AN EXTRAORDINARY HOME. MR PUTTBREESE PULLS AND MR JACHMANN HELPS
When Pinneberg came home that evening, he was surprised by the sudden flash of a torch and a voice crying: ‘Stop! Hands up!’ ‘What’s going on?’ he asked grumpily; he wasn’t in a very good mood these days. ‘Where d’you get the torch?’
‘We’ll need it,’ called Lammchen cheerfully. ‘There’s no light on the stairs in our new palace.’
‘We’ve got somewhere?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Oh Lammchen, have we really got somewhere?’
‘Yes, we have!’ rejoiced Lammchen. ‘We’ve got a proper home!’ She paused. ‘If you want it, that is, I didn’t actually agree to rent it yet.’
‘Oh no!’ he said, aghast. ‘Supposing someone else has gone and rented it in the meantime?’
‘They won’t,’ she soothed him. ‘I’ve got an option till tonight. We’ll go round there as soon as we’ve finished. Just eat up.’
During the meal he kept questioning her, but she didn’t give him any proper answers. ‘No, you have to see it for yourself. Oh Sonny, I do hope you feel like I do.’
‘So let’s go,’ he said, getting up while he was still chewing.
They went up Spenerstrasse, arms enlaced, then into the Alt-Moabit district.
‘A flat,’ he murmured. ‘A real honest-to-goodness home, just for us.’
‘It isn’t exactly a real flat’ said Lammchen apologetically. ‘Please don’t be shocked.’
‘You’re an expert torturer, you know!’
In front of them was a cinema, and they went through a wide doorway next to the cinema and came onto a courtyard. There are two sorts of courtyards; this was the other sort, more of a factory store-yard. A dim gas-lamp illuminated a large double door like the door of a garage. ‘Karl Puttbreese Furniture Store’ was written upon it.
Lammchen pointed somewhere into the dark courtyard. ‘That’s our toilet,’ she said.
‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Where?’
‘There,’ she said, pointing again. ‘The little door at the back.’
‘I think you’re having me on.’
‘And this is our entrance,’ said Lammchen, and opened up the garage door with ‘Puttbreese’ on it.
‘What …?’ said Pinneberg.
They entered a large storage shed, stuffed full of old furniture. Overhead the feeble light of the little torch was lost in a murky tangle of beams and spiders’ webs.
‘I hope,’ said Pinneberg, taking a deep breath, ‘this isn’t our livingroom.’
‘This is Mr Puttbreese’s store. He’s a carpenter, and he deals in old furniture on the side,’ explained Lammchen. ‘Wait and I’ll show you everything. See the black wall at the back, that doesn’t quite go up to the roof? We have to go up there.’
‘Oh yes,’ said he.
‘That’s the cinema. You saw the cinema, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ he said, guardedly.
‘Oh Sonny, don’t pull such a face. You’ll see. So that’s the cinema, and we go up on top of it.’
As they approached, the lamp picked out a small wooden staircase, as steep as a ladder, going up the wall. On closer inspection it turned out to be very much more of a ladder than a staircase.
‘Are you going up there?’ said Pinneberg doubtfully. ‘In your condition?’
‘I’ll show you,’ said she, and was already on the way up. ‘You have to hold on really tight. Now we’re nearly there.’
The roof was just above their heads. They went into a sort of vaulted tunnel, with Puttbreese’s furniture stacked in the dimness to their left.
‘Keep close on my footsteps or you may fall back down again.’
And now Lammchen opened a door, a real door up here in the roof, and put on the light, real electric light, and said: ‘Here we are.’
‘Yes, here we are,’ said Pinneberg, and looked around. And then he said: ‘Oh, there is something here!’
‘See,’ said Lammchen.
It was two rooms, or rather one, for the door between the two had been taken out. They were very low, with thick beams in the whitewashed ceiling. The room in which they were standing was the bedroom, with two beds, a cupboard, a chair and a washstand. That was all. No window.
But in the other room there was a handsome round table and a gigantic black oilcloth-covered sofa with white buttons, and a desk and a sewing-table. All old mahogany furniture. There was also a carpet on the floor. It looked wonderfully homelike, especially with the pretty white curtains at the windows. There were three windows, all very small with four panes.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’ he asked.
