Iron Gustav (7 page)

The two who remained looked helplessly at each other, then the mother sank her head and began mechanically stirring her pot again.

‘And if he gets out, Mother, where will he go?' asked Otto eventually. ‘He can't stay here, can he?'

‘Perhaps he can stay with a friend for a bit, till Father quietens down.'

‘If Erich runs away, Father will never forgive him. He cannot stay with a friend that long.'

‘And if he found some work?'

‘He's never learned to. And he's too weak for physical labour.'

‘So that's why we had children …' Mother started up again.

‘Perhaps I'll let him out,' said Otto after a pause. ‘But if we don't know where he'll go … and we haven't any money either.'

‘Look here,' cried Frau Hackendahl, upset. ‘Here I am, the wife of a rich man, and would you believe that I've never had a single Reichsmark to myself? Never! Not in my whole marriage. But that's your father, little Otto. What was he then – a mere sergeant-major. And it was I who brought him the whole coach business.'

‘What point is there in complaining about Father? He is as he is, and you are as you are, and I am what I am.'

‘Yes, and that's why you sit there and do nothing, just staring into space. If you could you'd be sitting again at the trough with old Rabause, whittling away at a piece of wood. As far as you're concerned the world could go to the dogs and your brother with it.'

‘No one can jump over his own shadow,' said Otto undisturbed. ‘Because I'm the oldest, I was first and most in Father's power. That's why I'm as he wanted. I can't change things.'

‘And I,' cried his mother, really moved, ‘I've lived with Father longer than any of you. Most of his shouting he has done at me. But when a child of mine is in need, that's when I stand up.' (And she did so.) ‘And if no one else will help my Erich, then I will. You run, little Otto,' she said, determined. ‘Bring me tools I can open the lock with. Then disappear into the stable yourself so that you're not around and don't know anything. I'm also afraid of Father – but not more than that, otherwise I wouldn't want to live any more …'

Old Hackendahl had never allowed his fifty-six years to prevent him from occupying the box of his cab day in and day out, summer and winter alike. Admittedly he did not drive all and sundry, having no necessity to do so, but he drove certain regular fares, gentlemen who would use no one else to take them to their offices, banks or consultation rooms.

‘Nobody drives like you, Hackendahl. Always punctual to the minute and off at a good trot, no cracking the whip or fuss and, what's more, no rowing with these new-fangled motor cars,' some councillor of the Supreme Court would say.

‘Why should there be, Herr Kammergerichtsrat? Why make a row? I don't demean myself with such benzine-stinkers, Herr Kammergerichtsrat. They're nothing but death traps and in ten years no one will care two hoots for them. They'll be out of fashion.'

Thus did Hackendahl speak with his regular clients, and as he spoke so he thought. He detested motor cars if only because, by their hooting, stench and lunatic speed, they made his best horses nervous. His fine grey would fall into a panic, take the bit between her teeth and bolt. And that was the sort of thing his elderly gentlemen fares did not like at all.

So that Hackendahl, arriving this morning at the Geheimrat Buchbinder's villa in the Bendlerstrasse, was far from delighted to see a motor car standing at the door. The grey pricked her ears, grew restive and did not want to draw up at the kerb; indeed, Hackendahl had to get down from the box and take her head.

The chauffeur standing there grinned, of course. ‘Well,' he jeered, ‘what's up with the fodder-engine, pal? Ignition wrong? P'r'aps you'd like me to adjust the exhaust with a spanner, eh?'

Hackendahl naturally made no reply to chaff of that sort. He mounted the box again, stiffly taking in one hand the reins, in the other the whip, its butt on his knee, and looking as distinguished as any colleague from the Imperial stables.

The chauffeur eyed him critically. ‘Swell,' he said. ‘First-class. Another ten years, mate, and you'll be received at the Brandenburger
Tor by the mayor as the last slap-up horse cab. And then they'll stuff you and put you in the Märkische Museum. Or rather, in the Natural History Museum in Invalidenstrasse – right next to the big human apes from the jungle.'

Hackendahl turned purple and would probably have stated his views very forcibly had not Herr Buchbinder come out of his villa accompanied by a young man. Hackendahl touched his top hat with the whip.

