‘And what did he say?’
‘What could he say? He couldn’t put his wife in the wrong! He tried hard to persuade me, and in the end he said, very embarrassed, when I kept on saying No: “In that case, we’re going to have to go our separate ways, Mr Pinneberg!” And I’d really got going by that time, so I said, “All right, I’ll leave on the first day of next month.” And he said, “You must think it over, Mr Pinneberg.” And I would have thought it over, but by an unlucky chance Mr Kleinholz came into the shop that very day, and he noticed I was worked up, and got me to tell him all about it, and then he invited me to his house in the evening. We drank cognac and beer, and when I got home that night I had been taken on as book-keeper at a hundred and eighty marks. And knowing hardly anything about proper book-keeping at all.’
‘Oh, Sonny. And your other boss: Bergmann? What did he say?’
‘He was upset. He tried to talk me out of it. He kept saying: “Take it back, Pinneberg. Don’t rush to your doom with your eyes open. How can you think of marrying that schicksa when you can see the memme’s driving the father to drink, and the schicksa is worse than the memme?” ’
‘Did your boss really speak to you like that?’
‘Oh yes, there are still a lot of real old-fashioned Jews around here. They’re proud to be Jewish. I’ve often heard old Bergmann say: “Don’t be so nasty, you’re a Jew!” ’
‘I’m not so keen on Jews,’ said Lammchen. ‘What did he mean about the daughter?’
‘Ah, you may well ask; that was the snag. I’d lived in Ducherow for four years and never knew that Kleinholz was dead set on marrying off his daughter. The mother is bad enough, carping all day and slopping around in crochet cardigans, but the daughter: what a cow! Called Marie.’
‘And she’s the one you were meant to marry, you poor boy?’
‘I am meant to marry her, Lammchen! Kleinholz only employs unmarried men; there are three of us at the moment, but it’s me they’re gunning for the most.’
‘So how old’s this Marie?’
‘Dunno,’ he said shortly. ‘Yes, I do. Thirty-two. Or thirty-three. Anyway it’s neither here nor there because I’m not marrying her.’
‘Ah heavens, you poor boy,’ said Lammchen pityingly. ‘Do people really do that? Twenty-two and thirty-three?’
‘Of course they do,’ he said sourly, ‘quite frequently in fact. And if you ever want to make fun of me, just insist on me “telling you all” another time.’
‘I’m not making fun … But you must admit, Sonny, it does have its funny side. Is she a good match then?’
‘No, actually not,’ said Pinneberg. ‘The business isn’t bringing in much any more. Old Kleinholz drinks too much, and then he buys too dear and sells too cheap. The son will get the business, and he’s only ten. Marie will only get a few thousand marks if that, so that’s why nobody’s taking the bait.’
‘So that was it,’ said Lammchen. ‘That was what you didn’t want to tell me. And that was why you got married in dead secret with the car-hood up and your hand with the ring in your trouser pocket?’
‘Yes, that’s why. Oh God! Lammchen, if they found out that I was married, the women would turn him against me in a week, and I’d be out. And what then?’
‘Then you’d go back to Bergmanns.’
‘No chance! Look …’ He swallowed, but carried on: ‘… Bergmann foresaw the Kleinholz job would go wrong and he told me so. He said: “Pinneberg, you’ll come back to me! There’s nowhere else in Ducherow for you but Bergmanns. Nowhere. You’ll come back to me, Pinneberg, and I’ll take you back. But I’ll make you beg. You can hang around the Labour Exchange for a month at least and come begging to me for work. That sort of chutzpah has to be punished!” That’s how he talked, and I can’t go back to him. I can’t and I won’t.’
‘Not even if he was right? You know yourself he was right.’
‘Lammchen,’ he said, pleadingly. ‘Please, dear Lammchen, don’t ask me to do it. Yes, of course he was right and I was a silly ass, and it wouldn’t have done me any harm to carry the parcels. If you kept on asking me, I would go to him and he would take me. And then his wife would be there, and the other salesman, Mam-lock, who’s a fool, and they’d never let me forget it, and I’d never forgive you for it.’