‘Here,’ she said, and opened the iron stove which had two ovens.
And the water?’
‘All there, my Sonny.’ And there turned out to be a tap and a sink between the desk and the stove.
‘And what does it cost?’ he asked, still doubtful.
‘Forty marks,’ she said. ‘That’s to say: nothing.’
‘What d’you mean, nothing?’
‘Listen and I’ll explain,’ she said. ‘Have you grasped why there’s that ladder and why the rooms are in such a funny place?’
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘A mad builder? There must be plenty of them.’
‘Mad nothing!’ she cried enthusiastically. ‘This was once a real flat up here with a kitchen and a toilet and a landing and everything. And there was a proper staircase up to it.’
‘So where did all that go?’
‘It was when they put in the cinema. The auditorium goes right up to the wall of our bedroom. The rest of the flat was removed to make way for it. These two rooms were left over and nobody knew what to do with them. They were quite forgotten till Puttbreese found them. And he put the ladder up from his store-room down there, and because he needs money he wants to rent them.’
‘And why does the flat cost nothing, but also costs forty marks?’
‘Because of course he can’t rent it, the building inspectors wouldn’t allow it because of the fire risk and the danger to life and limb.’
‘I don’t know how you’re going to get up here in a couple of months’ time.’
‘Leave that to me. The main thing is whether you want it.’
‘It’s all right, so far as I can see.’
‘Oh, you nitwit! Nitwit! Nitwit! All right …! We’d be on our own here. No one will stick their nose into our business ever again. It’s marvellous.’
‘Well then, girl, let’s rent it. You’re the one who’s going to do the work, and if you don’t mind the inconvenience it’s all right by me.’
‘It’s all right by me,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Young man,’ said Puttbreese the carpenter, twinkling his small bloodshot eyes at Pinneberg, ‘I’m naturally not taking any money for that makeshift place. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ said Pinneberg.
‘You know what I mean!’ he repeated, louder.
‘Yes?’ asked Pinneberg, encouragingly.
‘Good God,’ said Lammchen. ‘Just put twenty marks on the table.’
‘That’s right,’ said the master-carpenter. ‘The young lady’s got the message. That’ll be half of November. And don’t you worry about the bulge, young lady. When it gets too big for you to go up the ladder, we’ll put in a hoist with a chair on it, and we’ll pull you up slowly. That’ll be a pleasure for me.’
‘Ah well!’ laughed Lammchen. ‘That’s one worry less.’
‘And when are we moving in?’ asked the master-carpenter.
The couple looked at each other.
‘Today,’ said Pinneberg.
‘Today,’ said Lammchen.
‘But how?’
‘Tell me,’ said Lammchen, turning to Mr Puttbreese. ‘Could you perhaps lend us a hand-cart? And would you perhaps help us push? It’s only two trunks and a dressing-table.’
‘A dressing-table! That’s a good one. I’d have bet on a pram. But you never know what you’re going
to come by. Right?’
‘Quite right,’ said Lammchen.
‘Well, all right, you’re on,’ said the master-carpenter. ‘It’ll cost you a beer and a whisky. Well let’s get moving then.’
They got moving with a hand-cart.
Afterwards in the bar it wasn’t easy to make Mr Puttbreese understand that the move had to take place in the greatest secrecy.
‘I see,’ said the master-carpenter finally. ‘You want to do a moonlight flit. That’s none of my business. But I can tell you, you’ve got to lay my money on the table every month in advance, sharp. And if you don’t, never fear I’ll move you for free: out onto the street.’
And his little red eyes blinked, as he laughed a booming laugh.
But then it all went off splendidly. Lammchen packed with pixielike speed, Pinneberg stood at the door holding onto the handle just to be on the safe side, for there were festivities under way again in the dining-room, and the master-carpenter sat on the regal bed and kept repeating in admiration: ‘A golden bed, I must tell my old woman about that. It must be as exciting as being in bed with a virgin.’