‘Good morning, Hackendahl,' called out the Geheimrat cheerfully. ‘This, Hackendahl, is my son, also a physician and …'

‘I know, Herr Geheimrat,' said Hackendahl reproachfully. ‘I knew at once. I drove the gentleman to the Anhalter Station, Easter 1907, to catch the Munich Express, the 6:11.'

‘Of course. Yes, my good Hackendahl, there's nothing wrong with your memory. But, Hackendahl, my son has grown into a man and he no longer wishes to have you drive him. He's bought himself a car – my money, Hackendahl – and now he wants to go in it everywhere …'

‘He'll get tired of it, Herr Geheimrat,' said Hackendahl with a malicious look at the car and its grinning chauffeur. ‘When he has collided with a tree or made a few people unhappy, then he'll leave off.'

‘Well, Papa,' said the young man impatiently, ‘get in and in four minutes you'll be at your hospital.'

‘Yes, my boy, I know that. But in half an hour I have to operate and if I get palpitations from your excessive speed, or if my hand is trembling …'

‘Word of honour, you'll think you're in a cradle, you won't notice the speed. If there's something new in surgery you certainly try it …'

‘I don't know,' said the old gentleman doubtfully. ‘What do you think, Hackendahl?'

‘As you wish, Herr Geheimrat,' said Hackendahl formally. ‘If I may speak, however, in eight minutes I can get you to the hospital – and nothing ever goes wrong with me or ever did.'

‘Well, Papa, if you want to take your cabby's advice about cars …'

Old Hackendahl had had a good deal to put up with that morning
but ‘cabby' was almost too much. By the mercy of heaven the Geheimrat said at once: ‘You know quite well, my dear boy, that Hackendahl isn't a cabby. And now I'll make you an offer – I'll go with Hackendahl and you can go in your car alongside us and I'll watch your little craft from my anchorage and if it's not too stormy you may drive me back home.'

Geheimrat Buchbinder had spoken quietly but firmly. The son's tone was somewhat annoyed. ‘As you like, Papa.' He turned towards his car.

The old gentleman pulled the rug over his knees and settled down comfortably. ‘Now drive slowly, Hackendahl. In any case he'll at once catch us up with his twenty or forty horse-power.'

Hackendahl was glad to get this order because the grey had been indignant for some time about the horror standing just in front, and the chauffeur had begun to jerk the starting handle. Dense little clouds, blue and stinking, issued from the exhaust right in the grey's face.

‘Gently, Hackendahl, gently,' shouted the Geheimrat, who had almost been flung off his seat. ‘Drive slowly – you're to go slowly, Hackendahl, we don't want any racing here.'

Nor did Hackendahl; but it was a pity the grey did not feel like that too. The excited creature was galloping down the Bendlerstrasse. She turned so sharply into the Tiergartenstrasse that the wheels grazed the kerb. Then, rather less furiously, but still foaming at the bit, she passed the green expanse of lawns.

‘You must be mad, Hackendahl,' groaned the Geheimrat.

‘It's the grey. She hates motor cars.'

‘I thought you only had quiet animals.'

‘So I do, Herr Geheimrat. But when something like that is exploding and stinking right in her face …'

‘Then drive slowly. In no circumstances are you to try to race it.'

Hackendahl looked cautiously round – not a sign of the car. Couldn't get the old tin to move, of course! Well, the Geheimrat should see for himself which was the more reliable – a decent horse or a machine. And he grinned.

At a goodish trot they drove down the Siegesallee.

‘Lots of people,' remarked the Geheimrat.

‘That's the fine weather.'

‘And the excitement! Have you read about the murder at Sarajevo, Hackendahl?'

‘Yes, Herr Geheimrat. Do you think there will be war?'

‘War! Because of the Serbs? Never, Hackendahl! You'll see, they'll give way. There won't be a war.'

In the distance sounded a horn. Hackendahl heard it and the grey heard it too, laying back her ears.

Hackendahl took a firm grasp of the reins. ‘I believe your son's coming, Herr Geheimrat.'

‘So he got the thing going after all. Well, no racing, please, Hackendahl.'