‘No, no, I won’t ask you to do it, and we’ll manage. But don’t you believe it will come out, however careful we are?’
‘It mustn’t come out. It must not! I did everything so secretly, and now we’re living out here, no one will ever see us together in town, and if we do ever meet on the street, we won’t greet each other.’
Lammchen was quiet for a while, but finally she spoke: ‘But we can’t stay here, Sonny, you must see that?’
‘Just try it, Lammchen,’ he begged. ‘Just for the fortnight till the first of the month. We can’t give notice before then anyhow.’
She reflected for a while before she agreed. She glanced sideways at the bridle path track but could distinguish nothing. It was too dark. Then she sighed: ‘Very well, I’ll try, Sonny. But you know yourself that it can’t go on. We could never be happy here, never.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you. And the rest will work out all right; it must. I have to keep my job, at all costs.’
‘At all costs,’ she echoed.
And then they took one more look at the country, the quiet, moonlit country, and went to bed. They didn’t have to close the curtains; there was no one to overlook them here. And as they were falling asleep, they seemed to catch the distant rippling of the Strela.
WHAT SHALL WE EAT? WHO MAY WE DANCE WITH? MUST WE GET MARRIED NOW?
On Monday morning the Pinnebergs were at the breakfast table, and Lammchen’s eyes were fairly sparkling: ‘Today’s the day it all begins!’ And with a glance at the chamber of horrors: ‘I’m going to clear up this tip.’ And, glancing into her cup: ‘How do you find the coffee? Twenty-five per cent beans!’
‘Well, since you ask …’
‘Yes, Sonny, if we want to save …’
Whereupon Pinneberg pointed out to her how he had always managed to afford ‘real’ coffee every morning. And she explained to him that two people cost more than one. And he said he had always heard that it was cheaper to be married; that it was cheaper for two to eat at home than for one to eat out.
A long debate was setting in, when he said, ‘Good grief, I’ve got to go! And fast!’
They said their goodbyes at the door. He was half-way down the stairs when she called, ‘Sonny love, wait! What on earth are we going to eat today?’
‘Don’t mind,’ echoed back the answer.
‘Tell me, please tell me! I’ve no idea …’
‘Neither have I!’ And the door below slammed.
She rushed to the window. There he was on his way already, waving first with his hand then with a handkerchief. She stayed at the window until he had passed the lamp-post and finally disappeared behind a yellowish house-wall. And now, for the first time in her twenty-three years, Lammchen had a whole morning to herself, a flat to herself, and a shopping list to make out all on her own. She went to work.
Pinneberg, however, met the town clerk Kranz on the corner of Main Street and greeted him politely. Then something occurred to him. He had waved to him with his right hand, and on his right hand was the ring. He hoped Kranz hadn’t seen it. Pinneberg took the ring off and placed it carefully in the ‘secret compartment’ of his wallet; it stuck in his throat, but what must be, must be …
Meanwhile, Emil Kleinholz, dispenser of Pinneberg’s daily bread, was up and about with his family … It was never a pleasant moment, because they were all in a bad mood straight out of bed and apt to tell each other home truths. But Monday morning was in general particularly bad, for on Sunday night Father was inclined to escapades, for which the moment of awakening brought revenge.
For Mrs Emilie Kleinholz was not a gentle woman; in so far as one can tame a man, she had tamed her Emil. And indeed
on one or two Sundays of late things had passed off very well. Emilie had quite simply locked the front door on Sunday evening, treated her husband to a flagon of beer with his dinner, and later gave him the required lift with some cognac. Something like a family evening had then ensued: the boy, who was a misery, moaned and groaned in a corner, the women sat at the table sewing (for Marie’s trousseau), and Father read a newspaper, saying intermittently: ‘Mother, let’s have another one.’
Whereupon Frau Kleinholz invariably said: ‘Father, think of the boy!’ and then poured a little more out of the bottle, or not, according to her husband’s condition.
That was how this last Sunday had gone off, with everyone then going to bed around ten.
