Iron Gustav

  ‘If you please,’ cried Irma, shocked. ‘I had no idea. I thought that Father had … I mean, Mother thought …’ But she preferred not to say what Mother thought. ‘I wondered if it was an April fool’s joke.’

  ‘April fool!’ he exclaimed. ‘In these times! And in February. What are you thinking about?’ He looked again at the paper. ‘Perhaps,’ he said more calmly, ‘Father’s fallen into the hands of one of those newspaper reporters. But it does sound a bit as if there’s something in it. What shall we do, Irma?’

  ‘Speak to your father,’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes, but suppose Father’s made up his mind and these people are encouraging him? All they want is to make money,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t grudge Father anything but it isn’t the time for stunts like this.’ And he cast a disapproving glance at the newspaper.

  Irma was silent. An intelligent wife, where she is not of the same opinion as her husband and cannot persuade, keeps silent.

  ‘Do have a word with your father,’ she said once again.

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ said he, getting up.

  He hurried and found his father in the stables.

  Old Hackendahl glanced at his son, bent down again and diligently greased Blücher’s hoofs. ‘Well, Bubi,’ he said finally, ‘I c’n see all right what you’ve come about. Better hold yer tongue, though … Blücher’s gettin’ the sack – they said he couldn’t last the journey. I’m havin’ a new horse. It’s a pity about Blücher, he was a good little beast. Quite diff’rent from the grey. You remember the grey, Bubi?’

  Heinz was silent. So it was true! It wasn’t just an April fool. His father really intended to drive to Paris.

  Hackendahl, busy with Blücher’s hooves, gave a sly look. ‘Well, go on,’ he said at last. ‘An old man wants his fun – to be old’s a melancholy business, Bubi – take it from me.’

  ‘Those newspaper chaps’ll diddle you, Father. They’re not doing it for your sake.’

  ‘No, no, Heinz, you needn’t worry about that. I’ve a real contrac’ with ’em.’

  ‘A contract? What sort of contract?’

  ‘Oh nothin’. On’y that I undertake ter make the journey ter Paris an’ back in the cab, an’ they defray all expenses an’ gimme a new horse. I get five hundred marks for Mother, an’ what I make on the sale o’ picture postcards an’ so on belongs ter me, an’ no one but them’s permitted ter write about me an’ take photos. That ain’t a bad contrac’, is it?’

  It was obvious to Heinz that his father was very satisfied with his contract. ‘Father,’ he pleaded, ‘don’t do it. Withdraw, say you’re ill, say you don’t feel equal to …’

  ‘But why? Mother an’ me’ll be free o’ trouble fer a bit. An’ we c’n keep what I get for Blücher too …’

  ‘But, Father, you won’t be able to stand it. Think, at your age! Out in all kinds of weather!’

  ‘Well I never,’ grinned the old man. ‘What thoughtful children I’ve got suddenly! Out in all kinds of weather. Funny you never tell me that when I do me rounds in Berlin.’

  Heinz bit his lip. ‘Don’t go on with it, Father,’ he begged again. ‘You won’t be able to stand it and you’ll make a fool of yourself and the whole family …’

  He stopped. The old man flung up his head so suddenly that even the black horse started.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Hackendahl. ‘Steady now, Blücher, you needn’t shy at every sort o’ foolishness.’ And to his son: ‘What d’you mean by makin’ a fool of meself? Can’t I do as I like? Have I ever prevented you from makin’ a fool o’ yerself? I remember a time when you was always hauntin’ a certain villa an’ stayin’ out whole nights. Did I stop you behavin’ like a fool? So you leave me alone.’

  He signalled angrily to his son. In his indignation he was once more the old Hackendahl of the barrack room and the thirty horses – neither age nor the times had broken him. ‘Me make a fool of the fam’ly? I can think of some others – siblings of yours – who’ve made fools of the fam’ly in a very diff’rent way, draggin’ its name in the mud. I know, Bubi, you’re not to blame there, you’re decent. But you didn’t run to yer brother an’ yer sister an’ bark at them: “Stop makin’ a fool o’ yerself.” You keep that for yer father.’

  Gazing at his son, he shook his head.

  ‘Don’t stand around like that, Bubi. What’s the point? Leave an old man to his pleasures. If people make fun of me, it shouldn’t hurt you.’

  ‘All right, Father,’ said Heinz after a while.

