Thus it came about that Gustav Hackendahl one day entered this building, put his shiny hat on a peg, placed the whip nearby, and reviewed place and people. Then, after he had inspected everything, he advanced towards a young man who looked rather more alert than the other clerks – in no way deterred by the fact that the signboard over his brilliantined head bore the words: ‘Traveller’s Cheques and Foreign Exchange’.
‘Young feller, I don’t want ter buy anythin’, I’m only askin’ for information. I want to trundle in me cab to Paris, for a joke you know, an’ I want to find out how long it’d take an’ what money an’ papers I need an’ whether I must learn French …’ Hackendahl had managed to pack all his worries into one sentence. Then, rather short of breath, he gazed at the young fellow who in turn looked at the old man not without interest but also not without the genuine Berliner’s fear of being made a fool of. So he answered the last part of the question first. ‘Would you learn French if it were necessary?’
‘O’ course, young feller.’
‘How old are you then?’
‘Seventy this year. Has that got anythin’ to do with my journey?’
‘When you get older, languages become more difficult,’ the young man explained.
‘You think so? Well, young chap, don’t you worry. What the little French babies c’n learn you bet I c’n learn too.’
The young man looked at Hackendahl. ‘You really want to drive your cab to Paris? No leg-pull?’
‘Listen, why would I pull your leg? You’re a stranger to me. I wouldn’t do that with strangers.’
‘H’mmm,’ said the young man thoughtfully. ‘So you really want to go to Paris?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Gustav Hackendahl confirmed again and awaited patiently the result of this thought. But if he thought that the young man was thinking of travel money and passports, he was wrong. He was thinking of a cousin, at that moment leading a miserable life as a junior reporter two floors higher up. He, the clerk, didn’t in the slightest believe in this Paris trip, of course, but he found the old cabby odd and amusing, and wondered if his cousin Grundeis couldn’t write him up; you know, Old Berlin, Real Berlin Humour – the sort of thing people liked to read …
‘Listen,’ said the young man thoughtfully.
‘Well?’ asked Hackendahl hopefully.
‘I know a man up on the newspaper. I’ll send you to him; he knows much more about such things than I do.’
Hackendahl grew suspicious. ‘What’s this got to do with a newspaper? I want to make a journey and you’re a travel agency, ain’t you?’
And the one Berliner understood immediately the doubts of the other Berliner. ‘If the man upstairs doesn’t know,’ he said reassuringly, ‘you can always come back to me. But he’ll know all right. He’s just the man you want. I’ll ring through about you. Grundeis is the name. Third floor, Room 317.’
‘Yes, I always thought Grundeis was the right man for me,’ said old Hackendahl, and it was perhaps just this name that made him move on, despite his mistrust, and wait quite patiently for the young Grundeis in the editorial waiting room upstairs.
As for the young Grundeis – Grundeis the firebrand, the young reporter – he had been an apprentice on the editorial floor for some years, and whenever he contemplated the comfortable backsides of his superiors, he had to admit that there was little prospect of his moving up in the foreseeable future. There they sat, and however much he ran, whenever he reached somewhere, there they already were. However much he ran, there was no place for him, and he was much too energetic to wait patiently till someone died. In fact it was he himself who was slowly expiring – from frustrated ambition, for whenever something really good broke he was left in the office and nobody ever said, ‘That’s the man who wrote such-and-such a thing,’ but they just shamelessly introduced him: ‘This is our young whippersnapper. Runs like Nurmi – a great runner. Does he write, you ask? Yes, he does that too. I must once have seen something by him – in the wastepaper basket.’ Yes, ambition was killing him. Sometimes, at night, he would scurry through the dark town imploring heaven to let something happen right in front of him – it couldn’t be too extraordinary or too horrible. But nothing, not even the smallest item of news, ever did. Then he was overcome by a feeling of terrible apathy. The whole world might collapse but the place where he was standing would remain unaffected, he was sure of that.
