Once a Jailbird

  Of course there was still the possibility of deciding on one or the other; he could write to Bruhn and say he was coming, or he could inquire about Batzke at the Registration Office. But that was exactly what Batzke had warned him not to do; it was too late. All his money had gone, he had no longer any working capital with which to plot, arrange and finance any proper scheme; he would have to take action hastily, and that always spelt failure. And he had no longer even had the money to up sticks and travel to Bruhn with all his things, and to part with them now . . . had things really got as bad as that?

  The October sunshine was warm-hearted, and in its grateful warmth the world did not look altogether hopeless; there would surely be some way out, only he must really make a decision.

  A decision was essential.

  One solution, which commonly strolled by the Alster at this hour when the day was fine, Kufalt already knew. It was a parallel decision to Batzke, and its name was Monte.

  Both the prospectus-folders from the late Cito-Presto Agency had met here once again. But latterly they had not known each other any more, they exchanged no greeting, they regarded each other with contempt.

  On the first occasion it had been a very cheerful encounter; they had so much to tell each other—Kufalt about his experiences at the police station and the final triumph of innocence, Monte about the break-up of Cito-Presto and how they had gone on their knees to Marcetus, Seidenzopf and Jauch and begged to be taken back to Presto and the Home of Peace, even at half pay. What in all the world were they to do, poor Deutschmann, Oeser and Fasse, led astray as they had been by Kufalt and Maack?

  And after much hesitation, stern refusals, savage vituperation of their behaviour, Herr Pastor Marcetus finally took pity on them—they could not be allowed to go to ruin in the cesspit of a great city. And now, when they ran into Monte, they once more bemoaned the yoke of Jauch, who never gave them a moment’s peace: ‘Another word, and you will find yourself in the street. Now be careful . . . ’

  As for Jänsch and Maack, they were still under provisional arrest. The robbery, which had hardly been a burglary, had become rather a complicated case—for each of them had paid an instalment on the typewriters they had been intending to carry off. They boldly maintained that it had been their intention to keep up the instalments, and as they were both in possession of a fair sum of money, it could not be denied that they might have intended to carry on the payments. How did Monte know? Monte knew everything.

  Monte had not crawled to the foot of the cross. Monte had, as he often said, worked hard enough for a longish period of his life; Monte had gone back to his old profession.

  And it was this old profession of his that led him, nearly every fine morning, through the more populous streets of Hamburg and the parks and gardens chiefly frequented by foreigners. Monte was on the lookout for customers, in the form of dignified, elderly gentlemen, who were as coy and bashful as young girls, or horse-toothed Englishmen who, when the business was over, haggled over every mark with the savagery of a bulldog.

  It was on this account that these two last pillars of the late Cito-Presto had fallen apart, and were no longer on speaking terms; Monte had wanted someone—Kufalt—to extract the cash for him.

  In fact, however, their difference really arose out of a quarrel over tobacco, the source of so much contention both in prison and outside. On every other point they could have reached agreement, but on the tobacco question Monte had rather narrow and even petty views; hence the disagreement.

  At their first meeting all of course went swimmingly. They had chatted away amicably, Monte had constantly offered Kufalt his large silver cigarette case, and he had naturally noticed that Kufalt was hard-up. For in the first place Kufalt only had Junos at three and a third, while Monte smoked Aristons at six, and secondly Kufalt had only three cigarettes, while Monte said indifferently: ‘When they’re all gone, there’s plenty more in the nearest shop.’

  So all was very cordial and friendly, Kufalt had felt better for his smoke, and they arranged to meet again in the same place next day.

  But the next day Monte started to say how difficult it was to get the cash out of his customers. He needed someone who would snip the money for him, as he called it; in other words, in return for 25 per cent of the incomings, his companion was to stand by, and when the gentlemen were half undressed, just rifle through their wallets.

  Pinch the wallet?

  Oh my God, no! Nothing of the sort! Merely slip out a ten-mark note or so, just to ease the transaction. And a fifty-mark note of course, if the wallet was specially well lined.