  ‘There you are, Bubi! I knew you’re a reasonable chap. An’ now do me a kindness fer once an’ go an’ make yer mother understand about this journey. She’s guessed there’s somethin’ a foot but she dunno fer certain an’ she’ll listen to you. Be a good boy for once, Bubi, eh?’

  § VII

  And February turned into March and April drew nearer; they had had time to get accustomed to the idea of the old man who wanted to make a long journey – incredible, but he betrayed not the least sign of excitement or hurry. Day by day he mounted his box in the search for a living and if he looked doubtful this was usually when his eye fell on the new horse, unaccountably called Grasmus. ‘I dunno,’ he would remark, ‘he’s quite a nice little beast an’ willin’, but two thousand kilometres! I dunno.’ Checking the animal’s legs, he would shake his head in concern.

  In March, however, it suddenly looked as if it would all fizzle out; old Hackendahl fell ill, the first real illness of his life – influenza. For a long time he refused to believe that anything could be amiss with him but in the end he was forced to take to his bed with a high fever. ‘Fancy this happenin’ to me!’ he groaned, his teeth chattering. ‘Never bin ill before. An’ now when I want ter travel fer the first time in me life! But I ain’t giving in. Mother, give me a bit more tea! What more can I do? I’ll do everything I have to – as long as I get to Paris!’

  It was this illness which converted them to his plan. However ill he might be he still wanted to go to Paris …

  ‘Heinz, you givin’ the horse plenty o’ exercise? Tell the butcher he c’n use him when he drives to the slaughterhouse. Grasmus mustn’t get stiff joints. Oh, Lord, supposin’ I won’t be able to go to Paris after all!’

  ‘You’ll go to Paris, Father. Certainly you’ll go to Paris,’ said his wife, who had been so perturbed once at the very idea of the journey.

  ‘You, young ’un,’ grinned the old man, shivering and sweating, ‘got the wind up, eh? Don’t you worry! All me life what I’ve said I’ve said. Iron, that’s me. Always have bin. Iron Gustav.’

  ‘Perhaps we could publish a short notice,’ said Grundeis wretchedly, ‘about you being ill and making the journey a little later. What do you say?’

  ‘No fear, there’s no such word as “later” for an ole man! I’ll start on the day appointed – you c’n depend on that.’

  ‘But there are only three weeks to go,’ moaned the unhappy Grundeis.

  ‘Three weeks! That’s all right; if I c’n get ill in a week I c’n get well in three, can’t I? Fine thing if I couldn’t! Don’t cry for me, Mother. Don’t cry and don’t worry about me in Paris. You won’t see me there.’ And, quite satisfied, the old man laid his head on the pillow, smiled and fell asleep.

  ‘He’ll never make it,’ groaned the red-haired Grundeis.

  ‘Father must succeed,’ said his son Heinz, speaking from his heart. ‘He must enjoy that pleasure.’

  ‘I would have allowed him to go anyway,’ sobbed the mother.

  ‘He’ll definitely make it,’ said Irma. ‘Nothing will stop him.’

  Don’t cry for me, Mother. Don’t cry and don’t worry, and you won’t see me in Paris – and old Hackendahl chuckled in his sleep.

  § VIII

  Outside the main entrance to the newspaper offices stood Cab No. 7, gaily decorated. A large notice on the back announced:

  GUSTAV HACKENDAHL

  THE OLDEST CABBY IN BERLIN

  WILL DRIVE THIS CAB TO

&n
bsp; BERLIN – PARIS – BERLIN

  A band was playing. The inquisitive stopped, read the notice, laughed and went on. Grasmus, the chestnut, was trying to eat his garland, with only partial success. Of the driver himself there was no glimpse.

  The driver was in the newspaper building and took his leave.

  Director Schulz, shaking hands, wished him the best of luck. ‘And remember how much …’ He coughed. He had been about to say: ‘how much we have invested in you’, but, suddenly conscious of the festive gathering, he said instead: ‘… how much we expect of your strong constitution.’

  ‘Nothin’ wrong with that now,’ said Hackendahl, unmoved. ‘How about you an’ a postcard, Herr Director? A groschen apiece.’

