Every Man Dies Alone (48 page)

But Otto said, “I’ll come by as soon as I can. I’m just escorting the doctor to my wife.”

“I can go on ahead, if you want,” said the man with the birthmark. “17 Von Einem Strasse, did you say? All right. I’ll see you very shortly.”

“In a quarter of an hour, doctor, I’ll be there in a quarter hour at the latest. I’ll just go and turn off the main tap.”

Ten steps further on, he pressed Anna’s arm to his chest with unusual fervor. “You were terrific, Anna! I didn’t know how to get rid of the guy! What inspired you to do that?”

“Who was he? A doctor? I thought he must be in the Gestapo, and I couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer. Otto, slow down, my legs are shaking. What happened? Does he know anything?”

“Nothing at all. Be calm. He doesn’t know a thing. Nothing happened,
Anna. But ever since this morning, when you said you wanted to go to your brother’s, I haven’t been able to shake off a bad feeling. I thought it was because of the letter I was planning to write. And then it was the boredom at the Heffkes’. But now I know it was because I had the feeling something was going to happen today. I should never have left home…”

“So something did happen, Otto?”

“No, not at all. I told you nothing happened, Anna. I’m going up the stairs and am about to put down the postcard, I’ve got it in my hand, then this man comes running out of his apartment. I tell you, Anna, he was in such a hurry he almost bowled me over. I had no time to put the card back in my pocket. ‘What are you doing here?’ he shouts. Well, you know I always make a habit of remembering one of the names on the signs on the door. ‘I’m looking for Dr. Boll,’ I say. ‘That’s me!’ he says. ‘What’s the matter? Is someone sick at home?’ Well, what can I do but play along? I tell him you’re sick, and could he visit. Thank God I think of the name Von Einem Strasse. I thought he would say he would come in the evening, or tomorrow morning, but he shouts, ‘Great! It’s on my way! Come with me, Herr Schmidt!’—I said I was called Schmidt, you know, lots of people are.”

“Yes, and I called you Herr Berndt in his hearing,” Anna cried out in alarm. “He must have noticed that.”

Quangel stopped in consternation. “You’re right!” he said, “I didn’t even think of that! But it didn’t really seem to bother him. The street’s deserted. There’s no one coming after us. Of course he’ll look in vain in Von Einem Strasse, because we’ll be sitting with the Heffkes.”

Anna stopped. “You know, Otto,” she said, “now it’s my turn to say let’s not go to Ulrich’s today. Now I have the feeling today’s an unlucky day. Let’s go home. I’ll drop the cards tomorrow.”

But he shook his head and smiled. “No, no, Anna, now we’ve come this far, let’s fulfill our obligation. We agreed it was going to be our last visit. And anyway I don’t want to go to Nollendorfplatz right now either. We might run into the doctor.”

“Then give me the postcards, at least! I don’t want you running around with the cards still in your pocket!”

After some initial resistance, he gave her the two postcards.

“It really isn’t a good day, Otto…”

Chapter 38

THE THIRD WARNING

But then, when they got to the Heffkes’ they forgot all about their grim forebodings. It turned out they really were expected. The dark, taciturn sister-in-law had baked a cake, and after coffee and cake, Ulrich Heffke produced a bottle of schnapps that his colleagues at work had given him.

Unaccustomed to alcohol, they all drank slowly, but with enjoyment, from small glasses, and it made them livelier and more talkative than usual. Finally—the bottle already empty—the little hunchback with the gentle eyes started singing. He sang hymns and psalms:
“Es kostet viel, ein Christ zu sein” and “Zeuch ein zu deinen Toren, sei Meines Herzen Gast”
—all thirteen verses.

