top, “Homburg vor der Höhe” – since when is Homburg vor der Höhe at the Front? I always thought it was a German town.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said another woman. ‘You’re too stupid. An emperor like Willem is unique, but your Emil or what’s his name, there are thousands of them …’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ said the first woman, but quite resigned, ‘because you don’t know my Emil. If you did know, you wouldn’t say that there are thousands like him. No, he’s unique too …’
They continued to talk like that. They went on about Emil and Willem and the menu with seven courses and all in French. And they understood this French quite well. They went on talking, they got excited and then serious again – but nothing changed; it was the same old story – but at least time passed.
Gertrud Gudde listened but the sense of what they said did not reach her. Cold was creeping up her limbs. By itself the wintry weather would not have frozen her so much – she was thinking about this business of leave. Otto had been over two years at the Front without having any. I don’t write about it in my letters, she thought, and he doesn’t mention it in his, but every soldier on the Western Front has had at least a couple of leaves in the last two years. All except Otto … And she began to brood as she had so often brooded before. Why d
idn’t he come? He knew what it was like at home. Although she had never written about the food shortage, now and then some man on leave would ring at her door and hand in a parcel – a little dripping, two pounds of bacon, some sugar, lentils once …
‘Why doesn’t Otto get his leave?’ she would ask them.
They shrugged and looked at her, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know,’ they said, ‘perhaps he doesn’t want any.’
They looked at her so oddly that she never cared to ask further questions. Perhaps they were thinking: if I had a woman like you I wouldn’t come home either.
At first she had thought Otto was a poor soldier and got no leave for that reason. But when she heard about his Iron Cross and that he had been made a corporal – well, perhaps he really didn’t want leave.
The women talked on and on. It chilled the blood, this conversation. The world became utterly without hope or joy. And when they did laugh they screwed up their faces into a mirthless grin. She forced herself, she willed herself, to think about other things. She thought of the child, of Gustäving when he would plead: ‘Tell it again, Mother, the story of the baker’s shop.’
And she would tell him about the baker’s shop, though it was no fairy tale. She told him how three years ago she had been able to go into a shop, point and say: eight rolls, four brioches with sugar icing, two loaves of bread …
‘But he didn’t give you two loaves of bread, did he, Mummy?’
‘Yes, and he thanked me for buying so much.’
The child sat there, his eyes shining. His mother had to mime the bringing-home of the bread and show how she had cut it up into slices, so many for Papa, so many for Mummy, so many for Gustäving.
‘Show me again! Oh, Mother, I could never eat all that up.’ And then eagerly: ‘Yes, I could. Just try and see. I’ll get it down. Let’s try. Just once, please, Mummy, please!’
And then, as a finale, the endless begging for a little piece of bread, just a tiny slice, half a slice, a crust only …
You were chilled if you listened to people’s talk; you were chilled by your own thoughts. Start where you would, the end was the same.
But there was no need to brood any longer – the woman in front said excitedly: ‘He’s pulling up the shutters already. I hope no one treads my clogs off. Last time I lost fifteen places through it. Be careful, please, young woman!’
And then the rush – no policeman about anywhere, of course. They usually made a wide detour whenever they saw a queue like this, if for no other reason than to avoid hearing what the women said. Gertrud Gudde was swept off her feet, carried away, crushed against the door … For a moment she thought her arm must break. Then she was in the shop – by good luck pushed right in front against the counter.
‘Well, and how much, young woman?’ asked the fat butcher.
‘As much as you’ll give me.’
At once a portion of pig’s head was pushed over the counter and, wide-eyed, she gazed at the white skin and crimson meat – a lump of pig’s cheek, nearly two pounds of fat and meat. With bent head, her bag clasped to her bosom, she pushed her way through others who had not yet got anything and might perhaps have to go away empty-handed – the poor creatures.
She smiled happily. Early rising, the cold, the long wait, her despair, all were forgotten. A chunk of pig’s cheek, almost two pounds of meat and fat!
She rushed upstairs. But at the door of the flat her heart gave a jump. Happiness fled. She laid a hand on the shoulder of the woman crouching there. ‘What is it, Eva?’
Eva lifted a tear-stained face. ‘Father has turned me out, Tutti,’ she whispered. ‘Will you take me in?’
‘Gladly,’ said Gertrud Gudde, and unlocked the door.
§ III
The stimulation Hackendahl had received from his new horses had long died away. They had brought nothing but constant worry concerning their drivers – the fellows at present on the box knew nothing about horses, couldn’t drive, were not familiar with the Berlin streets and seemed quite indifferent whether they picked up fares or no, their main concern being to receive the guaranteed wage regularly. These fellows, either very old or very young, nearly drove Hackendahl mad.
