Wolf Among Wolves (24 page)

“Minna,” shouted Wolfgang, and shook the old servant vigorously. She was quite beside herself. “Tell me what has happened to Peter. Is she …?”

“Oh? Do you really care, Wolf, even though you’ve run away from her on her wedding day and sold all the clothes off her body and left her with nothing but a shabby overcoat? The one from your husband, madam—and nothing underneath, no stockings, nothing … And so the police have arrested her. And what’s the worst of all, I’ll never forgive you for it, Wolf, she was starving. She was retching again and again and almost fell down the stairs.”

“But where do the police come in?” Wolfgang shouted despairingly, shaking Minna as hard as he could. “What have the police to do with it?”

“How should I know?” Minna shouted back, and tried to free herself from the young master who was unconsciously holding her still tighter. “How do I know what mess you’ve got her into? Of her own accord Petra’s done nothing wrong; I know her too well for that. And the vulgar person who lives on the same floor is going about saying that it serves Peter right because she considered herself too good to walk the streets. But I gave her something!” For a moment Minna stood there triumphantly. Then she said sullenly: “God bless her for not doing it, though you and all you menfolk don’t deserve anything better.”

Wolfgang let go of Minna so suddenly that she almost fell. She became silent at once.

“Mamma,” he said agitatedly. “Mamma, I haven’t the least idea what’s happened. I can’t make it out at all. I left about midday and tried to borrow
some money. It’s true that I sold Petra’s clothes and that we owed the landlady money, and it’s possible that she hasn’t had much to eat lately. I admit I didn’t notice. I was very often away from there. But what the police have to do with all this!” He was speaking in lower and lower tones. It would have been much easier to tell all this to Minna than to his mother sitting there so wooden, so hard, and, incidentally, just under that particular painting. Well, that was done with, that was all over.

“Anyway, whatever may be the matter with the police, I’ll settle it at once. I’m quite certain, Mamma, that there’s no real trouble—we’ve done nothing, nothing. I’ll go there at once. It must be a mistake. Only, Mamma …” It grew increasingly difficult to speak to the dark woman who sat there quite unmoved, distant, hostile.… “Only, Mamma, unfortunately I’m at the moment without any money whatsoever. I need some for the fare, perhaps to settle with the landlady on the spot, for bail, I can’t tell; things for Petra, too, food.” He stared intently at his mother. There was need for haste. Peter must be freed, he must leave at once. Why didn’t she go to her desk and fetch the money?

“You’re worked up, Wolfgang,” said Frau Pagel, “but, in spite of that, we mustn’t act rashly. I fully agree with you—something must be done for the girl at once. But I don’t think you in your present condition are the right person to do it. Perhaps there will be lengthy explanations with the police—and you are somewhat lacking in self-control, Wolfgang. I think we should call up my solicitor, Justizrat Thomas. He knows all about such matters; he’ll settle it quicker and more smoothly than you.”

Wolfgang looked at his mother’s mouth as if he must not only hear the words she uttered but also read them from her lips. He passed his hand over his face; it felt so dry, the skin really ought to rustle. The hand, however, came away damp.

“Mamma,” he pleaded, “I can’t let this matter be settled by your lawyer and meanwhile sit here calmly, have a bath and eat my supper. I ask you to help me this once in
my
way. I must settle the matter myself, help Peter myself, fetch her out myself, speak with her myself.”

“That’s just like you,” said Frau Pagel, again rapping her knuckles on the table. “I have to remind you, Wolfgang, unfortunately, that if you have asked me once to do what you want in your own way, you have asked me a hundred times. And whenever I did so, it was always a mistake.”

“Mamma, you can’t compare this case with some childish trifle.”

“Dear boy, whenever you wanted anything all the rest was only a trifle. But this time I won’t yield, it doesn’t matter what you say, if only because these negotiations would bring you into contact with the girl. Be glad you got rid of
her; don’t start all over again because of some mistake on the part of the police, or because of some foolish backstairs gossip.” She glanced sourly at Minna, who was standing in the doorway—her accustomed place. “Today you have finally separated from her. You’ve given up this ridiculous wedding, you’ve returned to me, and I’ve received you without any question or reproach. Am I now to witness you and the girl come together again, in fact help you to do this? No, Wolfgang, on no account!”

