Little Man, What Now? (4 page)

‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘So, first, the deductions.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You can’t change those. Taxes 6 marks and unemployment insurance 2 marks 70. Employee’s insurance 4 marks, public health scheme 5 marks 40. Union dues 4 marks 50 …’

‘You can do without that union …’

Pinneberg said with some impatience: ‘Oh, lay off. I’ve had enough of that from your father.’

‘All right,’ said Lammchen. ‘That makes 22 marks 60 deductions. You don’t need any fares, do you?’

‘I don’t, thank goodness.’

‘So we’re left with 157 basic. What would the rent be?’

‘I don’t know, actually. A room and a kitchen, furnished. Must be 40 marks.’

‘Let’s say 45,’ was Lammchen’s opinion. ‘That leaves 112 marks 40. What do you think we need for food?’

‘What would you say?’

‘Mother always says she needs 1 mark 50 a day for each of us.’

‘That’s 90 marks a month,’ he said.

‘Then there’ll be 22 marks 40 left over,’ she said.

They looked at each other.

‘And it doesn’t leave us anything for heat,’ said Lammchen swiftly, ‘Or gas, or light or postage. There’s nothing for clothes, or linen, or shoes. And you have to buy your own cutlery sometimes.’

‘It’d be nice to go to the cinema once in a while. And go on an outing on Sundays. I do like to have the odd cigarette, too.’

‘And we want to save something.’

‘At least 20 marks a month.’

‘Thirty.’

‘But how?’

‘Let’s add it up again.’

‘There’s nothing to be done about the deductions.’

‘And you can’t get a room and a kitchen any cheaper.’

‘Possibly five marks cheaper.’

‘Well … we’ll see. I would like to take a newspaper.’

‘Of course. The food is the only thing we can cut down on. So, perhaps 10 marks less.’

They looked at each other again.

‘We still won’t manage. And saving’s out of the question.’

‘Tell me,’ she said anxiously. ‘Do you always have to wear starched shirts? I couldn’t iron them.’

‘Yes. The boss insists on it. A shirt costs sixty pfennigs to iron and a collar costs ten.’

‘That’s another five marks a month,’ she calculated.

‘And there’s shoe repairs.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s dreadfully dear.’

A pause.

‘Let’s add it up again.’

After a while: ‘So let’s take another ten marks off the food. But I can’t do it for under seventy.’

‘How do other people manage?’

‘I really don’t know. Loads of other people have a lot less.’ ‘I don’t understand it.’

‘There must be a mistake somewhere. Let’s add it up again.’

They added it up over and over again, but it always came out the same. They looked at each other. ‘Do you know what?’ said Lammchen suddenly, ‘If I get married, surely I can cash my employee’s insurance?’

‘Oh great!’ he said ‘That’ll put in a hundred and twenty marks at least.’

‘What about your mother?’ she asked. ‘You’ve never told me
anything about her.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said shortly, ‘I never write to her.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s that, then.’

There was another silence.

A dead end had been reached, so they stood up, and stepped onto the balcony. The courtyard was almost completely dark now; the town itself had gone quiet. In the distance, a car hooted.

He was deep in thought. ‘A haircut costs eighty pfennigs as well,’ he said.

‘Oh, stop it,’ she begged. ‘If other people manage, we can, too. It’ll be all right.’

‘Now listen, Lammchen,’ he said. ‘I won’t give you any housekeeping money. At the beginning of the month we’ll put all our money in a pot, and we can each take out what we need.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a nice pot for that: blue earthenware. I’ll show it you. And we’ll be very economical. I might even learn to starch shirts.’

‘And there’s no sense in getting five-pfennig cigarettes,’ he said, ‘You can get perfectly decent ones for three.’

Suddenly she shrieked: ‘Heavens! Sonny, we’ve forgotten the Shrimp! He’ll cost money!’

He thought about it. ‘But what costs are there for such a small child? After all there’s the Confinement Grant, and the Nursing Mother’s Grant and we’ll be paying less tax … I don’t think he’ll cost anything at all for the first year or two.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said doubtfully.

A white figure was standing in the doorway.

‘Aren’t you two going to bed at all tonight?’ asked Mrs Morschel. ‘You could still get three hours’ sleep.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said Lammchen.

‘Go on, then,’ said the old lady. ‘I’ll sleep with Father tonight. Karl’s not coming home. You can take him into bed with you, your …’ The door slammed, leaving whatever he was unsaid.