He sang in a very high falsetto that sounded clear and devout, and even Otto Quangel felt himself taken back to his childhood, when such singing had meant something to him, as he had been a believer then. Back then, life had been simple: he had believed not only in God but also in man. He had believed in Love thine enemy and Blessed are the peacemakers. Sayings like that had some validity in that world. Things had changed since, and not for the better. No one could believe in God anymore; it was impossible to credit that a benevolent God would tolerate such widespread wickedness on earth, and as far as men were concerned, those swine…

The hunchbacked Ulrich Heffke was still singing in his high, pure voice,
“Du bist ein Mensch, das weisst du wohl, was strebst du denn nach Dingen…”

The Quangels declined all urgings to stay for supper. Yes, it had been very nice, but they had to be getting along home. Otto still had some work to do. It wasn’t possible anyway, each household’s food was rationed, they all understood that. In spite of the Heffkes’ assurances that they could manage it this once, it wasn’t Ulrich’s birthday every week, and everything was ready, they could look in the kitchen themselves—in spite of all those assurances, the Quangels insisted they had to be going.

And go they did, even though the Heffkes seemed rather offended.

Once outside, Anna said, “Did you see, Ulrich made a face, and his wife, too…”

“Let them make faces if they want to! That was our last visit anyway!”

“But it was especially nice this time, didn’t you think so, Otto?”

“Sure. Yes. The schnapps did its bit…”

“And Ulrich sang so beautifully—didn’t you think so?”

“Yes, very nicely. Queer fish. I bet he still says his bedtime prayers like a good boy.”

“Oh, leave him alone, Otto! People with a faith have an easier time of it nowadays, I’m sure. They have someone they can turn to with their worries. They think all this killing is for a reason.”

“Thanks!” said Quangel, suddenly vicious. “A reason! It’s all senseless! Because they believe in heaven, they don’t want to fix anything on earth. Always crawl and keep a low profile. Heaven will fix everything. God knows why it’s happening. On the Day of Judgment we’ll find out. No, thanks!”

Quangel had spoken quickly and viciously. Not used to alcohol, it was having its effect on him too. “There’s a building!” he said suddenly. “I’m going in there! Give me a postcard, Anna!”

“No, Otto, don’t do it! We agreed we wouldn’t do anything more today. It’s a bad day for us!”

“Not anymore, not now. Give me the card!”

Reluctantly she gave it to him. “Please God it doesn’t go wrong, Otto. I feel so scared…”

But he didn’t pay any attention to her, and was already on his way.

She waited. This time she didn’t have long to worry; Otto came right back out again.

“There,” he said, taking her arm. “That’s done. You see how simple it was? These presentiments are just superstition.”

“Thank God!” said Anna.

But hardly had they taken a few steps in the direction of Nollendorfplatz than a man came charging after them. In his hand he was waving Quangel’s postcard.

“Hey! Hey you!” he shouted. “You dropped this card on my floor! I saw you do it! Police! Hey! Constable!”

And he kept shouting, louder and louder. People gathered around them, and a policeman walked quickly toward the scene.

No question: suddenly the odds were stacked against the Quangels. After the foreman had worked successfully for over two years, his luck had turned. One failure after the other. Ex-inspector Escherich was absolutely right: you can’t always trust that luck will favor you; you also need to factor in bad luck. Otto Quangel had forgotten to do that. He had failed to think of the little bits of adversity that life keeps at the ready, things that can’t be predicted and that make a mockery of any calculation.

In this instance, chance had taken the form of a vengeful little official who had used his Sunday off to spy on the tenant living upstairs from him. He resented her because she liked to sleep in in the morning, ran around in men’s clothes, and kept the radio on long past midnight. He suspected her of inviting “fellows” back to her flat. If it was true, he would get her driven out of the house. He would go to the landlord and tell him he had no business tolerating a whore in his respectable house.

He had already spent three hours at the peephole in his apartment when, instead of his neighbor, Otto Quangel had walked up the stairs. With his own eyes he had clearly seen Quangel put the card down on a step—as he sometimes did when the windows had no sills.

“I saw him, I saw him with my own eyes!” the fellow called excitedly to the policeman, brandishing the postcard. “Read this, constable! It’s high treason if you ask me! The fellow wants stringing up!”

“Stop shouting, will you!” said the policeman. “The man’s perfectly calm, can’t you see? He’s not about to run off anywhere. Well, is there anything in what the gentleman’s saying?”