Mrs Kleinholz woke at about eleven; it was dark in the room, and she listened. She heard her daughter Marie next door whimpering in her sleep, as she often did, the boy making the usual noises at the foot of the paternal bed; only Father’s snores were missing from the chorus.
Mrs Kleinholz groped under her pillow; the front-door key was there. Mrs Kleinholz put on the light; her husband was not there. She got up. She went all through the house. She crossed the yard (the lavatory was in the yard). Not a sign. Finally she discovered that an office window was slightly open, and she had definitely shut it. She was always very definite about that kind of thing.
Mrs Kleinholz was in a boiling, seething rage; quarter of a bottle of cognac, a flagon of beer and all for nothing! She put on a few clothes, threw her mauve quilted dressing-gown over the top, and went to seek her husband. No doubt he was in Bruhn’s pub at the corner, knocking back a drink.
Kleinholz Grain Merchants, on Market Place, was a good old-fashioned firm. Emil was the third generation to possess it. It had grown into a sound, respected concern with three hundred customers of many years’ standing—farmers and estate-owners. When Emil Kleinholz said: ‘Franz, the cotton-seed flour is good,’ Franz didn’t ask for a content-analysis, he bought it, and lo! it was good.
But that kind of business has one snag: it has to be watered with alcohol; it is by nature a thirsty business. An alcoholic business. Every cartload of potatoes, every consignment note, every settlement calls for beer, whisky, brandy. That doesn’t matter if there’s a kindly wife, a household that hangs together and is comfortable to be in, but it does matter if the wife nags.
Mrs Emilie Kleinholz had always nagged. She knew it was a mistake, but Emilie was jealous. She had married a handsome man, a prosperous man; when she was Miss Nobody with next to nothing, she had wrested him away from all the others. Now she bared her teeth over him; after thirty-four years of marriage she was still fighting for him as she did on the first day.
She slopped along in her slippers and dressing-gown to the corner, to Bruhn’s. Her husband was not there. She could have asked politely whether he had been there, but that wasn’t in her nature; she heaped reproaches on the barman: they were scoundrels to give drink to drunkards; she was going to lodge a complaint, it was incitement to drunkenness.
Old man Bruhn himself, with his big beard, led her out of the bar; she danced a jig with fury beside the huge man, but his was a firm and steady grip.
‘There we are, young lady,’ he said.
And there she was, outside. It was a typical small-town market place, with cobblestones, two-storied houses, some gabled, some flat-fronted, but all with curtains closed and all dark. Only the gas-lamps flickered as they swung. Should she go home now? What a fool that would make her look! Emil would mock her for days afterwards if she had gone out to look for him and not found him. She’d have to find him now. However good the booze was, and however drunken the company, she’d drag him away. However much fun he was having.
Fun! Suddenly she knew: there’s dancing at the Tivoli this evening; that’s where Emil will be.
That’s where he is! There!
And just as she was, in her slippers and dressing-gown, she walked half-way across town and into the Tivoli. The treasurer of the Harmony Club wanted a mark entrance fee, but she only replied: ‘Do you want a slap?’
The treasurer did not pursue it.
She stood in the dance-hall, a little constrained at first, looking around from behind a pillar, then exploding into rage. For there was her still handsome Emil, with his large golden beard, dancing with a little dark creature whom she didn’t even know, if you could call that dancing, more like a drunken stagger. The master of ceremonies said: ‘Madam! Please, Madam!’
Then he realized that this was a force of nature, a tornado, a volcanic eruption, against which human beings were powerless. And he stepped back. A path cleared through the dancing couples; she advanced between the walls of people towards the unsuspecting pair, as they stumbled and fumbled round the floor, the only couple who weren’t in the know.
First came a rapid blow. He cried out ‘Oh my sweetie!’ without yet realizing. Then he realized …
She knew it was time to leave with dignity, with reserve. She gave him her arm: ‘It’s time, Emil. Come now.’
