Iron Gustav (13 page)

Eva, who at other times was so ready with her tongue, was sitting pale and silent at the table, playing with her fork. The food nearly choked her. She heard other people talking far off. They were so far away, but at nine o'clock she had to be at the corner of the Grosse and Kleine Frankfurter Strasse, though her father would never allow her to go out after supper.

But when she tried to think of an excuse, everything became a blur. She couldn't gather her thoughts. The bronzed face with the small dark moustache and the evil black eyes prevented her. ‘You whore!' he had called her. Nobody had spoken to her like that before, but if they had, she would merely have laughed in their face. Even if she hadn't been so very particular with men, she hadn't done that yet. But he treated her from the beginning as if she were one of those …

Her fate stood, unavoidable and inescapable, before her. She fleetingly remembered that Erich had given her ‘her money' back just before supper, with an embarrassed murmur of apology. Now she had to recall how much she was worth: nearly 500 Reichsmarks and a lot of valuable jewellery. At the street corner where the gas lamp flickered in the summer evening Eugen would whistle and she must go to him. And Eugen will say, ‘Empty your bags,' and she'll empty them. Then he'll say, ‘Lie down!' – and she'll lie down.

But the third child – how was it with Otto? He was the only one of the seven sitting round the supper table who, at a time when life
was so uncertain, knew what his lot would be in the next few days. Tomorrow he would report, receive his uniform, be sent off …

He climbs the stairs, presses twice on the bell – and then – then?

And Gustav, the little one, he'll already be asleep – and things will be all the worse for that. All alone, without interruption, she and Otto will confront each other. She will ask about his promise, the papers, the engagement, little Gustav …

His brain worked slowly. He remembered that the papers lay in good order in his father's desk, a file for each child. Straight away in the morning, before he went to the barracks, Father would unlock the desk and give him what he required: his military pass, his birth and baptism certificates. Did he need them too?

He couldn't get his head round the question: what documents did he need? Which for the military and which for the pastor? But anyway he had no time for the pastor: as soon as he had the documents he must go to the barracks. A pastor needs hours – the bridal coach, organ, speeches and marriage witnesses. And they hadn't even got their rings!

He looked up, helpless. He looked into the faces of his siblings and parents, and moved his lips. With a feeling almost of redemption, he thought to himself: I'll tell them, we still haven't got the rings! And you can't get married without a ring, can you?

‘What are you talking about, Otto?' exclaimed Bubi excitedly. ‘I think he's talking to the man in the moon.'

All laughed and Father said: ‘Otto's already somewhere else. He's already reciting the regimental orders of the day, or war bulletins – aren't you, Otto?'

Otto murmured something, and the others immediately forgot him, as they habitually did. No, he thought, I can't possibly ask Father for my papers this evening, and if it were possible there'd be no point, because you can't get married at night, and there's no time early in the morning …

Old Father Hackendahl, Iron Gustav, sat comfortably at his reunited family's dining room table, with the feeling that everything turned out well and all had returned home, just as they should have done.

However, he was mistaken. He only felt so comfortable because
he knew nothing about his children. They all felt they'd left home. All felt the weight of family pressure. All couldn't wait to leave. But Hackendahl noticed nothing, and was therefore flabbergasted that the family wanted to disperse straight after saying grace.

‘But, children,' he said, admonishingly, ‘I thought we'd all sit a bit cosily together. Bubi will fetch some cans of beer and a few cigarettes, and we'll chat on for a bit.'

But Sophie had to go to the hospital immediately, and Otto to the horse with the nose wound, which also had an inflamed leg that needed attention. Erich had to go to the Schloss to see what was going on, and Eva wanted to go with him part of the way. She thought her headache would clear in the evening air.

So only Bubi remained, and he naturally had to go to bed. His energetic protestation gave welcome excuse for exaggerated indulgence in military orders. Bubi was thoroughly worked over according to all the rules in the book, and when that was over and he lay howling in bed, Hackendahl discovered that his other children had meanwhile vanished.

