Iron Gustav (6 page)

Old Hackendahl, however, quite enraged by the name of Erich, ran beside them, storming, while Piepgras, who had never expected his little joke to end thus, ran imploringly on the other side: ‘Herr Hackendahl, what are you doing? The gentleman hasn't paid me yet. Stop, sir! Stop and pay me my fare.'

But the young girl and the young man ran quicker than ever, away from the sullen faces into the fresh, blue June morning.

At first old Hackendahl remained standing. He stood beneath the stone gatepost with the golden ball, wiped his face and looked, wide awake, into all the faces. However, the faces all turned away, embarrassed. Each got on with, or pretended to get on with, his work. Iron Gustav went silently into the yard, shouting at only half-strength as he went, ‘Finish up, Otto!' and disappeared into the house.

The yard immediately became a turmoil of secrets and rumours, at their thickest around the now heavily breathing Piepgras, who had just returned. He had not been able to catch the young people. Love that night had got off scot-free.

In the Hackendahl household the breakfast coffee always appeared on the stroke of seven, and whatever his feelings may have been this morning, Iron Gustav stood erect at the head of the table at seven o'clock precisely, listening to Heinz saying grace. Then there was a shuffling of chairs and feet and Mother ladled out the porridge.

In the silence they could hear the spoons scraping on the plates, and first one then the other looked at Erich's empty chair. Now and then the mother, thinking of her hungry son in the cellar, sighed and muttered: ‘Oh God!' but no one took any notice until she complained: ‘You're not eating again this morning. What's the matter with you all? At least you might, Bubi. You've no reason to starve.'

Heinz looked shrewdly at his father and said, his adolescent voice breaking into bass: ‘
Plenus venter non studet libenter
– a full belly
doesn't agree with study. In the interests of my Latin examination restraint is necessary in the consumption of foodstuffs.'

‘Oh dear,' sighed the mother. ‘That's what one gets for letting one's children study. You don't understand a word they say.' She spoke no further. Her eyes had filled with tears. Everyone could see that she was thinking of her son in the cellar – his studies had come to an end.

‘Shut up!' growled Hackendahl at Heinz.

‘Certainly,
pater patriae
.' And, not at all crushed: ‘Shall I take a note about Erich to school?'

The father flashed an angry look at his son, the others bowed their heads, but the storm passed without breaking. Hackendahl only pushed back his chair and went to his room.

Half an hour later, Heinz had gone to school and Sophie to the hospital. Eva cleared up with the little maid. Frau Hackendahl was washing vegetables in the kitchen, and in the stables Otto and old Rabause were discussing whether or not to remind Father about his private tours.

The cash book was open before him and the morning's takings on the desk, but he did not check or enter them up; he sat there and brooded, telling himself a hundred times that the world wouldn't come to an end because of a thief in the family or because an employer had lost his self-control in front of his men.

No, the world hadn't ended, but his own private world had. He brooded about why his children never wanted what he did, why they were always contrary. He had always obeyed all authority with pleasure, but if his children ever did still obey him, they did so unwillingly, with sulks and objections. But perhaps what had happened today was really not so bad and would be forgotten and buried in a few months or half a year. But it really was bad! Because it was not only house theft, but led to decline, collapse, and completely ignored everything he had achieved.

Frowning, he stared at the money. The amount, large as it was, didn't please him; he had no desire to enter it up – there was another entry to be made first. Yes, he must make it. And, taking up the pen, he hesitated, then laid it down again. Despairingly he stared at
the ledger. What he had to do was an offence against order and rectitude.

A thought struck him – perhaps only an excuse for delay: wasn't there a chance that all the stolen money hadn't been spent? He hurried to the boys' room, where Eva was making the beds. He could send her away … but … was a father to be ashamed before his own children? Almost defiantly he took Erich's jacket and waistcoat, which were hanging over the chair, and hunted through the pockets, finding nothing however but the proof of fresh disobedience – some cigarettes. This did not reawaken his wrath, though; he merely crushed them so that the tobacco was reduced to shreds on the floor. ‘Sweep up that filth,' he said, and went into the kitchen. The kitchen was empty.