She sat erect and gaunt, looking at him with flaming eyes. She had not the slightest doubt in her mind, and her will was adamant. Had she ever been gay and free? Had she ever laughed, ever loved a man? All was past and gone. Gone! His father had scorned her advice, but she was not disconcerted; she had persevered. And should she now give way to the son? Do what she did not approve of? Never!

Wolfgang looked at her. He was rather like his mother. With his lower jaw pushed forward, his eyes glistening, he said very gently: “I didn’t quite catch that, Mamma. Today I’ve finally separated from Peter?”

She made a hasty movement. “Don’t let’s talk about it. I require no explanations. You’re here, that’s enough for me.”

And he, more gently if possible: “So I’ve given up this ridiculous wedding?”

She scented danger, but it did not make her cautious, only aggressive. “When the bridegroom doesn’t turn up at the registry office,” she said, “then one can draw a certain conclusion.”

“Mamma,” retorted Wolfgang, sitting down on the other side of the table and leaning across it, “you seem to be very well informed about my comings and goings. You ought to know then that the bride didn’t turn up either.”

Outside it had grown quite dark. A first gust of wind swayed the treetops, a few yellow leaves whirled through the window. In the doorway stood Minna, forgotten by mother as by son. And now there was a flash of lightning and the tense faces gleamed and were blotted out in a deeper gloom. There was a rumble of distant thunder.

The elements wanted to break out, but Frau Pagel tried to control herself. “Wolfgang,” she pleaded, “we don’t want to argue about the extent you’ve separated from Petra. I’m convinced that if this incident with the police hadn’t occurred you would have almost forgotten about her. Leave this matter to a lawyer, I beg you, Wolfgang, and I’ve never asked you so earnestly before. Do what I want for once.”

The son heard the mother pleading as he had pleaded with her a few minutes ago, but he paid no attention. In the gloom her face was dim. Behind
her head the sky lighted up in sulphur-yellow, fell back into darkness and flashed anew.

“Mamma,” said Wolfgang, and his will was strengthened more and more by her resistance, “you’re very much mistaken. I didn’t come here because I had separated, partly or entirely, from Petra. I came because I wanted money for this ridiculous wedding.”

For a moment his mother sat motionless. But, however hard the blow was, she did not show it. “Well, my son, then I can tell you that you come in vain,” she replied bitterly. “You shan’t get a penny for that purpose here.” Her voice was very quiet but unfaltering. Still more quietly and without a trace of excitement, he replied: “I know you, and I never expected a different answer. You love only those people who want to be saved in your way, though one cannot congratulate you on the salvation you yourself have achieved.”

“Oh,” groaned the woman. This was a mortal blow—to her whole life, her whole being, her marriage and motherhood—struck by her own son.

But this cry of pain excited him all the more. Just as, in the world outside, oppressive heat and stench had simmered together since the early hours of the morning and were now at boiling point, so had possessiveness, an old woman’s assurance, the arbitrary exploitation of her position as mother and as guardian of the money, long been simmering together in him. But what made his anger dangerous was not these things, nor his mother’s contempt for Petra (who, without this, would not have had such significance). From his own weakness, from his own cowardice, came the hottest glow. And he had to revenge himself for having given way to her a hundred times. He was terrible now because he had been so afraid of this scene. His anger was shameless because it had been his intention to smuggle the painting away.

“Oh!” His mother’s groan had released in him a deep joy. It was a hungry age, a wolf age. Sons turned against parents, one hungry pack bared its teeth against another—who is strong shall live! But the weak must die. And let me do the killing!

“And I’ve also to tell you, Mother, that when I came into the room so quietly a moment ago, I was under the impression that you were out. I wanted to take away the painting secretly,
the
painting; you know which one I mean—the painting you gave me.”

“I’ve never given you a painting!” she said very quickly, but with an unmistakable tremor in her voice.

Wolfgang heard it clearly. But he talked on. He was drunk with revenge, shameless.

“I wanted to sell it secretly. Get a lot of money for it, nice money, a heap of money, foreign money, dollars, pounds, Danish kronen—and give it all to my dear good Petra.” He was sneering at her, but also at himself. He was a fool. Ah! this was even better than gambling; it excited him, inflamed him—to talk into the darkness against the lightning and the almost incessant threat and rumble of thunder far away. Out of the primeval origins of all human existence, liberated by this evil age, rose the earliest hatred of children for their parents. Youth against Age, recklessness against slow deliberation, blood against cold flesh.…

“I wanted to take it away without your knowing, but that, of course, was nonsense. It’s just as well to tell you everything once and for all—everything.… And after I’ve spoken I’ll take away the picture.”