  Up to this point everything had gone very well; Kufalt had taken full advantage of Monte’s generosity in the matter of cigarettes, and had helped himself liberally out of the silver case. But when the decisive moment arrived, the proposals had been made and the answer was expected—Monte thought he could detect a certain hesitation, something like the hint of a refusal, on Kufalt’s features.

  He had at once explained that there was no risk in such little encounters; there was a Clause 175 in the Criminal Code, for which Monte’s customers had a remarkable respect. Besides he would soon train Kufalt up, so he could tell at once if there was any risk or not.

  And while he was explaining all this, he had looked dreamily into his cigarette case, taken one out, looked at Kufalt, lit it, looked at Kufalt again, gone on talking, puffed at his cigarette, and gone on talking . . .

  Now Kufalt was one of those people who can only bear to see other people smoke when they have a cigarette between their own lips. He had smelt the delicious flavour of the Ariston, and he had quite well understood why Monte had looked at him like that.

  It was not, in fact, such a bad offer, though hardly in Kufalt’s line; still, he would in any case have to think it over carefully—but if this little rascal who sat there and puffed smoke into his face thought he’d got him, he would find himself mistaken!

  A brief exchange of views followed: Kufalt regarded Monte’s way of life as low, Monte considered Kufalt a fool, and they finally parted, in opposite directions—and knew each other no more.

  That had been in August; it was now October, and in two months much may be forgotten. As Kufalt munched his liver sausage sandwich and surveyed the passers-by, Monte might have found him very ready to listen to reason. If Monte had only had a little more sense in his curly-haired cranium at the time, and understood that there was nothing to be gained by blackmail by cigarette, they might have done a nice bit of business together.

  But Monte did not come.

  Someone else came in his stead: a large, dark-haired man with a leathery, grey skin and piercing, powerful, dark eyes, wearing an extremely loud check suit.

  ‘By God—Batzke!’ shouted Willi in amazement.

  ‘Hello, Willi,’ said Batzke, and sat down beside him on the bench.

  IV

  ‘I was just thinking of you, Batzke,’ observed Kufalt.

  ‘Then you must be up shit creek,’ said Batzke with emphasis.

  ‘How about you?’ asked Kufalt.

  ‘Ditto, thanks, ditto,’ answered Batzke.

  There was a brief pause, and then Batzke shifted about on the bench as though he were going to get up. So Kufalt said hurriedly, ‘Is there nothing doing, Batzke?’

  ‘There’s always something doing,’ said the mighty Batzke.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You don’t suppose I’m going to put you up to a job, do you?’

  A long silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you meet me at the horse’s tail that time?’ Kufalt began.

  ‘Oh, drop it,’ said Batzke.

  ‘I suppose you’d gone to see your ship-owner’s widow at Harvestehude?’ persisted Kufalt.

  ‘Oh, come off it, Willi,’ said Batzke. ‘Got anything to smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  They grinned.

  ‘Got any money?’ asked Batzke once again.

  ‘No.’

&n
bsp; ‘Anything to pawn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s go to Ohlsdorf.’

  And Batzke stood up, and stretched his great horse-bones until they cracked.

  Kufalt remained seated. ‘And what am I to do in Ohlsdorf?’

  ‘In Ohlsdorf,’ said Batzke, ‘is the most up-to-date churchyard in the world!’

  ‘What do I care about that?’ asked Kufalt. ‘I don’t intend to get buried yet.’

  They both grinned again.

  ‘Well, come along, man,’ urged Batzke.

  ‘But what am I going to do there?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to do a job with me.’

  ‘But how, in the most up-to-date churchyard in the world?’

  ‘You’ll soon see.’

  ‘I’m not going to pay your fare,’ said Kufalt dubiously.

  ‘Who asked you to, you dosser? I’ve got a few pence.’

  And they departed, to the Central Station.

  There, at the ticket office, although the whole fare came to a few nickels, Kufalt noticed that Batzke’s wallet was stuffed with twenty- and fifty-mark notes. But although Batzke seemed to be anxious that his new pal should be aware of this fact, he was careful not to pay for Kufalt; he watched with satisfaction the bewildered expression on Kufalt’s face.