  Trembling and pale, Grundeis was watching his protégé. What impression was he making? Oughtn’t he to have trimmed his beard? Wasn’t he overdoing the postcards? The old chap was setting out on his adventure carrying young Grundeis’s good fortune and success; and of this he had no inkling whatever. He only thought of himself. There he was now, forcing a whole dozen postcards on the managing director, Klotzsche, and refusing to give him a discount. Yes, he was overdoing it. And what would it be like in Paris, too, with a foreign language and strange people? Oh, I wish I’d never let myself in for this, thought Grundeis.

  But perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all. They were all laughing, all looking in a friendly way at the old man in his blue greatcoat and white top hat. Perhaps the start-off should have been arranged on a much larger scale; there were not enough people waiting outside in the street – probably the others had taken it for an April fool joke. But The Pullet had been dead against laurels in advance. Grundeis, much more anxious than the central figure himself, perspired – turned pale, turned red.

  Now he was being offered a bunch of flowers as well. (How would he behave?) It was the general director’s secretary who was doing it – a very important personage! (He should have been warned. Oh, this ignorant fellow – impossible to warn him about everything that will happen to him on his journey.)

  Gustav Hackendahl looked now at the flowers, now at their presenter. ‘What should I do with ’em?’ he asked. ‘What do? My nag won’t ’ave ’em. – You ’ave ’em!’

  And now the flowers are with Grundeis.

  Thank goodness. The first bit of jollification! Everyone is happy – the upper echelons chuckle, the lower echelons laugh. Excellent!

  The Pullet approached, fatter and more cumbersome than ever. He shook Iron Gustav’s hand, ceremoniously, as if offering his deepest sympathies. And what did the cunning dog ask – maybe in the hope of tripping him up?

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’ he asked.

  And ‘Yes!’ answered Gustav Hackendahl, without turning a hair.

  Roars of laughter.

  Cheerfully the procession passed from room to room, accompanied by a splendid sale of postcards. The first expectant autograph hunter approached.

  ‘What d’ye want, Frollein? What d’ye want? I, write me monicker? Whatever for? So you can write over it later that I’ve borrowed a hundred knackers off of you? Oh, no. Old Iron Gustav’s not such a fool! Here, Red-top, write your signature down here. You go better with a young lady!’

  Once again, things were good. No, he’s really not stupid, old Hackendahl – he knows what he’s doing. He’s not nervous, and knows what’s expected of him. No solemn ceremony, but a bit of fun. People like to laugh and are grateful to anyone who makes them laugh. Therefore, let’s laugh …

  ‘Wait a moment! Don’t push, young man!’ Grundeis was told. ‘I’ll still get to Paris in time. My special train won’t go without me. I must just change some money …’

  He emptied his pockets out, and the cashier had to count out every groschen.

  ‘That’s good business. We’ve sold nearly five hundred cards. I’m very pleased with you young people ’ere today. If I’d anything else to do, I would give the job to you!’

  He can’t stop. He’s in full bloom. A real Berlin card – born not in Berlin, but in a village near Pasewalk – was having a ball.

  § IX

  It was almost eleven o’clock when he mounted the box. Meanwhile, Grasmus had completely destroyed the bunting. But there was no time to rearrange it. The musicians were already cursing: ‘Because of your mucking around, our legs are freezing.’

  A moment later the music burst forth triumphantly, the chestnut gambolled, and Gustav, pulling off his top hat, saluted the laughing faces crowded into the many windows of the newspaper building. In the cab sat an honorary fare – no taximeter for him – one at whom his colleagues gazed with benevolence and also envy.

  Gustav Hackendahl turned round. ‘Well, how’d it go off, Herr Grundeis?’

  ‘Splendid! Excellent for starters. I’ll get you in the paper for sure.’

  ‘Look at the people starin’! They’re not starin’ just because of the music, but ’cos of me,’ Hackendahl sighed. ‘Sometimes life ain’t at all bad, Red-top.’

  ‘I’d say so!’

  ‘Actually I ought to get down at ev’ry turnin’ an’ sell a few postcards. But it’d hold us up too much. Herr Grundeis, would it hurt you to hand out a few cards from the cab?’

  ‘Don’t you get too greedy, Herr Hackendahl. Remember you’re not driving for a living now, you’re driving for pleasure.’

  ‘All right, jus’ as you think. I hope it’s goin’ ter be a pleasure.’

  By this time they had arrived at the Berlin Rathaus.