And then the time had come for the men to pick up the dressing-table. Puttbreese used only one hand, the other was holding the mirror, and by the time they got back upstairs, the trunks were already closed, the wardrobe yawned empty, the drawers pulled out.
‘So let’s go,’ said Pinneberg.
Puttbreese took one end of both trunks, Lammchen and Sonny took one end each. On top lay a small suitcase, Lammchen’s smart bag, and the egg-crate with the china.
‘Quick march!’ said Puttbreese.
Lammchen cast one backward glance at the room. It had been her first room in Berlin, and it was hard to leave it. Oh no! she’d left the light on.
‘One moment!’ called Lammchen, ‘The light!’ and she let go her handle of the trunk.
First, her smart bag slipped off, it hit the floor with a not very loud crack, the suitcase made a little more noise, but the egg-crate …
‘Young woman,’ said Puttbreese’s deep bass, ‘if they didn’t hear that they deserve to lose their money.’
The Pinnebergs stood like sinners caught in the act, their eyes fixed on the door of the Berlin-style room. And, right enough, the door opened, and in it, with laughing, reddened face, stood Holger Jachmann. The Pinnebergs stared at him. Jachmann’s face changed, he drew the door shut behind him, and took a step towards the group. ‘Aha,’ he said.
‘Mr Jachmann,’ said Lammchen quietly, in a pleading voice. ‘Mr Jachmann, we’re moving! Please … you know why!’
Jachmann’s face had changed again, he looked thoughtfully at the young woman, there was a vertical line down his forehead and his mouth had half opened.
He took another step, and said, very quietly: ‘You shouldn’t be lifting cases in your condition.’
He took hold of the basketwork trunk with one hand, the suitcase with the other.
‘Off we go.’
‘Mr Jachmann,’ said Lammchen again.
But Jachmann did not speak another word. He carried the luggage silently down the stairs, put it onto the cart in silence, and received the Pinnebergs’ handshakes in silence. Then he watched them disappearing into the grey foggy street: a cart with their few things, a rather shabbily-dressed pregnant woman, a young nobody in pseudo-smart clothes, and a fat drunken animal in a blue work-shirt.
Mr Jachmann stuck out his upper lip and thought hard about it. There he stood, dinner-jacketed, elegant, spruce after his long deep bath of that afternoon. Then he sighed deeply and then went slowly up the stairs one by one. He shut the landing door, which was still standing open, looked briefly into the deserted room, shook his head, clicked off the light and went into the Berlin-style living-room.
‘Where have you been off to again?’ Mrs Pinneberg greeted him, from within the circle of guests. ‘With the young people again? I could get jealous, if I was the jealous type.’
‘Give me a brandy,’ said Jachmann, and drank it down.
‘By the way, the young people send you their love. They’ve just moved out.’
‘Moved out?’ queried Mrs Pinneberg.
And then she said a great many things, very angrily, very fast.
A BUDGET IS DRAWN UP AND THERE IS NOT ENOUGH MEAT. PINNEBERG FINDS HIS LAMMCHEN COMICAL
Late one dark afternoon Lammchen sat in her flat with a notebook in front of her, some loose sheets of paper, a pen holder, a pencil and a ruler. She wrote and added up, crossed something out and added something on. As she did so, she sighed, shook her head, sighed again, thought ‘It’s not possible’, and carried on reckoning.
The room was really cosy with its low-beamed ceiling and the warm red-brown mahogany furniture. It was not a modern room at all, and the master-carpenter had thought it quite in keeping to have a piece of embroidery with black and white pearls saying ‘Be true even unto death’ hanging on the wall. Lammchen too was quite in keeping, with her gentle face and her straight nose, in her voluminous blue dress with the little machine-lace collar. It was pleasantly warm in the room; the wet December wind occasionally buffeted the panes, but that only made everything more home-like.
Lammchen had finished what she was writing; she read it all through once more. It read as follows, with much underlining, and small and large letters:
Standard monthly budget for Johannes and Lammchen Pinneberg NB: not to be exceeded under any circumstances!!!!