  The train was full and they could not talk on the journey. But scarcely had they got out at Ohlsdorf when Kufalt said:

  ‘Hey, Batzke, you’re stuffed with money!’

  ‘Well,’ said Batzke; ‘what if I am? There’s the churchyard.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt. The churchyard did not interest him. He felt easier in his mind. He could surely touch Batzke for twenty marks. That was four thousand addresses; and a good step further into safety. He was now quite ready to put himself under Batzke’s orders, and he said, ‘Shall we go along to the churchyard?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I asked whether you wanted to.’

  ‘I might have a look at it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Batzke. ‘I don’t much care for churchyards.’

  ‘Well, let’s go somewhere else then.’

  And Batzke turned down a street that led away from the churchyard.

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘No need for you to know everything.’

  ‘Look, Batzke,’ said Kufalt. ‘You might buy a few cigarettes.’

  ‘Oh might I!’ said Batzke, and thought for a moment. ‘But I haven’t any change.’

  ‘But you’ve got plenty of twenty-mark notes,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘I don’t want to change them now. You get them, I’ll give you the money back this evening.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kufalt, and looked round for a shop.

  He saw one and made towards it.

  ‘Stop!’ said Batzke, and took a note out of his wallet. ‘Here’s twenty marks. Get fifty. I’ll walk on slowly. Down there.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kufalt, and went on.

  The bell in the little suburban tobacconist’s rang for quite a while, but no one came. Kufalt could easily have filled his pockets from the stacked boxes of excellent cigarettes, but that wasn’t his style. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  Kufalt went back to the door, opened it and shut it again, making the bell ring a long tinkle. As no one came, he called out several times, ‘Hello!’

  At last a little withered old woman with rolled-up sleeves and a blue apron appeared from the back room.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said, in her cracked old voice. ‘I was scrubbing and then it is difficult to hear the bell.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt. ‘I want fifty Aristons.’

  ‘Aristons?’ said the old woman. ‘I’m not sure whether we keep them.’ She looked doubtfully round at the showcases. ‘You see, my daughter had a baby last night, and I’m just helping in the shop.’

  ‘Then give me one at five,’ said Kufalt with resignation. ‘Only please be quick. I am in rather a hurry.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I quite understand, sir.’

  And she fished a cigarette out of a package and held it out to him.

  ‘I said fifty,’ said Kufalt irritably.

  ‘But you said one at five,’ said the old woman.

  ‘Then give me fifty. Yes, fifty of those, please.’

  ‘I know I’m very bad at serving,’ sighed the old woman. ‘And people are always so impatient. Here you are,’ and she handed him the packet of fifty.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kufalt, and gave her the money.

  She held the note at some distance from her eyes. ‘Twenty marks?’ she said. ‘Haven’t you anything smaller?’

  ‘No,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘I don’t know whether we’ve got that much change’; and she went into the back room.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Kufalt called after her; and waited.

  She soon reappeared. Three five-mark pieces, one two-mark piece and fifty pfennigs—‘Is that right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Kufalt, and hurried out.

  Batzke was no longer visible, though Kufalt ran after him along the street. Not a sign of him—then he suddenly emerged from a side street.

  ‘Let’s go along here,’ he said. ‘Have you got the cigarettes?’

  ‘Here they are,’ said Kufalt. ‘And here’s the change.’

  ‘OK,’ said Batzke. ‘And here’s ten cigarettes for yourself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Who was in the shop?’ asked Batzke as they walked along.

  ‘An old woman,’ said Kufalt. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it took so long.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Kufalt. ‘It took so long because she didn’t know anything about anything.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Batzke.

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Because it took so long,’ laughed Batzke.

  ‘You seem very odd, Batzke,’ said Kufalt suspiciously. ‘Is something up?’

  ‘What could be?’ laughed Batzke once more. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’

  ‘No,’ said Kufalt, ‘no idea.’

