“Studmann, old chap—splendid to see you again. I’ve got two hours to spare. Have you had your coffee? I’m just going to—for the second time, that is; the first at Schlesische Bahnhof didn’t count—it was ghastly. When did we meet last? In Frankfurt, at the officers’ reunion? Well, never mind; in any case, I’m glad to see you again. But do come along; it’s quite comfortable here, if I remember rightly.”
Oberleutnant von Studmann replied in a low voice, distinct yet somewhat troubled: “With pleasure, Prackwitz—as soon as I’m free. I’m—er—reception manager in this joint. I must first attend to the guests coming by the nine-forty train.”
“Damn!” exclaimed the Rittmeister, just as softly, but quite downcast. “The inflation, I suppose? These swindlers! Well, I know all about it myself.”
Von Studmann nodded gloomily, as if he were past words. At the sight of that long, smooth, energetic face, Prackwitz was reminded of a certain evening when they had celebrated Studmann’s Iron Cross, First Class, at the beginning of 1915; actually the first I.C. First Class which had been allotted their regiment.… He would have liked to recall the face, laughing, cheerful, gay, and eight years younger, of this same Studmann, but the latter was already saying: “Certainly, porter, at once.” With a regretful gesture he turned from von Prackwitz and advanced on a rather bulky lady in a dust-colored silk coat. “Please, madam?”
For a moment the Rittmeister watched his friend standing there, leaning toward the lady and listening with a serious but friendly expression to her vigorous wishes or complaints. A deep sadness welled up within him, a formless, all-pervading sadness. Not good enough for anything better? Shame came over him, as if he had seen his friend doing something degrading. Quickly he turned away and entered the cafe.
Here prevailed the early forenoon silence, when only residents were there and the general public had not yet entered. In ones or twos the guests were dotted about at the tables. A newspaper rustled, a couple spoke in subdued voices, the little silver-metal coffeepots gleamed, a spoon clattered against a cup. The waiters, not yet busy, stood at their stations; one of them was carefully counting the silver, avoiding every unnecessary sound.
The Rittmeister soon found a seat to his liking. So good was the coffee, which arrived shortly after it had been ordered, that he resolved to give Studmann a few words of appreciation. But he rejected the idea. It might embarrass him. Oberleutnant von Studmann and a really fresh-made pot of hotel coffee!
He tried to make out why this feeling of embarrassment should overcome him again, as if Studmann were doing something illegal, even indecent. It was a job like any other. We’re no longer so narrow-minded that we consider one kind of work inferior to another, he thought. If it comes to that, I live at Neulohe only by the grace of my father-in-law, and I’ve the deuce of a job to scrape the rent together. So what’s the reason for it?
Suddenly it occurred to him that it might be because Studmann did this work only from sheer necessity. A man must work, certainly, if he wanted to justify his existence; but there ought to be freedom in the choice. Hated work, done only for the sake of the money, soiled. Studmann would never have chosen this job himself, he thought. He had no choice.
A feeling of impotent hatred overcame Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz. Somewhere in this town there was a machine—naturally a machine, for men would never submit to be prostituted for such a purpose—which vomited paper day and night over the city and the people. “Money” they called it; they printed figures on it, beautiful neat figures with many noughts, which became increasingly rounder. And when you had worked and sweated to put by a little for your old age, it all became worthless paper, paper muck. And for the sake of this muck his old friend Studmann had to stand in the hotel hall bowing and scraping. Good, let him stand there, let him bow and scrape—but not because of this muck. With painful clearness the Rittmeister recalled the kindly, serious face of his friend, as he had just seen it.
It suddenly grew dark, and then there was light once again. A small rapeseed oil-lamp dangled from the rough beams. It cast its warm reddish glow directly upon Studmann’s face—and this face laughed, laughed. The eyes sparkled with joy; a hundred little wrinkles twitched in their corners.
The joy of restored life is in that laugh, said a voice within the Rittmeister.