And he went with her. He trotted, humiliated, on her arm out of the hall; as undignified as a large dog who has just been beaten, he glanced back one more time at his nice little, gentle little dark girl, who worked in the frame factory in Stossel, who hadn’t had much happiness in her life, and had been exceedingly pleased with her generous and dashing dancing-partner. He went away; she went away. And outside a car had suddenly appeared; the management of the Harmony Club knew enough to realize that on these occasions the best thing is to phone for a car as quickly as possible.
Emil Kleinholz fell asleep on the journey and he didn’t wake up when his wife and the driver carried him indoors and put him to bed, in the hated marriage bed he had abandoned so full of the spirit of adventure exactly two hours before. He slept. And his wife put out the light and lay for a while in darkness, and then she put the light on again, and contemplated her husband, her handsome, dissipated, golden-blond husband. And she saw, through the livid bloated face, the face of long ago when he was courting her, always up to so many tricks, so full of fun and cheek, forever ready to make a grab at her breasts, but just as ready to have his ears boxed for it.
And in so far as her foolish little brain could think, she thought of the road from there to here: two children, a plain daughter and a bad-tempered ugly son. A business half in ruins, a husband gone to seed, and her? What about her?
Well, in the end all you can do is cry, which can be done in the dark, and that at least, when so much is going downhill, saves money on light. And then she thought of how much he must have squandered—yet again—in those two hours, and she put on the light and searched in his wallet and counted and reckoned. And once again in the darkness she resolved to be nice to him from now on, and she groaned, self-pitying: ‘But it won’t help. I’ll just have to keep him on an even shorter lead!’
And then she cried again, and finally she went to sleep, as we always do finally go to sleep, after a toothache or childbirth, after a blazing row or after one of life’s rare great joys.
Then came the first awakening at five o’clock, to quickly give the stableman the key to the oats bin; and then the second at six, when the girl knocked for the key to the larder. One more hour of sleep! One more hour of rest! And then the third, final awakening at quarter to seven, when the boy had to go to school. Her husband was still asleep. When she looked into the bedroom again at quarter to eight, he was awake and feeling sick.
‘Serve you right for boozing,’ she said and went away again. Then he came to the table for coffee, sombre, speechless, devastated. ‘A herring, Marie,’ was all he said.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Father,’ said Marie tartly, before fetching the herring. ‘Carrying on like that.’
‘God damn it!’ he roared. ‘It’s time that girl was out of this house!’ he roared again.
‘You’re quite right, Father,’ his wife soothed him. ‘What else are you feeding those three hungry mouths for?’
‘
Pinneberg’s the best. He’s the one,’ said the man of the house.
‘Of course. Just put the screws on him.’
‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
And then this man, upon whom Pinneberg depended for his daily bread, went over to his office, carrying in his hands the fate of Pinneberg, Lammchen and the as-yet-unborn Shrimp.
THE HARASSMENT BEGINS. THE NAZI LAUTERBACH, THE DEMON SCHULZ AND THE HUSBAND-IN-SECRET ARE ALL IN TROUBLE
Lauterbach was the first of the employees to arrive at the office, at five to eight. It wasn’t out of a sense of duty, however, but out of boredom. This short, fat, flaxen-haired stump of a man with enormous hands had once been a farm bailiff, but, not liking the country, he had moved to town, to Emil Kleinholz’s in Ducherow. There he had become a sort of expert in seeds and fertilizers. The farmers were not overjoyed to see him get into the cart when they were delivering potatoes; he saw at once if the load wasn’t as specified, if white Silesians had been mixed in with the yellow Industrials. But he had his good side. Admittedly he never allowed himself to be bribed with brandy—he never drank brandy, because he had to protect the Aryan race from such decadent stimulants—so he never raised a glass and never took cigars. With a cry of ‘You old crook’ he would deal the farmers a cracking slap on the back and beat them down ten, fifteen, twenty per cent. But, and this was enough to placate them, he wore the swastika, he told them the best jokes about the Jews, he described the SA’s latest recruitment drives in Buhrkow and Lensahn, in short he was a real German, trustworthy, and the sworn enemy of Jews, wogs, reparations, Social Democrats and Commies. And that made up for everything.