Every Man Dies Alone (10 page)

He did look rather singular, the old gentleman. Of frail build and average height or less, he was swathed in a lustrous black silk dressing gown trimmed with red and secured with large red toggles. The old gentleman wore a gray imperial and a white mustache. The very fine, still brown hair on his head was brushed carefully across the pale
scalp, but was unable to hide its bareness. Behind the delicate gold-rimmed spectacles lurked two amused, sardonic eyes.

“No, no, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, seeming to continue a conversation begun long ago to the edification of all. “No, no, Frau Rosenthal is not at home. But maybe one of the junior Persickes would take the trouble to look in the bathroom. Your father appears to have been taken ill. At any rate, he seems to be trying to hang himself with a towel there. I was unable to persuade him to desist…”

The judge smiles, but the two elder Persicke boys storm out of the room so fast that the effect is rather comical. Young Persicke has turned pale and quite sober. The old gentleman who has just set foot in the room and is speaking with such irony is a man whose superiority Baldur effortlessly senses. It’s not a seeming, jumped-up superiority, it’s the real thing. Baldur Persicke says almost beseechingly, “Please understand, your honor, father is, to put it bluntly, very drunk. The capitulation of France…”

“I understand, I quite understand,” says the old judge, and makes a little deprecating gesture. “We are all human, only we don’t all try to hang ourselves when we’re in our cups.” He stops for a moment and smiles. He says, “Of course he said all sorts of things, too, but who pays any attention to the babble of a drunkard!” Again he smiles.

“Your honor!” Baldur Persicke says imploringly. “I beg you, take this matter in hand! You’ve been a judge, you know what steps to take…”

“No. No,” says the judge firmly. “I am old and infirm.” He doesn’t look it. Quite the opposite, he looks in flourishing health. “And then I live a very quiet, retired life, I have very little contact with the world outside. But you, Herr Persicke, you and your family, it’s you who took the two burglars by surprise. You must hand them over to the police and secure the property in the apartment. I have taken a cursory look. There are seventeen suitcases and twenty-one boxes here. And more. And more…”

He speaks more and more slowly. Then he says casually, “I imagine that the apprehension of the two burglars will bring substantial fame and honor to you and your family.”

The judge stops. Baldur stands there, looking very thoughtful. That’s another way of doing it—what a wily old fox that Fromm is! He must see through everything; certainly his father will have blabbed, but this man’s retired, he wants his peace and quiet, he doesn’t want to get involved in a business like this. There’s no danger from him. What about Quangel, the old foreman? He’s never bothered himself
about anyone in the house, never greeted anyone, never chatted to anyone. Quangel is a real old workingman, scrawny, wizened, not a single independent thought in his head. He won’t make any needless trouble. He’s utterly harmless.

The only ones left are the two drunks lying there. Of course you could hand them over to the police, and deny whatever Borkhausen might say about your having tipped them off. They’ll never believe him, if he’s up against members of the Party, the SS, and the Hitler Youth. And then report the case to the Gestapo. That way you might get a piece of the action perfectly legally, and without risk. And you’d get some kudos for it, too.

Tempting. But it might be best to handle everything informally. Patch up Borkhausen and that Enno fellow and send them packing with a few marks. They won’t talk. Lock up the apartment as it is, whether Frau Rosenthal comes back or not. Perhaps there’ll be something to be done later on—he has a pretty certain sense that policy against the Jews is going to get tougher. Sit tight, relax. Things might be possible in six months that aren’t possible today. As things stand, the Persickes are somewhat compromised. They won’t suffer any consequences, but they’ll be the subject of gossip within the Party They’ll lose a little of their reputation for reliability.

Baldur Persicke says, “I’m almost tempted to let the two rascals go. I feel sorry for them, your honor, they’re just small fry.”

He looks round, he’s all alone. Both the judge and the foreman have vanished. As he thought, neither of them wants anything to do with this business. It’s the smartest thing they could do. He, Baldur, will do the same, no matter what his brothers say.

With a deep sigh for all the pretty things he has to say good-bye to, Baldur sets off into the kitchen to restore his father to his senses and to persuade his brothers to put back what they’ve already earmarked for themselves.

On the stairs, meanwhile, the judge says to Foreman Quangel, who has silently followed him out of the room, “If you get any trouble on account of Frau Rosenthal, Herr Quangel, just tell me. Good night.”

“What do I care about Frau Rosenthal? I barely know her,” protests Quangel.

“Very well, good night, Herr Quangel,” and Judge Fromm heads off down the stairs.

Otto Quangel lets himself into his dark apartment.

Chapter 9

NOCTURNAL CONVERSATION AT THE QUANGELS’

No sooner has Quangel opened the door to the bedroom than his wife Anna calls out in alarm: “Don’t switch the light on, Papa! Trudel’s asleep in your bed. I made up your bed on the sofa.”

“All right, Anna,” replies Quangel, surprised to hear that Trudel has got his bed. Usually, she got the sofa when she stayed. He asks, “Are you asleep, Anna, or do you feel like talking for a bit?”

She hesitates briefly, then she calls back through the open bedroom door. “You know, I feel so tired and down, Otto!”

So she’s still angry with me, thinks Otto Quangel, wonder why? But he says in the same tone, “Well good night anyway, Anna. Sleep well!”

And from her bed he hears, “Good night, Otto!” And Trudel whispers after her, “Good night, Papa!”

“Good night, Trudel!” he replies, and he curls up on his side to get to sleep as soon as he can, because he is very tired. Perhaps overtired, as one can be over hungry. Sleep refuses to come. A long day with an unending string of events, a day the like of which he has never experienced before, is now behind him.