It was nothing, only the memory of a night spent in a dugout—where had it been? Somewhere in the Ukraine. It was a rich land; pumpkins and melons grew in the fields in hundreds, and of this royal abundance they had fetched some into the dugout, laying them on the shelves. They slept. A rat (there were thousands of rats) pushed a pumpkin down, and it fell on the head of a sleeper, on his face. He had yelled in fright, the pumpkin bouncing onward. There they lay, wide-awake, breathless, cowering in their blankets in the expectation of shell splinters from a direct hit. Moments of mortal fright—life rustles by and I am still alive. I want to think of something worthwhile, my wife, child, my daughter Vi. I have still got a hundred and fifty marks in my pocket; it would have been better if I had paid my wine bill; the money is now lost—and then von Studmann’s laugh: “Pumpkin, a pumpkin!”
They had laughed, laughed. Life restored was in that laughter. Little Geyer had wiped his bleeding nose and laughed too. Geyer was his name. He fell a little later; pumpkins were exceptions in the war.
But at the time it had been genuine fear and genuine danger and genuine courage. To tremble—but then to leap up, to discover that it was only a pumpkin and to laugh again! At oneself, at the fright, at this absurd life—to march on, down the street toward the non-existent point. To be threatened, however, by something which vomited paper, to be enslaved by something which made the world richer in noughts—that was shameful. It was painful for the man who did it; and it was painful for the man who watched the other do it.
Prackwitz scrutinized his friend. Von Studmann had entered the café and was listening to the waiter who a moment ago had counted the silver so carefully and now was holding forth excitedly. Probably a complaint about some colleague. From his own experience Prackwitz knew this kind of bickering. It happened with his staff at Neulohe. Quarrels forever; eternal tale-bearing. He would much have preferred to manage with only one employee and at least be spared that annoyance. He must really get an additional man, however. The thefts were increasing, and Meier could not cope with them, while Kniebusch was old and worn-out. Later, though. There was not enough time now; at twelve he had to be at Schlesische Bahnhof.
The waiter was still talking, talking himself into fire and fury. Kindly, attentively, von Studmann listened. Now and then he said a word, nodded at other times, shook his head. There was no more life in him, concluded the Rittmeister. Burnt out. Exhausted. But, he thought with sudden fright, perhaps I, too, am burnt out and exhausted—only I don’t know it.
Quite surprisingly, Studmann said a single sentence and the waiter, entirely put out of countenance, stopped. Studmann nodded once more at him and then came to his friend’s table.
“So,” said he and sat down, his face immediately becoming more animated. “I think I’ve half an hour. If nothing happens.” He smiled at Prackwitz. “But actually something always does.”
“You have a great deal to do?” Prackwitz asked, a little confused.
“Good heavens,” Studmann laughed abruptly. “If you ask the others, the elevator boys or the waiters or the porters, they’ll tell you that I’ve nothing to do, that I only stand about. And yet in the evening I’m as dog-tired as when we had squadron drill or the Old Man put us through our paces.”
“I suppose there’s an Old Man here, too?”
“One? Ten, twelve. Managing director, three directors, four assistant directors, three head clerks, two confidential clerks …”
“Stop, please.”
“But on the whole it isn’t so bad. It has much in common with the army. Orders. Obedience. A perfect organization.…”
“But civilians only,” murmured Prackwitz disparagingly, and thought of N
eulohe, where obedience did not always follow upon orders by a long way.
“Naturally,” acknowledged Studmann. “It’s somewhat freer than at that time, easier. Therefore, more difficult for the individual, I would add. Someone gives an order, and you don’t know exactly whether he has a right to give it. No clearly defined authority, you know.”
“But it was sometimes like that with us,” argued Prackwitz. “An officer with special instructions, you know.”
“Certainly. But on the whole you can say it’s an amazing organization, a model large-scale undertaking. You should see our linen presses. Or the kitchen. Or the checking-in department. Amazing, I can tell you.”
“So you get some fun out of it?” the Rittmeister asked cautiously.
Studmann’s animation died away. “Dear, dear, fun? Well, perhaps. But that doesn’t matter. We have to live somehow, go on living after all that’s happened. We must go on living. In spite of the fact that at one time one had other ideas.”
Prackwitz cast a searching look at the clouded face of his friend. Why “must,” he thought, a little annoyed. Then he found the only possible explanation. “You’re married? Got children?” he asked.