Only Mother sat comfortably in the basket-chair by the window, looked out over the declining evening, and muttered contentedly: ‘That was another lovely supper, Father. But the gammon was a bit singed. Did you notice, Father? And it was too fat as well. I always tell Eva she should buy gammon from Hoffmann, but she never listens.'

Father Hackendahl went into the stable, where he could at least chat with Otto for a while.

But Otto isn't in the stable. He's gone over the two courtyards, and is now going up the many steps to the fifth floor – steps which he always saw as a challenge. He may be weak and without will, but that doesn't mean he's a coward. He climbed the steps and didn't stay at home. He didn't deal with the horse with the nose wound and the swollen leg. That he left to old Rabause.

Once Otto was up on the fifth floor he gave a great sigh, but he
didn't hesitate. He pressed twice on the doorbell of Gertrud Gudde, seamstress. He had to wait quite a while before Tutti in a woollen nightgown came to the door, awakened from her sleep.

‘You, Otto?' she cried, surprised. ‘So late?'

And it turned out that she knew nothing. She had been indoors the whole day and her clients had not put in an appearance or sent word.

‘It's the mobilization,' said Otto, looking at her timidly. ‘I have to go back at once. Father doesn't know I'm out.'

‘But what does it mean – mobilization?' she enquired anxiously. ‘Does it mean war?'

‘No, oh no. But it means I have to go to the barracks tomorrow.'

‘Have you to serve again? But why, if there's no war? There isn't a war, is there?'

‘No, Tutti.'

‘Then why have you to go to the barracks?'

‘Perhaps' – he tried to explain what he himself did not understand – ‘perhaps the others will be frightened when they see how many soldiers we have.'

‘And that's why you have to go to the barracks?'

‘Perhaps – I don't know. Mobilization means I must serve again.'

‘For how long?'

‘I don't know that either.'

Silence, a long silence. He sat with eyes cast down, ashamed of lying to her when everyone had been saying there would be war. But he only ever said to her that mobilization isn't the same as war. Perhaps it was the last time they would sit together like this …

‘What does your father say?'

‘He behaves as if he were still in the army.'

‘He says there will be a war?'

Otto nodded.

Long silence.

Her hand stole over the table to his, which he would have withdrawn but was too late. First it resisted, then it surrendered to the little hand with the seamstress's hardened fingertips.

‘Otto, look at me …'

Once again the hand wants to retreat, and once again gives way.

‘Otto!' pleaded Tutti.

‘I'm too ashamed,' he whispered.

‘But why, Otto? Are you afraid of the army?'

A shake of the head.

‘Then why are you ashamed, Otto?'

He said nothing but again tried to free his hand and said: ‘I think I must go.'

She came quickly round the table, sat on his lap and whispered: ‘Come, tell me why you are ashamed.'

But he only had one idiotic thought in his head. ‘I ought to go,' he repeated and tried to get away. ‘Or else Father will grumble.'

She put her arm round his neck. ‘But you can tell me why you feel ashamed, Ottchen,' she whispered. ‘I don't have any shame with you.'

‘Tutti … Oh, I'm useless. Father …'

‘Yes, say it … say it, Otto!'

‘I haven't got the papers.'

‘What papers?'

‘My papers! I'm too scared – Father would never allow it.'

A long, long silence. She lay so quietly on his chest, small, weak, fragile … as if she were asleep. But she wasn't. Her eyes were wide open, eyes which had a soft but glowing quality. She tried to meet his eyes, shy and pale …

Suddenly he stood up. He held her on his arm. Carrying her like a child, he walked around the room, forgetting her, forgetting himself, everything …

He was murmuring to himself, and whispered something like, ‘Yes, you. You think you are something. But that your horse is lame I noticed and not you, and that you've cheated in business. But that's not all. You want to be everywhere, not just in the house and stable, but in Erich, in Heinz and Mother. You want to know what every coach driver thinks, and that must be what you think. When I was small I built myself a little watermill and worked it off the mains. You flattened it with your foot and said it was rubbish and used up too much valuable water. I never forgot that … You and your children … But your children don't want you and I want you least of all.
You think you've got hold of me more firmly than the others but you haven't, not a bit of me. I do what you want, just so as not to be shouted at …'

‘Otto, what are you saying?'