  ‘Now then,’ said Hackendahl, getting down from the box. ‘Hand me out me logbook, Herr Grundeis.’ He took the leather-bound volume. ‘Yes, we’ll feel diff’rent when we return and this book’s full, what? Have a good look, boys! You c’n tell yer mothers you’ve seen the crazy cabby who’s drivin’ to Paris. Then they’ll be happy that in Berlin mad people are still allowed to run around free. Now, come along, Grundeis.’

  But Grundeis didn’t want to go to the Rathaus.

  ‘You are registered there already. I must do something else.’

  Hackendahl had to go by himself. A town hall is not the same thing as a newspaper building; here in the Rathaus not the slightest fuss was made of Gustav Hackendahl.

  ‘Logbook indeed! Well, hand it over! It all means more work. And that’s the last we’ll ever hear of you. All right – “At 11.35 on 2 April Gustav Hackendahl, cab driver, identified by his passport, presented himself here at the town hall of the city of Berlin and stated his intention of driving to Paris in his horse cab No. 7.” In order, what?’

  ‘Yes, I s’pose so,’ sighed Hackendahl, somewhat disappointed by this reception. ‘But when I return you’ll wear a diff’rent expression.’

  ‘Now then, off with you! We’ve no time for such nonsense. Here we have to work.’

  ‘Go on!’ grinned Hackendahl. ‘Work? I thought you spent yer time scribbling!’ And with that he left, for enraged officials are dangerous. ‘Chaps like that!’ he muttered. ‘They’re arf asleep. Wait till I come back.’

  His anger subsided when he got down. Outside, however, a lot of people were standing about and the police had to clear a space for him. Grundeis, rushing up, leaped into the cab.

  ‘Off you go!’ he cried. ‘But hold the horse in!’

  And hardly had the cab started when there broke out a deafening honk, howl, screech all over the square; every car was hooting, apparently in rhythm.

  ‘The Berlin drivers bring you a serenade,’ bawled Grundeis into Hackendahl’s ear. ‘Listen! “And must I, must I leave my little hometown?” ’

  ‘Not on yer life,’ shouted back Hackendahl. ‘It’s “The man who in God’s favour stands”. You c’n hear it distinc’ly. Why, where’s yer ear for music?’

  The noise was contagious. The trams rang their bells madly, boys whistled on their fingers, people yelled to one another, laughing. Snatches of the marches being played by the band mingled in the noise. Furious, the police ran to and fro shouting at the taxi drivers, who were the ringleader
s.

  Brandishing his top hat, old Hackendahl drove through the tumult.

  Gradually the noise died away behind them. The band played another flourish. Hackendahl gave his brown horse a little touch of the whip. Grasmus broke into a trot, and Hackendahl, turning round, asked: ‘Well, Herr Grundeis, how about it? You comin’ with me? Up to the present you’ve bin me guest but from now on …’ And he pressed the lever of the taximeter and the ‘For Hire’ sign vanished. And they drove through the town as in an ordinary cab. The old man had driven like that a thousand times. Now there was a bit of foliage on the car, and behind a sign people couldn’t see or could only see too late.

  ‘You have to get to Potsdam today, you know,’ said Grundeis in a warning tone.

  ‘Potsdam? I’m goin’ to Brandenburg, Herr Grundeis,’ said Hackendahl, contemptuous of any shorter distance. ‘I’d definitely be late in Paris, if I already kipped down in old Potsdam.’

  The chestnut trotted more briskly.

  ‘He thinks he’s going home. And you are going home, Grasmus, but then a little bit further. Ever heard of Paris, Grasmus? Nasty place! Horses are only supposed to get maize there, Grasmus!’

  ‘Why exactly did you call the horse Grasmus? What does it mean?’

  ‘I dunno. It was written on the seller’s label.’

  ‘Grasmus?’

  ‘Of course! Have you got anything against it? It’s made up of grass and mush.’

  ‘Hold on, Hackendahl! I’m not feeling too good. Erasmus would surely have been better.’

  ‘No idea! What does Erasmus mean?’

  ‘Erasmus was a very holy man.’

  ‘Ah, no, Red-top! Let’s stick to Grasmus. Holy and going to Paris – you can’t have that! Herr Grundeis, the cab don’t look like makin’ a sensation. Not a soul’s lookin’!’

  ‘They’re accustomed to cabs here. As soon as you get in the country …’

  ‘No, no, we have ter look the part. I know what I’ll do.’