  ‘Then you’ll soon see,’ said Batzke.

  And they both walked on, smoking silently.

  The square to which Batzke led Kufalt was dominated by a large building with a whole complex of brick galleries, cement partitions, high walls and small, square, barred windows . . .

  ‘It’s a prison,’ said Kufalt in a disappointed voice.

  ‘It’s Fuhlsbüttel,’ said Batzke in an almost solemn voice, and then added in a different tone: ‘I did seven years in there.’

  ‘And did we come out here to see where you were in jail?’ asked Kufalt, half indignant and half disappointed.

  ‘I wanted to have another look at the old place,’ said Batzke, quite unruffled. ‘A great time it was—when I think of the bloody life I lead now . . . ’

  ‘What are you getting at? All that cash—what have you got to moan about . . . ?’

  ‘Come round the other side. I’ll show you the carpenter’s shop where I used to work.’

  Kufalt went with him.

  ‘Do you see? At the back there. That’s it. It was a fine place, that shop, I can tell you, all first-class work, not rubbish like in Prussia.’

  Kufalt listened.

  ‘I used to make roll-top desks,’ said Batzke dreamily, and surveyed his hands, now carefully kept and manicured: ‘You know, Willi, it was fun when we got the slats so they didn’t stick, and you could rattle the cover back and forth!’

  Kufalt listened. Batzke was lost in his memories: ‘And then we made some built-in cupboards for the governor—I often used to be at his house. Wait, we’ll go round and I’ll show you.’

  They went round.

  ‘No,’ said Batzke irritably. ‘You can’t see the cupboards from the outside, but they were a neat bit of work, I tell you. And the governor, he used to buy old furniture, he was fair crazy about it, you know. “You come along to my place, Batzk
e,” he used to say to me, “I want you to look at an old bit I’ve just picked up—see if you can put it to rights.”’

  He drew a deep breath: ‘And I always managed it. Worn-out inlay and so on—all sorts of old pieces I fixed up for him so they looked first-rate.’

  ‘Well?’ said Kufalt disapprovingly. ‘You can always get back there if you liked it so much. They’ll take you there gratis from the police station, you won’t need to pay any fare.’

  ‘Ah?’ said Batzke, and looked at Kufalt with a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘Ah? Think so? I’ll tell you what, Kufalt, you’re plain stupid!’

  So saying, Batzke swung round and hurried on with long strides. He walked round the whole building, once, twice, and Kufalt ran in silence by his side, trembling lest he might have frivolously thrown away the favour of so powerful a patron.

  ‘Well, you can do what you like,’ said Batzke suddenly. ‘I’m through for today. I’m going to trudge back home.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Kufalt eagerly. ‘So am I.’

  So they walked together all the long way home; Batzke quite dropped his sullen manner and the pair of them fell into a sensible and friendly talk. They had a great many memories in common and could enjoy a good laugh when they recalled all the fools they had got the better of in prison, warders and convicts too.

  And when Kufalt’s ten cigarettes were gone, Batzke bought him another five: ‘But you must make do with those.’

  When they reached the city, Batzke hesitated for a moment outside a restaurant and said suddenly: ‘Come along in, Kufalt, I’ll stand you supper.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Kufalt.

  It was not much of a restaurant; indeed, it was a smoky, dirty little hole, close by the Alley Quarter. But the food tasted good, so did the beer, and Batzke said after a while: ‘Are you game for a job, Willi?’

  ‘All depends,’ said Kufalt, who had eaten his fill for once.

  ‘I’ve spotted something,’ said Batzke.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Kufalt.

  ‘At the Post Office,’ said Batzke.

  ‘Can’t be done without a gun,’ said Kufalt, with a professional manner.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot! Snatch and grab!’ said Batzke angrily.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ asked Kufalt.

  ‘Every Wednesday and Saturday,’ whispered Batzke, looking round him, ‘there’s an old bag comes and gets six or eight hundred, and toddles off with it halfway across Hamburg to a shop on the Wandsbeker Chaussee.’ Pause. ‘Well, what do you think?’