Not a day he would have wished for. Quite apart from the fact that all the events were disagreeable (aside from losing his post at the Arbeitsfront), he hates the turbulence, the having to talk to all kinds
of people he can’t stand. And he thinks of the letter with the news of Ottochen’s death that Frau Kluge gave him, he thinks of the snoop Borkhausen, who tried to put one over on him so crudely, and about the walk in the corridor of the uniform factory, with the fluttering posters that Trudel leaned her head against. He thinks of the carpenter Dollfuss, the smoking-break artist, he hears the medals and decorations jingling on the breast of the Nazi speaker, he can feel the small, firm hand of Judge Fromm, clutching at him in the dark and propelling him up the stairs. There is young Persicke in highly polished boots standing in the sea of clothing, looking grayer and grayer, and the two drunks groaning and gurgling in the corner.

He is on the point of sleep when something jolts him awake. There’s something else that bothers him about today, something he knows he heard but put from his mind. He sits up on the sofa and listens attentively. That’s right, he wasn’t inventing it. In a tone of command he calls, “Anna!”

She replies plaintively, which isn’t her style, “What are you bothering me about now, Otto? You’re not letting me sleep. I told you I didn’t want to talk anymore.”

He continues, “What am I doing on the sofa, if Trudel’s in your bed? In that case, surely my own bed is free.”

For a moment there’s complete silence, then his wife says, almost imploringly, “But Otto, Trudel’s in your bed. I’m here alone, and I have such aches and pains…”

He interrupts her: “I don’t like it when you lie to me, Anna. I can hear the breathing of three people quite clearly. Who’s sleeping in my bed?”

Silence, long silence. Then the woman says stoutly: “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. Just pipe down, Otto!”

And he, insistent: “This apartment is in my name. I’m not having any secrets kept from me. What happens here is my responsibility. For the last time, who’s in my bed?”

Long, long silence. Then an old, deep woman’s voice: “I am, Herr Quangel, Frau Rosenthal. I don’t want your wife and you to have any trouble on my account, so I’ll just get dressed and go back upstairs.”

“You can’t go into your apartment now, Frau Rosenthal. The Persickes are up there, and some other fellows. Stay in my bed. And tomorrow, early, at six or seven, go down to old Judge Fromm’s on the first floor and ring his bell. He’ll help you, he told me.”

“Oh, thank you, Herr Quangel!”

“Don’t thank me, thank the judge! All I’m doing is throwing you out. There, and now it’s your turn, Trudel…”

“You want me to go, Papa?”

“Yes, you have to. This was your last visit here, and you know why as well. Maybe Anna can go and see you from time to time, but probably not. Once she’s seen sense and I’ve had a chat with her…”

Almost yelling, his wife protests, “I’m not putting up with this! I’m going as well. Stay in your flat by yourself, if you want to! The only thing on your mind is your peace and quiet…”

“That’s right!” he interrupts. “I don’t want any funny business, and above all I don’t want to be dragged into other people’s funny business. If it’s to be my head on the block, I want to know what it’s doing there, and not that it’s some stupid things that other people have done. I’m not saying that I’m going to do anything. But if I do anything, I’ll only do it alone with you, and with no one else involved, even if it’s a sweet girl like Trudel or an old, unprotected woman like you, Frau Rosenthal. I’m not saying my way is the right way. But there’s no other way for me. It’s how I am, and I’m not going to change. There, and now I’m going to sleep!”

And with that, Otto Quangel lies down again. Over in the other room, they go on whispering for a while, but it doesn’t bother him. He knows he will get his way. Tomorrow morning, the flat will be empty again, and Anna will give in. No more irregular episodes. Just himself. Himself alone. All alone.

He goes to sleep, and whoever found him sleeping would see a smile on his face, a grim little smile on that hard, dry, birdlike face, a grim and stubborn smile, but not an evil one.

Chapter 10

WHAT HAPPENED ON WEDNESDAY MORNING

All the events related thus far took place on a Tuesday. On the morning of the following Wednesday, very early, between five and six, Frau Rosenthal, accompanied by Trudel Baumann, left the Quangel apartment. Otto Quangel was still fast asleep. Trudel left the petrified Frau Rosenthal, the yellow star on her coat, outside Fromm’s apartment door. Then she went back up half a flight of stairs, resolved to defend her with her life and honor in case of a descending Persicke.

Trudel watched as Frau Rosenthal pushed the doorbell. Almost immediately the door was opened, as though someone had been standing behind it, waiting. A few words were quietly exchanged, and then Frau Rosenthal stepped inside, and the door shut. Trudel Baumann passed it on her way down to the street. The front door of the building was already unlocked.

The two women were lucky. In spite of the earliness of the hour and the fact that early rising was not among the habits of the Persicke household, the two SS men had passed down the stairs not five minutes before. Five minutes prevented an encounter that, given the routine brutality of the two fellows, could only have ended badly, certainly for Frau Rosenthal.

Also, the SS men were not alone. They had been instructed by their brother Baldur to take Borkhausen and Enno Kluge (whose papers Baldur had examined in the meantime) out of the house and
back to their wives. The two amateur burglars were still almost completely out of it, what with the amount they had had to drink and the ensuing blows. But Baldur Persicke had managed to persuade them that they had behaved like pigs, that it was merely due to the great philanthropy of the Persickes that they hadn’t been handed over to the police, and that any subsequent blabbing would land them there double quick. Also, they had to promise never to show up at the Persickes’ again and never to admit knowing any of the family. And if they ever set foot in the Rosenthals’ apartment again, they would be handed over to the Gestapo forthwith.