“I?” Studmann was surprised. “No, no. What an idea!”
“No, no, of course not,” said the Rittmeister rather guiltily.
“After all, why not? But it didn’t turn out like that,” said von Studmann, pondering. “And nowadays? No, when the mark becomes worth less daily, when one has one’s work cut out to scrape together a little money for oneself—”
“Money? Muck!” said the Rittmeister sharply.
“Yes, of course,” replied Studmann in a low voice. “Muck—I quite understand. I also understood your question of a moment ago—or rather your thoughts. Why I’m doing this against my will, as you think, for such muck.” Prackwitz wanted to protest, in some confusion. “Oh, don’t talk, Prackwitz,” said von Studmann, for the first time with feeling. “I know you. Money—muck! That’s no mere inflation wisdom of yours; you used to think like that before. You? We all did. Money was something that went without saying. We had our allowances from home and a few pence from the regiment. One didn’t talk about it. And if now and then one couldn’t pay immediately for some article, the man just had to wait. Wasn’t it like that? Money wasn’t worth thinking about.” Prackwitz shook his head and wanted to make an objection, but Studmann went on hurriedly. “Please, Prackwitz, roughly speaking, it was like that. But nowadays I’m quite sure we took up a wrong attitude, not having the faintest idea of the world. Money, I’ve discovered meanwhile, is something very important, something which is worth thinking about.”
“Money!” exclaimed von Prackwitz indignantly. “If it were real money. But this paper stuff …”
“Prackwitz,” said Studmann reproachfully, “what do you mean by real money? Such a thing doesn’t exist at all, just as there exists no unreal money. Money is simply the basis of existence, the bread we must eat every day for the sake of living, the clothes we must wear so as not to freeze to death …”
“But that’s mysticism,” cried Prackwitz angrily. “Money’s quite a simple matter. Money is only—used to be, I mean—if you had a sovereign, but notes were all right, too. They were different then because you could exchange them for gold.… Well then, money, I mean any kind of money, you know …” He became furious with himself, stammering and stuttering; one ought to be able to say clearly and distinctly what one so clearly and distinctly felt. “Well,” he finished, “if I have money I want to know what I can buy with it.”
“Naturally,” said Studmann, who had noticed nothing of his friend’s confusion, busy with his own thoughts. “Of course we took up the wrong attitude. I’ve discovered that ninety-nine per cent of mankind have to torment themselves about money; they think of it day and night, speak of it, spend it, save it, start anew—in short, money is the thing round which the world revolves. It is only inexperience which makes us indifferent to money, not willing to speak about the most important thing which exists.”
“But is this right?” cried Prackwitz, in despair at his friend’s present frame of mind. “Is this noble? Merely to live in order to satisfy one’s private hunger?”
“Of course it isn’t right, of course it isn’t noble,” Studmann agreed. “But we’re not consulted; that’s how it is now. And if it’s like that, then we oughtn’t to close our eyes but should devote our attention to it. If we don’t find it noble, then we must ask ourselves how to alter it.”
“Studmann,” asked von Prackwitz, bewildered and despairing, “Studmann, you haven’t become a Socialist, by any chance?”
The former first lieutenant looked for a moment as perplexed and as startled as if he had been suspected of a murder. “Prackwitz,” he said, “old comrade, the Socialists think about money just as you do. Only they want to take it away from you, so that they can have it. No, Prackwitz, I’m certainly not a Socialist. And won’t become one either.”
“But what are you?” asked von Prackwitz. “You must eventually belong to some group or party.”
“Why?” asked von Studmann. “Why must I?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said von Prackwitz, a little perplexed. “We all eventually belong to something, for the elections if for no other reason. Somehow one has to subordinate oneself, to toe the line. It’s, so to speak, orderly.”
“But if no order exists for me?” asked von Studmann.