Nearer and nearer sounded the horn, almost uninterruptedly, a screech and a warning. But to the horse it was pure alarm. Trotting faster, she flung her head from side to side … Slowly the green monster came alongside, reached the driver's box, the grey's hindquarters, her head … She reared in the shafts, the cab seemed to stop a moment, and then the horse bolted.

‘You're not to …' came the Geheimrat's voice.

Parallel with the horse ran the motor car, clattering, honking, smelling. Although Hackendahl looked straight ahead between the grey's ears, keeping an eye open for any obstacle, he was still conscious of the chauffeur's sneering face. That fellow mustn't see a sign of weakness.

They had gone round the Victory Column without disaster when a new danger was sighted in the form of a spike-helmeted policeman, to whom the wild chase and galloping horse were highly displeasing. With a thick notebook in one hand, the other raised aloft, he stepped into the road for the purpose of putting a stop to these breaches of the traffic regulations.

Easy for him to command – Hackendahl was only too ready to obey – but the grey was subject to her instincts alone and raced on, so that the policeman had to make a most unmilitary leap to safety and was left far behind. And Hackendahl, racing onward, knew that particulars were being taken – he would be fined – and ever afterwards he would be a ‘previous offender'.

With a desperate effort he pulled the horse to the right into the
quiet Hindersinstrasse; outmanoeuvred, the motor car shot past; the horse made another ten or fifteen bounds, fell into a canter, then into a trot …

Hackendahl realized that the Geheimrat was tugging at his arm. ‘Stop, you fool, don't you understand?' yelled the old gentleman, crimson with rage.

Hackendahl stopped. ‘Excuse me, Herr Geheimrat, the grey bolted. The motor car upset her. The chauffeur did that intentionally.'

‘Racing like mad!' said the old gentleman, still trembling. ‘Old people, racing!' He got out. ‘We've driven together for the last time, Hackendahl. Send in your bill! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

‘But it wasn't my fault. The quietest horse wouldn't stand it.'

A horn sounded. The car, that triumphant monster, had circled the block of buildings and cut them off. Defeated and exhausted, the grey stood with hanging head; she did not move even when the car drew up beside her.

‘You blame it on the horse!' cried the Geheimrat. ‘But the horse is standing still. No, it's you who wanted to race the car, Hackendahl, you alone.'

Hackendahl said nothing. With gloomy eyes he watched the Geheimrat get into the car with his smiling son. The burden God imposed on a just man was heavy indeed to bear.

For half an hour Frau Hackendahl had worked with chisel, hammer and pliers on the padlock to the cellar door, and had beaten the staple out of shape and bent the shackle, injuring her fingers but not opening the door.

Weary and despairing, she sat down on a stair tread. From the distance, through two doors, she imagined she could hear her imprisoned son calling. But he called in vain – she could not get to him. When she thought of the trouble she was inviting from her husband, and all for the lost labour of a spoiled padlock, she was filled with an ever-increasing despair.

And, as it was now, so had it been the whole of her life; her
intentions had not been bad, her courage not less than that of other people, but success had never been hers. The marriage was not successful, the children hadn't turned out as she had hoped, she hadn't broken open the door.

She looked at the lock. Certainly she could have fetched a locksmith but one didn't expose to a stranger the family shames. She could have gone into the yard and listened at the cellar grating, but the neighbours might be watching and laughing. Life was such that you couldn't tell your own husband what you couldn't stand most about him. And if you did tell him, he wouldn't listen, and if he heard, it wouldn't change anything. Life was unbearable anyhow, and yet one endured it.

And now she was getting old and fat (she liked her food), and the faint, meaningless hope she cherished that everything might still be different was the stupidest thing of all. Exactly the same hope as in a young girl still existed in her old, used-up, bloated body. Not once even had it been fulfilled, but hope lived on more stubbornly than ever, whispering: if you get the door open and set Erich free, everything may yet change.

Nothing but this absurd padlock stood between her and a better life, just as it had always been some trifle which had unfailingly prevented her from enjoying existence. Only trifles – that was the worst of it! And it was the same for Erich. Because of a trifling sum, a few marks, he was to be branded as a criminal.

Life was so miserably limited. Absolutely nothing happened. If a local girl had a baby, it was news for years. Little people, little lives! Her body was enormously swollen, but her own soul – who she really was – that was just the same size as when she was a little girl. That hadn't grown.