He cut off a chunk of bread, about the quantity allowed to delinquents in the army, but looked in vain for the kind of glazed jug used for a prisoner's water and, after some hesitation, took an enamel measure and filled it, letting the tap run for some time so that the water should be fresh. Even a prisoner has his rights.

As he turned into the corridor leading to the cellar he heard whispering, listened, coughed and went on. His wife slipped past him. ‘No one has any business here,' he said severely, and unlocked the cellar.

The son stood at a window so small that it could be hidden by two hands. He did not turn round. Putting the bread on a box and placing the water beside it, the father said: ‘Here's your food, Erich.'

The son did not move.

‘Say “Thank you”.'

No reply.

Hackendahl waited another moment, then he said more sternly: ‘Turn out your pockets, Erich. I want to see if you've any money left.'

Still the son did not move. In a rage Hackendahl went up to him and shouted: ‘Can't you hear? Turn out your pockets!' Yes, that was the old steely sergeant-major's bark that had once called a whole company to attention, a voice that struck home to every man-Jack of them. And his son, too, jumped, turning out his pockets without a
word. But they held nothing. Hackendahl couldn't believe it. ‘All that money!' he cried. ‘Eighty marks squandered in a single evening. It's not possible.' Amazed by such laughable simplicity, the son shot a glance at his father. ‘I could easily have spent eight hundred,' he boasted. ‘What else is money for?'

The old man was thunderstruck; the situation was even worse than he had thought. In these namby-pamby times of peace there had sprung up a generation soft and pleasure-loving, which could squander but not earn; 1870/71 was too far off. And he recollected the murder of the Archduke yesterday. People were speaking of war, not a bad thing perhaps, since youth would then learn that life meant struggle.

‘So you would have thrown away eight hundred marks,' he said contemptuously. ‘You, who haven't earned eight in your life! Why, without your father you'd die like a dog in a ditch.'

The son shrugged his shoulders.

Hackendahl went, locking the cellar door and, when he got upstairs, he also locked the door leading to the passage – there was to be no more whispering. Disobedience must not be encouraged.

He went into his room. This time he took up his pen without hesitation and wrote in the cash book: ‘29 June. Stolen by my son Erich … eighty marks.'

Well, that was that! He pushed both cash and cash book into the drawer. They could be dealt with later – the most important matter was settled.

Going out, he donned his blue cab driver's coat with the brass buttons and his top hat; in the yard the hackney cab stood ready, Otto holding the bridle of the mettlesome horse.

Hackendahl mounted the box, put the rug over his knees, settled the top hat on his head and took the whip. ‘I'll be back at twelve. Take Kastor and Senta to the blacksmith's – the foreshoes are worn out. You should have noticed that yourself. Gee-up, grey mare!'

He clucked his tongue, the horse moved off and the cab rolled out of the yard.

The whole house heaved a sigh of relief.

Eva had stood on tenterhooks behind her bedroom curtains waiting for her father to leave, although she had not risked much, as she knew, by sneaking into his room while he was busy with Erich in the cellar. She had not been so foolish as to touch the money on the desk, knowing that the morning receipts had already been counted and that the little bags of money lying in the drawer were also checked of course; but when Father found out that not only eighty but two hundred marks as well were missing, he'd blame Erich. And it hardly mattered to Erich whether he was hanged for a sheep or a lamb.

She shrugged contemptuously, fingering the ten gold coins in her apron pocket – you had to keep your wits about you. Since making up her mind not to stay much longer in this cheerless house she had hoarded cash, as opportunity offered, taking small amounts, secretly pocketing some of the shopping money, pawning articles from her mother's linen cupboard. Slowly but surely she was freeing herself from dependence on her father.

Was she going to be conscience-stricken over stealing from him? Not on her life! Father of his own free will wouldn't part with a penny, always maintaining that he was saving for his children, but he could live to be a hundred and she almost seventy before she inherited anything. No, better a bird in the hand, so far as the cash box was concerned, especially when it stood wide open, as it had done that morning!