A. RECEIPTS
Gross monthly wage 200 marks
B. EXPENDITURE
a. Food
Butter and margarine 10
Eggs 4
Vegetables 8
Meat 12
Sausages and cheese 5
Bread 10
Other groceries 5
Fish 3
Fruit 5 62
b. Other
Insurance and taxes 31.75
Association dues 5.10
Rent 40
Travel 9
Electric light 3
Fire 5
Clothes including underwear 10
Shoe repairs 4
Washing, ironing, starching 3
Cleaning materials 5
Cigarettes 3
Outings 3
Flowers 1.15
Replacements 8
The unexpected 3 134
Total expenditure 196 marks
Amount remaining 4 marks
The undersigned solemnly agree that they will not, under any circumstances or on any pretext, take out money from the kitty for any but the above purposes, or in excess of the amount stated. Berlin, 30 November.
Lammchen hesitated a moment, thinking, ‘Sonny’s going to get a shock’, then she took the pen and put her name at the bottom. She put everything tidily together and laid it in a compartment of the desk. Out of the middle section of the desk she took out a pot-bellied blue vase and shook out the contents onto the table: a few banknotes, a little silver, some coppers. She counted it: all it would come to was a hundred marks. She sighed gently, put the money in another compartment, and put the empty vase back in its place.
Then she went to the door, switched off the electric light, and settled comfortably in the big wicker chair in the window, her hands over her belly, her legs spread. A red glow shone through the translucent opening of the oven and danced gently to and fro on the ceiling, stopped, trembling, for a long while, then started to dance again. It was so lovely to sit in your own home, alone in the darkness, waiting for your husband; perhaps the baby would move inside. She felt so big, so wide, so overflowing. It reminded her of the sea, the sea rose and fell too, flowing out all the time. She didn’t know the purpose of that either, but it was good that it was so.
Lammchen slept, her mouth half open, her head leaning on one shoulder, a swift happy nap, which lifted her and comforted her, so that she was immediately awake and alert the moment her Sonny switched on the light. ‘How’s things?’ he said. ‘You sitting in the dark, Lammchen? Has the Sh
rimp shown signs of life?’
‘No, not yet. Hello, husband.’
‘Hello, wife.’ And they gave each other a kiss.
He laid the table and she prepared the food. She said rather hesitantly. ‘There’s cod with mustard sauce today. It was so nice and cheap.’
‘Very good,’ said he. ‘I like fish now and then.’
‘You’re in a good mood,’ she said. ‘Did it go well today? How’s the Christmas trade?’
‘So-so, starting up a bit. People are scared to buy.’
‘Did you sell well?’
‘Yes, I was lucky today. I sold over five hundred marks’ worth.’
‘You must be the best salesman they have.’ ‘No, Lammchen. Heilbutt is better. And Wendt is at least as good. But there’s going to be an innovation.’
‘What? It can’t be anything good.’
‘There’s a new organizer coming. He’s going to reorganize the whole business, find ways of economizing, that sort of thing.’
‘They can’t economize any more on your wages.’
‘There’s no telling how they think. He’ll find something. Lasch heard he’s getting three thousand marks a month.’
‘What?’ asked Lammchen. ‘Three thousand marks, and Mandels call that economizing?’
‘Yes. He’s going to have to cut Mandels’ costs by that amount. He’ll find something.’
‘But how?’
‘They’re saying that every salesman is going to have it laid down how much they have to sell, and if they don’t they’re sacked.’
‘That’s mean! What if the customers don’t come, or they don’t have any money, or they don’t like what’s for sale? That sort of thing oughtn’t to be allowed.’
‘Not only is it allowed,’ said Pinneberg. ‘They’re all mad about it. They say it’s clever, it’ll save money, because they’ll find out who’s no good. It’s all rubbish. Lasch for example, he’s a bit nervous. He was just saying today that if they measured him by his sales-pad, he’d always be afraid he wouldn’t make it and he’d be so nervous he wouldn’t sell anything!’
‘And anyway what does it matter,’ said Lammchen, flaring up, ‘If he really doesn’t sell very much and isn’t so good at the job? What sort of people are they to take away a person’s job and their wages and their happiness just like that? What are the weaker meant to do: disappear? Measuring a person by how many pairs of trousers he can sell!’