‘Yes, my sweet, my darling, you my happiness, I have you, you belong to me. But I never get you alone; he's always here, even when we sleep together.'

‘Otto!'

‘But if we have a war and I have to go to the Front, then I'll pray that I lose an arm or a leg so that I needn't work any more in his accursed stable, never out of his sight; so that I can go elsewhere, never see him, forget him …'

‘Otto, he's your father!'

‘My father? No, he's Iron Gustav as they call him, and he's so proud of it. But no one ought to be proud of being made of iron, for then you're neither human nor a father. I don't want to be just his son any longer, I want to be a person in my own right. As other people are.' For a moment he bore himself erectly – then his shoulders drooped. ‘But nothing'll come of it, nothing ever does … I did think, if war came, that I'd have courage enough to speak to him. But no!'

‘Otto, you mustn't worry about the marriage! I didn't speak about it for my own sake. We've always been happy together, you know that.'

‘Yes, yes …'

‘There's plenty of time. We'll get married when you come back.'

‘If I come back …'

It was morning, seven o'clock in the morning, and a weekday. But in the yard all the vehicles – four-wheelers and hansoms, first- and second-class cabs – stood side by side, no horses between the shafts, as if out of commission. The drivers, in their Sunday best, were running here and there or bringing the horses from the stables. By the pump stood old Hackendahl scrutinizing every beast to make sure
that it had been properly groomed; now and then he had a hoof smeared and a snaffle tightened. The horses, restive without their customary harnesses, were as excited as the men; they tossed up their heads, looked across at the empty cabs and neighed.

‘Hoffmann!' roared Hackendahl. ‘Give Liese's mane a thorough combing again. Give her a parting, my lad, and she'll look smarter on the spot.'

‘Yes, Herr Hackendahl, so that a Frenchie falls for her.'

‘Or she picks up lice in Russia. They crawl up and down the parting and sing, “Oh, Nicky, Oh, Nicky, you taste very sweet!” '

‘Silence!' thundered Hackendahl. But he too was excited and pleased; it was a great day for him. ‘Rabause, are all the horses here?'

‘Yes, Herr Hackendahl, thirty-two. Eleven mares, twenty geldings and the castrated stallion.'

‘They won't take the stallion, anyhow,' said Hackendahl.

‘They won't take a good many of them, Governor,' replied Rabause consolingly. ‘Our horses are too light for the army.'

‘I'd like to keep about twenty. Even in wartime there'll have to be cabs.'

‘And where will the drivers come from, Governor? We've only got eleven men left; the rest have gone soldiering.'

‘We'll take on lads as drivers.'

‘There won't be any lads left soon, Governor. They're all volunteering.'

‘Well, women must drive when the men are gone …'

‘Governor, Governor, you have to be joking,' cried Rabause, bursting with laughter. ‘I can just imagine it, your wife with a topper on and the reins in her hand. No, I'd really like to see that!'

‘Off we go!' shouted Hackendahl in his stentorian voice. ‘Quick march! Come on, Bubi,' he shouted up to the window. ‘If you want to come with us, now's the time!'

Heinz disappeared from the window. Mother waved from above, at once tearful and proud. Never had there been such a sight: the day and night horses all leaving together, a hundred and twenty-eight shoes clattering on the cobblestones, tails switching, heads tossing … Yes, it was a proud sight, and it was also the last time the Hackendahl premises were to look prosperous.

‘Why isn't Eva looking?' asked Hackendahl somewhat peevishly. ‘The girl won't see something like this every day.'

‘Oh, her! She's in her room again.'

‘What's the matter with her, Bubi? She's quite changed.'

‘I know that I don't know,' said the schoolboy, citing the classics. ‘But I've an idea she's sweet on someone and perhaps he's had to join up.'

‘Eva? Nonsense! I'm bound to have known!'

‘You, Father?'