So when his cousin rang up about the crazy cabman who wanted to drive to Paris, he said: ‘What these old chaps think of! Going by cab’s nothing. Now if he were using a scooter! Well, all right, send him up.’ Inwardly, however, he felt some excitement. That could be something. That could be something really big – the chance of a lifetime! Article on Berlin Humour? Oh no! Nothing in that. What mattered was the chap himself. Anyone could produce crazy ideas but it was the man, not the idea, that mattered. The man had to believe in his craziness and not find it crazy at all and, what’s more, be man enough to carry it through.
Grundeis, having had a look at the man, carried him off to an empty room and got his claws into him. First he got him to talk, and when the old man was completely squeezed out, and had said all he had to say for the third time, then Grundeis brought forth all the objections which occurred to him, dwelling on difficulties, picking the idea to pieces, in fact crying down everything. And was watching his victim.
Grundeis looked at the old man as a journalist. How would he photograph? Had he got it in him to become a popular character? Could he make a speech? Had he a ready sense of humour? How would he behave in a difficult situation, at a reception or banquet, or if an axle broke? Was his health good?
But most of all he was concerned to discover whether he had endurance, or was easily influenced by other people’s opinion, if he was sound, and especially whether he was enamoured of his project.
And when old Hackendahl to the tenth objection merely replied stubbornly: ‘That’s what you think, young ’un, but it ain’t so difficult; at that stage everything’ll go like clockwork,’ then he was convinced that he had found a man of the requisite tenacity – in other words Iron Gustav himself.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll think the matter over then. It’s not quite so simple as you believe, Herr Hackendahl. Come again in a week’s time. And the main thing at present is not to tell a soul.’
They looked at one another and both grinned. ‘That chap in the travel agency probably told you I’d a screw loose, eh?’ said Hackendahl very pleased with himself.
‘Yes, those young people who’ve seen nothing of the world like we have!’ smiled young Grundeis.
With that they parted on the best of terms, old Hackendahl sure that his troubles were over. For Grundeis, however, trouble had just begun. He had got hold of something good – he felt that in his bones – and it might become something big. But there was a snag, and a bad snag. Grundeis was only a junior, that is to say, a nobody. And a nobody cannot pull off something sensational on his own, however much he may consider it to be his. For that, Grundeis needed the newspaper; not only its money but its connections, its organization, its provincial correspondents, its Paris representatives … in fact the entire newspaper.
Those, however, who could set all this machinery in motion were precisely his dear colleagues, that’s to say the men in front, the envious brakes on others’ ambitions. And once they came to hear about the project they would either make a mess of it purposely or they would handle the thing themselves and reward its discoverer with a dry bone, such as the drive through Brandenburg. Grundeis, however, wanted the choice morsels – the start from Berlin, the frontier, the reception in Paris and the return to Berlin … the whole story!
Unsuspecting Iron Gustav! If he wondered at all about Grundeis’s difficulties it was probably to picture him concerned with the passport and the postcards, or the housekeeping money for Mother and the expenses for himself. Of the real extent and nature of Herr Grundeis’s difficulties old Hackendahl hadn’t the slightest idea.
&n
bsp; How can I get the stunt into my own hands? brooded Grundeis day and night, and when he thought of passports and money, he would say, like Father Hackendahl, ‘That will all be all right, as soon as I’ve got a grip on things.’
In this perplexity he thought of a man who was known in the great newspaper building as ‘The Pullet’, the bird who laid the golden eggs, a man highly respected and even more highly paid, who had no other duty than to have ideas. He was the man of brain-waves – and when editors and editors-in-chief were utterly desperate they would run to him and moan: ‘Nothing’s happening and we’ve run dry. For God’s sake let us know what kind of an Easter number to bring out. What Carnival cover can you suggest for our popular weekly? We want something brilliant to arrest the falling sales of our magazines. What would people like best on the first page of the paper? – Have you anything that’ll do for the housewife? – For little girls? – The young man? – Through our idiotic serial we’ve offended the professional honour of the barbers. What can we do to placate them? – Eva Lewa the film star has already been photographed front view, back view, from above, from below, undressed and with her clothes on. What can we do with her now?’