“A load of nonsense!” replied Otto Quangel bitterly. “It’s a case of mistaken identity. I’ve just been to my brother-in-law’s birthday party in Goltzstrasse. I haven’t been inside any building on Maassen-strasse—ask my wife…”

He looked around for her. Anna was making her way forward through the dense crowd of onlookers. She had thought immediately of the second postcard, which she was still carrying in her handbag. She had to get rid of it right away—that was the highest priority. She had pushed her way through the crowd, seen a mailbox, and perfectly unobtrusively—all eyes were on the noisy denouncer—dropped the card in the box.

Now she was standing beside her husband again, smiling encouragingly.

In the meantime, the policeman had read the card. With a very serious expression, he tucked it inside his cuff. He had heard of these cards; every station had been briefed about them, not once but ten times. They were under orders to follow the merest trace of evidence.

“You’re both coming back to the station!” he decreed.

“What about me?” cried an indignant Anna Quangel, linking arms with her husband. “I’m going along, too! I’m not letting my husband go on his own!”

“You’re right there, ma’am!” said a low voice from the ring of onlookers. “You never know with those guys—better look after your old man!”

“Quiet!” cried the policeman. “Quiet! Step back! Move along! There’s nothing going on here that any of you needs to see!”

But the public was of another view, and the policeman, seeing that he couldn’t possibly keep an eye on three individuals and disperse a crowd of some fifty strong, gave up the idea of dispersing the crowd.

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken?” he asked the excitable showoff. “Was the woman with him on the staircase?”

“No, she wasn’t there. Yes, I’m sure I’m not making a mistake, officer!” He started yelling again. “I saw him with my own eyes, I’d been sitting in front of the peephole in my door for three hours…”

A shrill voice called out, “Another one of those damned snoopers!”

“All right, the three of you come along, please!” decided the policeman. “The rest of you, break it up! Can’t you see, we need to go that way. Damned busybodies! This way, please, Madam, gentlemen!”

At the station, they were made to wait five minutes before being called into the office of the supervisor, a tall man with a tanned, open face. Quangel’s postcard lay on his desk.

The accuser repeated his charge.

Otto Quangel denied it. He had only been visiting his brother-in-law on Goltzstrasse and had never set foot in any house on Maassenstrasse. He spoke calmly, this old foreman, as he identified himself. The supervisor found him to be a pleasant contrast to the noisy, excitable, frothing accuser.

“Now tell me,” said the supervisor slowly to the man, “how did you come to be standing at your peephole for over three hours? You couldn’t have known someone would be along at some stage with a postcard? Or could you?”

“Ach, there’s a whore living in the flat above, Herr Supervisor! Always running around in men’s clothes, keeps the radio on half the night—and I just wanted to see what kind of men she was bringing back to the house. And then this gentleman here comes along…”

“I’ve never set foot in the house,” Quangel repeated obstinately.

“Why on earth would my husband get involved in something like that? Do you think I would allow it?” Anna cut in. “We’ve been married for twenty-five years, and my husband has never been in any form of trouble!”

The supervisor casts a fleeting look at the rigid birdlike face of the man. Hard to know, with such a face! he thought. But writing postcards like that?

He turned toward the accuser again. “What’s your name? Millek? You’re something at the post office, isn’t that right?”

“Senior clerk, that’s right, Supervisor!”

“So you’re that Millek who comes to us about twice a week with denunciations of various sorts, whether it’s traders giving short weight, or carpets being beaten on a Thursday, or people defecating on your doorstep, and so on and so forth. That’s all you, isn’t it?”

“People are so bad, sir! They try to harm me in so many ways! Believe me, Herr Supervisor…”

“And this afternoon, you were on the lookout for a woman whom you describe as a whore, and now you come in and accuse this gentleman…”

The senior clerk assured him he was only doing his duty as a citizen. He had seen this man drop his postcard, and seeing at a glance that this was a case of high treason, he had immediately come after him.