‘I don’t want to, actually,’ said Pinneberg, rather offended. ‘It’s awkward here, in your parents’ place.’

‘Oh God, Sonny,’ she laughed. ‘I believe Karl’s right. You are a bourgeois …’

‘Not a bit of it,’ he protested. ‘If it doesn’t bother your parents …’ He hesitated again. ‘What if Dr Sesame were wrong; I’ve got nothing on me.’

‘In that case let’s go back and sit on the kitchen chairs,’ she suggested. ‘I’m aching all over.’

‘Oh no, I’ll come, Lammchen,’ he said repentantly.

‘Not if you don’t want to …’

‘I’m a sheep, Lammchen! I’m a sheep!’

‘That makes two of us,’ said she. ‘We should get on well.’

‘We will! You’ll see!’ he said.

PART ONE
THE SMALL TOWN

THE MARRIAGE BEGINS AS IT SHOULD, WITH A WEDDING TRIP, BUT—DO WE NEED A CASSEROLE?

The train which left Platz for Ducherow at 2.10 on that Saturday in August bearing Mr and Mrs Pinneberg in a third-class nonsmoking compartment was also transporting in its luggage van a largish wicker trunk with Emma’s belongings, a bag with Emma’s bedding, but only hers (‘how are we supposed to pay for his?—he can get it himself’), and a wooden egg-crate with Emma’s china.

The train was quickly out of the large town of Platz; no one had come to the station; the last suburban houses were left behind, then came fields. For a while the train ran along beside the shimmering Strela, then came woodland with birch trees along the tracks.

The only other person in the compartment was a grumpy-looking man who could not make up his mind whether to read the newspaper, look at the scenery, or watch the young couple. He switched surprisingly from one pastime to the other, and always caught the two of them out just when they believed themselves completely safe from his gaze.

Pinneberg laid his right hand ostentatiously on his knee, where the ring gleamed reassuringly. After all, Grumpy-face wasn’t seeing anything that wasn’t sanctioned by law. But he was not looking at the ring just then, he was observing the scenery.

‘The ring looks fine,’ said Pinneberg contentedly. ‘You wouldn’t know it’s only gilt.’

‘You know it’s funny wearing a ring; I can feel it all the time and I can’t help looking at it.’

‘That’s because you’re not used to it. People who have been married a long time don’t notice it at all. They don’t even know
when they’ve lost it.’

‘That’d never happen to me!’ exclaimed Lammchen indignantly, ‘I’ll always know it’s there, always, always!’

‘Me too,’ declared Pinneberg. ‘Because it reminds me of you.’

‘And me of you!’

Their heads moved closer together, closer and closer. And then pulled away: Grumpy-face was now giving them a perfectly barefaced stare.

‘He’s not from Ducherow,’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘I’d know him.’

‘D’you know everyone around here?’

‘Anyone who’s anyone, of course I do. From when I used to sell men’s and women’s wear at Bergmanns. That way you get to know everybody.’

‘Why did you give that up? It’s your line really, isn’t it?’

‘Had a row with the boss,’ said Pinneberg, shortly.

Lammchen would have liked to inquire further, but she sensed another abyss, so she left it there. There was plenty of time for everything now they were properly married in a Registry Office.

His thoughts must have been running along similar lines, for he said: ‘Your mother will have got back home a long time ago.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mother’s cross, that’s why she didn’t come to the station with us. When we were coming away from the Registry Office, she said: “What a mingy wedding”.’

‘She’s better saving her money. I hate those sort of festive blowouts where everyone makes dirty jokes.’

‘Of course,’ said Lammchen. ‘It would just have been fun for Mother.’

‘We didn’t get married so your mother could have some fun,’ he rejoined swiftly.

Pause.

‘Hey,’ Lammchen began again, ‘I’m dying to see our flat.’

‘Ah well, I hope you like it. There’s not much choice in
Ducherow.’

‘Come on then, Hannes, describe it to me.’

‘All right,’ he said, and began once again to describe what he had often described before.

‘As I told you, it’s right out of town. In the depths of the country.’

‘That’s what I think’s so nice …’

‘But it’s a real tenement block. Mothes the Builders put it out there thinking other people would come and build out there. But nobody’s come.’

‘Why not?’

‘I dunno. Too lonely for people, twenty minutes out of town, no proper road.’

‘About the flat,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, well, we’re right at the top, with a widow called Mrs Scharrenhofer.’

‘What’s she like then?’