To the worry with the cabmen was added the worry about fodder. So long as he had a supply of oats in the loft it was easy to say that the horses were small Russian ponies and if need be could live on straw, but when fodder became really scarce, when the supplies allotted were always insufficient and horses were rationed like men, then he had to admit that maybe they could actually live on straw but not, when it came to the point, do any work. If they had to work, then they had also to feed. And they were forced to work, for living had become dearer and money even tighter.
Yes, money had become tight in the Hackendahl household. Much of the father’s liquid cash had gone to Eggebrecht for the ponies; the rest he had subscribed to the War Loans and it was now tied up. Had he used his intelligence at the time he would not have frozen so much of his savings in that way. But Gustav Hackendahl felt it was up to him to subscribe a large sum. And this was done. ‘We don’t need the money, Mother. The cabs will always bring in enough to live on.’
But the cabs didn’t. They brought in practically nothing, and on many a pay day Hackendahl had trouble in scraping the money together for the men’s wages. Money had never been so tight. A household minus two sons and a daughter should have been cheaper to run than a household in which they all sat down to table together. But no – living grew more and more expensive.
For one thing there were the countless parcels which Mother was everlastingly sending to the Front. The delicacies they contained were bought from hoarders and therefore dear. And though neither Otto nor Sophie wrote for money, Erich made up for them; the lad eternally needed something new – a smart cap, special boots, corduroy riding breeches. But at least he was already a second lieutenant with a cushy job at the Lille base, so that Mother didn’t need to weep over him continually.
No, money didn’t stay around, it leaked away. All the same, you continued to help. The main thing was that something remained to rattle in the cash till. Then you could manage all right.
And then one evening an official letter arrived announcing a second requisition of horses. It demanded that every animal be produced, including any bought since the last requisition and all discarded military horses acquired by purchase.
‘It makes me laugh,’ remarked Hackendahl. ‘I can understand them calling up the men again. But the horses! Well, let ’em – they must have a lot of time on their hands.’
‘They’re calling up men whom they registered as totally unfit only a year ago,’ said Frau Hackendahl. ‘Father, supposing they take our animals …’
‘If it must be it must,’ said Hackendahl firmly. But he hastened to reassure her. ‘They certainly won’t take the ponies. As for my other five, they’ve not improved with the feed they’re getting.’
‘Starvation didn’t improve the men either, but they’ve taken them now.’
‘We shall see, Mother. Don’t start getting upset already. You’ll see, I’ll come back with as many horses as I left with.’
An exodus of a different sort from that in the early days of August 1914! Back then he had proceeded with gravity, briefcase under his arm, alongside his own transport. He had looked at people’s faces, and their admiring recognition had made him proud. Bubi was alongside him, and it was still unclear exactly with whom they were supposed to be at war. And there was warning of spies.
Hackendahl carried the official order in his jacket pocket, and led the first four beasts in person, while Rabause followed with another four. As to the passers-by, their sullen, hopeless faces were not cheering to look at. If they did notice the horses it was only to reflect that they ought rather to be going to the horse butcher, so that people could get a little unrationed meat.
But Bubi was at school, and that was a mercy. No one had gone hunting for spies. People now wanted the world to know how the food blockade was
killing off innocent women and children. However, the world didn’t want to know!
It was the old mustering place with the wooden barriers, but quite another procedure this time. No lengthy inspection of the horses. Just a glance. ‘Good – the next!’ Hardly a mouth was looked into or a leg examined. ‘Good – the next!’
Hackendahl began to feel anxious. Leaving Rabause to trot out the horses, he approached the requisitioning committee almost furtively, and was at once snapped at. ‘What are you hanging about for, man? Get back to your horses! No one is allowed to eavesdrop round here,’ shouted a grey-faced captain wearing an Iron Cross of the First Class. Probably he was one of those who had been seriously wounded at the Front but who wanted to get back again and therefore hated and despised the entire civilian regime at home. His counterpart was the veterinary surgeon, a fat man with a rosy face, who cracked jokes at which no one laughed but himself.
‘These your horses? Or are they performing fleas? Well, let’s get down to it! Horses are horses – we’re not going to measure them for the life-guards.’
With an expression of unspeakable disgust the grey-faced captain listened to this clowning. ‘That one – and this!’ he pointed. ‘The next!’
‘What?’ Hackendahl asked the clerk. ‘Nineteen?’
‘Yes, the grey and the two bay ponies are rejected,’ said the clerk indifferently. ‘Here’s your warrant.’
‘But,’ said the disconcerted Hackendahl, ‘how am I to live? I have a cab business. With only three horses …’ He looked at the paper without seeing what was written on it. Spots were dancing before his eyes.
‘There’s a war on,’ said the clerk, with a spice of malice.
‘You’re not to hang about here. I’ve told you that before,’ barked the captain. ‘What’s wrong?’