“Yes,” said Prackwitz. “I remember that I had a chap once in my squadron, a crank we always said—what was his name? Grigoleit, yes, Grigoleit. A proper orderly kind of man. But he refused to touch a carbine or a side-arm. Imploring him didn’t help, reprimands didn’t help, punishments didn’t help. ‘Yes, Herr Lieutenant,’ he’d say—I was a lieutenant, it was before the war. ‘But I’m not allowed to. You’ve your code and I’ve mine. And because I’ve my code I’m not permitted to disobey it. One day my code will be yours.’ And such cranky pacifist stuff. But he was a decent sort, not one of those shirkers who shout, ‘No More War’ because they’re cowards.… Well, we could have made his life a perfect hell for him, of course. But the Old Man was reasonable and said: ‘He’s only a poor idiot,’ and so he was reported as unfit for service, sub-section fifteen you know, because of insanity.”
The Rittmeister paused, meditating, perhaps recalling the fat, round-headed Grigoleit, with his platinum-blond hair, who did not at all look like a martyr.
Studmann, however, burst out laughing. “Oh, Prackwitz,” he cried, “you haven’t changed a bit. And now in all innocence you’ve certified me as suffering from imbecility and insanity! Without even noticing. That reminds me vividly how you tried to console our Old Man, when he cut a very poor figure in the maneuvers, with the story of a major who even fell off his horse in front of the assembled general staff and still wasn’t kicked out of the service. And do you remember …”
With that the two friends lost themselves in mutual reminiscences, and their voices became more animated. But that didn’t matter. The café had begun to fill, and the waiters were busy running about with beer glasses amid a hum of voices. The two men’s conversation was just one of many.
After a while, when they had remembered enough and laughed enough, the Rittmeister said: “I would like to ask you something, Studmann. I live so much alone on my bit of land and meet only the same people. But you are here in the capital and in such a swell place at that you must surely hear and know more than any of us.”
“Ah, but who knows anything nowadays?” asked Studmann, and smiled. “Believe me, even Prime Minister Cuno hasn’t the slightest idea what will happen tomorrow.”
But Prackwitz followed up his idea. He sat there, leaning back a little, his long legs crossed, smoking in ease and comfort. “You think, perhaps, I’m free from your worries—Prackwitz has an estate and is a great man. But I’m not very secure. I have to be very cautious. Neulohe doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to my father-in-law, old Herr von Teschow—
I married little Eva Teschow long before the war—I beg your pardon, you know my wife, of course. Well, I’ve rented Neulohe from my father-in-law—and the old boy didn’t let me have it for nothing, I can tell you. Sometimes I’ve frightful worries. In any case, I must be very prudent. Neulohe is our only means of existence, and if things went wrong, the old man doesn’t love me and he’d take away my bit of land on the least provocation.”
“And what would happen to you?”
“Well, you know, I’m no hermit, and Eva still less, so we’ve our scrap of social life in the district and, of course, also with the comrades of the Reichswehr. And one hears all sorts of things and all sorts of rumors.”
“And what do you see and hear yourself?”
“That something’s on the boil again, Studmann. I’m not blind. The countryside is full to the brim with people—fatigue parties they call themselves, but you’ve only to look at them. ‘Black Reichswehr’ goes the whisper.”
“That may be because of the Allied Powers and the Control Commission, commission for snoopers.”
“They may be burying arms, of course, digging them up again and fetching them away; that might account for it. But it’s not only that, Studmann; there’s a good deal more than rumor, and there’s more going on than before. No doubt they are enlisting supporters among the civilian population, maybe in my own village—the proprietor is usually the last person to hear that his house is burning. Neulohe borders on Altlohe, where there are many industrial workers; that means, of course, war to the knife between them and us of the manor and the farmers at Neulohe. For one side has the food and the others the appetite, and it’s like a powder barrel. If it goes up in the air, I shall go with it.”
“I can’t see quite how you can prevent it,” said von Studmann.
“Prevent it? … But perhaps I’ll have to decide whether to join with them or not. One doesn’t want to stand out against one’s friends. They’re the old comrades in the Reichswehr, Studmann, and if they’re taking a risk in order to get us out of the mire and I haven’t gone in with them, I should die of shame. Yes, but perhaps it’s only talk, worked up by a few adventurers, a hopeless Putsch—and to risk for that one’s estate, living and family …” The Rittmeister looked questioningly at Studmann.