‘Ah, what can I say? She came on very refined, and I guess she has seen better days, but what with inflation … Anyway she did a lot of weeping when I was there.’

‘Oh Lord!’

‘She’s not going to cry all the time. And anyway we’re going to keep ourselves to ourselves, aren’t we? We don’t want to mix with other people. We’ve got each other and that’s enough.’

‘Of course. But what if she pesters us?’

‘I don’t think she will. She’s a very refined old lady with snow white hair. And she’s terribly anxious about her things. It’s all good stuff and belonged to her late mother; and we have to remember to sit down slowly on the sofa—it has good old-fashioned springs and won’t bear any sudden weight.’

‘I only hope I remember,’ said Lammchen doubtfully. ‘If I’m really happy or if I’m sad and feel like bursting into tears I may well sit down and not give the good old-fashioned springs a thought.’

‘You must,’ said Pinneberg sternly. ‘You’ve got to. And you mustn’t wind up the clock under the glass case on the display cabinet. Nor must I. Only she can do that.’

‘Then she can take her silly old clock out. I don’t want a clock in my home that I can’t wind up.’

‘It’s no big problem. We can simply say we’re disturbed by the chime.’

‘Let’s do it this evening! Who knows, those grand sort of clocks may have to be wound up every night. So come on, tell me. What’s it like when you come up the stairs and you get to the door of the flat, and then …’

‘Then there’s the hall, which we share. The first door on the left is our kitchen. That’s to say … it’s not really a proper kitchen; it must have been just an attic room once, under the sloping roof, but there’s a gas cooker …’

‘With two burners,’ completed Lammchen, in a melancholy tone. ‘How I’ll cope with that is a mystery to me. Nobody can cook on two burners, it’s impossible. Mother has four.’

‘Of course it’s possible with two.’

‘You wait and see.’

‘We want to eat very simply, and two burners are perfectly adequate.’

‘Yes, I know. But you’d like some soup; that’s one saucepan. Some meat: two saucepans. Vegetables: three. And potatoes: four. So while I’ve got two pots heating on the two burners, the other two will have gone cold. So how, if you please …?’

‘Oh,’ he said meditatively. ‘I don’t know …’

And then, in a fright: ‘But then you’ll need four saucepans!’

‘I will indeed,’ she said proudly. ‘And that’s not all. I have to have a casserole.’

‘Oh no! I only bought one saucepan!’

Lammchen was adamant. ‘So we have to buy four more.’

‘But that can’t be done on my salary, we’ll have to take it out
of our savings again!’

‘It can’t be helped, Sonny. Be reasonable. What must be, must be. We do need the saucepans.’

‘I didn’t think it was going to be like this,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought we’d get along nicely
and
save money, and here we are starting to spend it already.’

‘But if it can’t be helped!’

‘A casserole is quite unnecessary!’ he said heatedly. ‘I never eat anything stewed. Never! Never! Just for the occasional bit of stewed meat, it would be crazy to lay out on a casserole.’

‘Then what about roulades?’ asked Lammchen. ‘And pot roasts?’

‘And there isn’t any water in the kitchen, either,’ he said despairingly. ‘For water, you’ll have to go in to Frau Scharrenhofer’s kitchen.’

‘Oh Lord!’ she said yet again.

From a distance a marriage looks so extraordinarily easy: two people marry and have children. They live together, are as nice as possible to each other, and try to get on in life. Friendship, love, kindliness, food, drink, sleep, going to work, housekeeping, an outing on a Sunday, occasionally a visit to the cinema in the evening! And that’s it.

But close up, the whole business dissolves into a thousand individual problems. The marriage itself recedes into the background; it is taken for granted and is simply the precondition for the rest. But what about the casserole? And should he tell Mrs Scharrenhofer this very evening to take the clock out of the room? That’s the reality.

Both of them sensed it dimly. But those weren’t yet urgent problems; all thought of casseroles was forgotten in the realization that they were now alone in the compartment. Grumpy-face had got out somewhere and they had not even noticed. Casserole and clock were thrown to the winds as they fell into each other’s
arms.

The train rattled along; and they kissed and kissed, pausing only to draw breath. Then the train began to slow down: Ducherow was approaching.

‘Oh no, not already!’ they cried together.

PINNEBERG TURNS MYSTERIOUS AND LAMMCHEN HAS SOME RIDDLES TO SOLVE

‘I’ve ordered a car,’ said Pinneberg hastily. ‘The walk to our place would be too much for you.’