“I won’t give it up,” she cried, jumping to her feet and standing in front of it. “No!”

“I’ll take it,” he said undaunted, and remained seated. “I’ll carry it off before your eyes and sell it, and Petra shall get the money, all of it.”

“You won’t take it by force!” There was fear in her voice.

“I shall take it by force,” he cried, “since I intend to have it. And you’ll be sensible. You know I want it, and that I’ll get it, too.”

“I’ll call the police,” she threatened, wavering between telephone and picture.

“You won’t call the police,” he laughed, “because you know quite well you gave me the picture.”

“Look at him, Minna,” cried Frau Pagel, and now she had forgotten that it was her son standing there. She saw in him the male, the male who always acted contrary to common sense, woman’s enemy from the beginning of time.

“Look at him! He can’t wait to get back to his girl! To deliver her from the police! It’s all lies and acting. She interests him as little as anything else. He only cares about money.” She mocked him. “Nice money, much money, dollars, pounds—but not for the dear, beautiful, good Petra in jail, for Fräulein Ledig; no, for the gaming table.”

She stepped aside, surrendering the picture, stood at the table, rapped it hollowly. “There, take it. That’s the worst I can do for you, to let you have it. Sell it, get money, a heap of money. And that will show your silly, obstinate, cantankerous mother to be in the right again—you won’t make the girl happy with it. You’ll lose the money gambling, just as you’ve gambled away everything else—love, decency, feeling, ambition, the power to work.” She stood there breathless, with flaming eyes.

“Anyhow, I thank you, Mamma,” said Wolfgang, suddenly dead tired of quarreling and talking. “And that’s the end of that, eh? And of everything else, too. I’ll send for my things this evening; I don’t want to burden you with them any longer. With regard to your prophecies, though—”

“Take everything,” she shouted, trembling in every limb as she watched him remove the picture from the wall. “Don’t you want some of the silver for the bride’s dowry? Take it. Oh, I know you Pagels,” she cried, and was once more the young girl she had been long, long before her betrothal and marriage. “Outwardly kind and gentle, but inwardly greedy and barren. Go! Go quickly! I don’t want to see you any more. I’ve sacrificed my life to you and in the end you’ve thrown mud at me, father as well as son, one the image of the other.… Yes, go, without a word, without a look. Your father was like that, too; he was too grand for arguments, and when he wanted to do anything at night which would give him a bad conscience, he used to creep out of the room in his stocking feet.”

Wolfgang was already going, the picture under his arm. He had looked round, intending to ask Minna for brown paper and string, but she stood stiffly in the doorway. And he was, above all, conscious of his mother’s voice, that shrill, merciless voice, like a cracked bell, eternally clanging since his childhood.

He would carry the picture as it was. He must get away before it rained.

But as he crossed the threshold of the room to the accompaniment of that wild raving voice, the old servant, that silly goose whom one could never please, burst forth in his very face: “Shame on you! Shame on you!”

He shrugged his shoulders. He had done it for Petra; it was Minna’s opinion also that he ought to have done something for the girl. But never mind, let them talk.

He was out of the flat, the door was closed. Once he had chipped a corner off its porcelain name plate. He went downstairs.

How much would he get for the picture?

IV

On this twenty-sixth day of July, 1923, the divorced Countess Mutzbauer
(née
Fräulein Fischmann) wished to go into the country to have a look at some farms with her present friend, a Berlin cattle dealer by the name of Quarkus.

Quarkus was a man in his late forties, stocky, with dark curly thinning hair, fleshy forehead, and a roll of fat at the back of the neck; a married man for almost a quarter of a century, and the father of five children. At first he had regarded the inflation favorably, since it had made him richer and richer, a few
months changing a man with a weekly turnover of a wagon-load of pigs and two dozen cattle into a wholesale dealer whose buyers traveled into South Germany and even into Holland. Before the cattle, paid for in advance, arrived in Berlin, indeed even before they were dispatched, their value had risen twofold, threefold, and even fivefold, and Quarkus had always proved to be right when he had told his buyers: “Pay what the people ask you—it’s little enough.”