And in reply to all these questions The Pullet laid ideas and inspirations, usually on the spot, although sometimes there was a delay; and since the ideas were good and pleased the public, the eggs he laid were of real gold. If he cost money he also brought money in.
To this fat man lacking in all personal ambition the flaming redhead Grundeis now betook himself. He found him in the corner of a pub sitting dejectedly before a beer.
‘Sit down, whippersnapper,’ he said. ‘And don’t talk. I think I’m having an idea.’
Young Grundeis sat down, whispered an order for a glass of Pils and gazed respectfully at the great man, who now in any case didn’t look like a happy man, for his face became ever more mournful. Gradually, he found ever more to moan about, shifted about in his chair, wiped his brow, groaned, threw what was left of his cigarette into his Pils, tried to fish it out again and then forgot it, because he was busy grabbing a little notepad out of his pocket .
Tall, remote and infinitely lonely, he looked at the young Grundeis, began to scribble, stopped, looked at him again, and put the notepad back in his pocket …
‘I thought it was him,’ he said, ‘but it was nothing. I can’t think of anything. I can never think of anything on Thursdays, and certainly not in a hole like this!’ And he looked disapprovingly at the pub. ‘Why do I always go where I can’t think? Man is his own greatest mystery. Did you put the ash in my Pils, whippersnapper? What do you want? Fire away!’
Whereupon Grundeis told him about old Hackendahl’s plan, and his own wish to have the story to himself.
‘This stunt,’ said The Pullet, and it sounded as if he had been thinking about it for the last ten years, ‘will have to begin in a small way – just a paragraph. And let your cab start off on April the first or second so that if the public won’t fall for it you can say it was only an April joke. But if they do, then you can follow it up and supposing they still like it you can splash it from Paris, front page, banner headlines, your own photo … And that’s what you want, isn’t it? – to see your own likeness in your own paper, where you feature so many pictures of honest and dishonest people.’
‘So you think I should carry on? There’s something in it?’
‘Oaf! Do you think I’d waste my time sitting on addled eggs? Come on, pay my bill, and that’ll teach you to ask my advice. I’ve had seven Pils and four cigars. Now we go to the director for some money.’
They returned to the newspaper building together, to Director Schulz. That was the man who had to endorse all money transactions, and he guarded his treasure like a hell-hound. Director Schulz was he who guarded the newspaper’s wealth; the most wonderful ideas couldn’t coax a smile out of him. ‘But, gentlemen,’ he would groan, ‘that won’t go down in the provinces. It’ll cost us our circulation there. I wouldn’t invest in that!’ And if something else were suggested then he would shout: ‘That won’t suit my Berliners. I know my Berliners too well. And Hamburg won’t want it either. Yes, giving money is easy, and earning it even easier, but keeping money is an art, gentlemen!’
The Pullet and Grundeis, then, went to this confirmed sceptic. By himself Grundeis would never have been admitted but The Pullet commanded great respect and so Grundeis slipped in with him.
‘Dearest Director,’ said The Pullet, ‘this little red whippersnapper has had an idea … just the thing for the spring when it’s getting warm and people cancel their subscriptions – it’ll last the whole summer …’
‘Don’t talk,’ said the director. ‘I know you. Tell me what his idea costs.’
‘A hundred thousand marks net,’ said The Pullet calmly. Grundeis flushed; he had never counted on more than five thousand.
Director Schulz studied their faces suspiciously. ‘A hundred thousand marks,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Have you ever seen a hundred thousand marks cash down?’
‘No, only on a cheque, dearest Director. Don’t you remember the American film rights?’
‘You’re always digging up your petty successes. Eighty thousand will do just as well.’ He scrutinized their faces again. ‘I’m pretty well convinced that seventy will do the trick.’
‘Say seventy-five, Director dearest, and I’ll let you in on the thing.’