Eva pushed the swing-lamp – an old-fashioned oil apparatus converted to electric light – up to the ceiling. The higher she pushed it, the lower sank the counterweight, a brass Easter egg decorated with arabesques; this she took off its hook and unscrewed in the middle. Gleaming, her golden treasure lay in the interior which had probably once been filled with sand or lead.

She stared at it, breathless with happiness, enraptured by those twelve or fifteen large coins. Her father had a good, solid fortune – partly invested in the business and the house, partly in sound government securities – she reckoned it at rather more than a
hundred thousand marks. But this wealth had no intrinsic value in her eyes. Father belonged to a generation that willingly earned and grudgingly spent. He amassed money and believed that his children also ought first to earn before they spent. But times had changed, or people had changed, or perhaps it was only the old law of ebb and flow operating – low tide after the high. The new generation wasn't interested in money hoarded up; it was something dead, senseless, ridiculous even. Money was there to be spent; idle money was futile.

And thus the little hoard in the counterweight of the lamp, accumulated by a thousand shifts and devices, enchanted this prosperous man's daughter. Leisurely she dropped the ten fresh coins onto the others, and their melodious tinkle enthralled her. More than sight or sound of money, however, was the thought of what it would buy – freedom and a silk dress, amusement and a new hat.

With a sigh of happiness she replaced the lamp and put on her Florentine straw hat in front of the tiny mirror which was all her father would permit, and went into the kitchen.

‘Give me some money, Mother, I want to go shopping.' Frau Hackendahl was sitting in a big chair before the fire, mechanically stirring a long spoon in a cooking pot. Everything about Mother was pendulous – stomach, breasts and cheeks, even her underlip drooped. At the window stood Otto nervously fingering his moustache.

‘What do you want to buy, Evchen? We've got everything we need for lunch. But you only want an excuse to go out.'

‘Not at all,' said Eva, and her radiant mood changed to irritation at complaints so often repeated. ‘Not at all. You yourself said, Mother, we want fresh herrings this evening and potatoes cooked in their jackets. If I don't get the herrings this morning they'll be sold out.'

Neither statement was true. Her mother hadn't thought of having herrings for supper nor would the Berlin market be destitute of them by the afternoon, but Eva had realized for a long time that it did not matter what her mother said – she would always give way if contradicted.

Nor was it different now. ‘I wasn't making any objection, Evchen.
For all I care you can go. How much do you want? Is one mark enough? You know your father doesn't like you running around …'

‘Then Father must engage an errand boy.'

‘O Lord, Evchen, don't say that. A strange lad prying about the house! You can't leave anything about …' She broke off, looking in embarrassment at the son silent by the window.

Eva spoke for him. ‘You mean because of Erich? Don't be so silly. Father'll look after him. He won't let him out of the cellar till he gives in.'

‘But he can't do that – it might be days or weeks,' said the mother helplessly. ‘Do say a word, Ottchen.'

‘Did I take the money?' said Eva and thought herself very clever. ‘We all have to swallow our own medicine. I can't help him there.'

‘You were always like that, Eva,' complained the mother. ‘You only think of yourself. You say that Erich took the money, but how much do you make out of the shopping?'

‘I …' stammered Eva, thunderstruck at her mother's not being so stupid as she had supposed.

But Frau Hackendahl's slight show of spirit had already died away. ‘I don't grudge it you, child. Why shouldn't you have something out of life? But, Evchen,' her tone became cajoling, ‘if I don't tell about you, couldn't you do something for Erich?'

‘I haven't taken any money,' protested Eva, putting it so to speak on record. ‘I don't do such things.'

‘You know, Evchen, you're your father's darling. He wouldn't mind so much if it was you who went into the cellar and let Erich out. Otto says the locks could easily be broken with chisel and hammer.'

‘Then why doesn't our great Otto go into the cellar and free Erich? Why don't you go yourself, Mother? You're his mother, after all – I'd only be your cat's-paw. And I'm not going to be. I don't care if Erich sits there till he turns blue. That wouldn't worry me at all.' And here Eva threw a triumphant glance at mother and brother. ‘You'd better keep out of it,' she said, picked up the shopping bag and slipped out of the kitchen.