‘I promise nothing. First I want to hear what it is and then I must ask the other Directors and then it has to go before the Board and after that to the editors-in-chief. What’s the young man to do with it anyhow?’
‘You’ve got to take him with the story – if it’s not assigned to him then there’s nothing doing.’
‘Seventy thousand marks and still so young! Have you ever seen seventy thousand all together?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Grundeis, ‘and had it in my pocket too – during the inflation.’
A pale, thin smile appeared on the faces of the hardened pair. It was as if the sun had appeared for a moment in a snowy sky, or when a baby gives a first little smile when it is put on the breast after endless crying.
‘Well, we can discuss it,’ said Director Schulz. ‘Sit down, gentlemen. Cigar? All right. Let’s hope there’s a love interest somewhere – there’s a keen demand in that direction again.’
§ VI
The old year changed into the new and January became February but Gustav Hackendahl drove his cab as usual, sat beside his Blücher and watched him eating, brought his earnings home, sometimes a little, sometimes nothing – all just as usual – and said not a word. Had he wished he could have spoken of great schemes, now that all had been settled with the gentlemen in the newspaper office and he had even signed a contract – but he said nothing. At meals he would sit opposite his wife at the table with the oilcloth cover, chewing his food and watching – staring at her with his great big round eyes, which were more and more veined with red.
‘Why do you look like that, Father?’ she asked. ‘What’s on your mind? You’re always looking like that now.’
‘Nothin’,’ said Hackendahl peevishly. ‘Jus’ thinkin’.’
‘But what d’you keep thinking about, Father? And at mealtimes, too. At mealtimes you should think about eating, otherwise the food won’t agree with you.’
‘I’m not thinkin’ about anythin’,’ declared Hackendahl.
But he was. He was wondering all the time how to break the news to her about his journey to Paris, how to make it seem all right. Not that he was really afraid of being stopped – all his life he had done what he wanted – but he was afraid of never-ending laments and groans. He wouldn’t find peace any more even to sleep.
So Hackendahl let things slide; they’d all know when the time came. And it would save him a lot of trouble if that time were as late as possible. Then they would have less time to chatter!
It was thus nearly March when Irma read a notice in the newspaper.
She read it with t
he greatest astonishment. Then she ran to her mother, read it aloud to her, and both marvelled. Only yesterday old Hackendahl had stopped his cab outside their shop and taken little Otto for a drive. And he hadn’t said a word.
‘It must be some mistake.’ Irma was still staring at the newspaper. There it was, however, name and everything!
‘Heinz is sure to know about it,’ piped Frau Quaas. ‘Men always stick together.’
‘Heinz? He hasn’t the slightest idea, I’m sure of that,’ exclaimed Irma indignantly.
And now they disagreed over the question whether a man is truer to his father or to his wife, and as a result of this argument they rather lost the thread.
That evening as Heinz, coming home rather tired, sat down on his makeshift bed, Irma enquired somewhat aggressively: ‘Tell me, don’t you ever read the newspapers?’
‘Why?’ he asked, surprised at her tone.
‘Didn’t you see that?’ asked Irma, pointing to a news item. It was merely an eight-line report, a typical Grundeis report – but it read:
OLDEST BERLIN CABBY DRIVES TO PARIS
Gustav Hackendahl, at seventy years of age the oldest cabby in Berlin, will set out for Paris at the beginning of April. He will travel the whole way there and back in his hackney cab No. 7. From Paris we learn that the Cab Drivers’ Guild is arranging a gala reception for the courageous Berliner, justifiably called ‘Iron Gustav’.
‘Well, if that isn’t the limit,’ said Heinz Hackendahl, staring at the newspaper as if he could not trust his eyes. ‘It’s impossible,’ he muttered.
Irma looked at him critically, but however she looked at him, he definitely had no idea, so she had been right with regard to her mother. ‘I thought you should know about it, Heinz!’ she said cautiously.
Then lightning struck. ‘You knew about it!’ he shouted. ‘Father had talked about it with you. Of course you knew – behind my back!’ He was furious: ‘And you call this a marriage!’