Iron Gustav (36 page)

‘First number, fresh from the barrel!' grinned Heinz. ‘Tops, isn't it?'

‘
Red Flag
,' said Tutti, frowning. ‘I always thought the national colours made a good flag, Heinz.'

‘Of
course! What do you think we're talking about? You haven't got it, Tutti. Look carefully. This is just the usual old scandal gazette. The brothers have just printed it off and renamed it. If I think of Father getting the
Red Flag
through his letter box this evening instead of his favourite
Local Gazett
e …' Heinz grinned again.

‘And that's supposed to be funny?' asked Tutti sadly. ‘I don't understand you, Heinz! They're simply pinching people's newspapers – stealing in other words.'

‘That's revolution for you, Tutti.'

‘Then be off with your revolution! For some it's letting prisoners out of jail, and you say it's stealing newspapers – and that's supposed to be revolution? I say it's a swindle!'

‘I told you straight away,' Irma joined in, ‘don't buy it. In the street-fighting there were also red flags, and then, when we left the meeting because we thought there'd be shooting – there were more red flags.'

‘You seem to have been through quite a bit?!'

‘Yes, I'll tell you in a moment … but first of all you must see something.'

Heinz couldn't help it. Despite his failure with the newspaper, he showed them his Reichstag pass, and told them what they intended to do and had already done.

Tutti's lips pressed hard together when she heard of the chaotic street-fighting.

‘Non-commissioned soldiers, did you say, Heinz? Non-commissioned soldiers?'

‘Yes. Of course I was a fool to have told you that, Tutti. It merely upsets you.'

‘And your brother took part? Didn't he even consider that Otto … ?'

‘I could never stand Erich,' said Eva. ‘He was always Father's favourite, but—'

‘No, Father's favourite was actually you.'

‘No, Bubi. Father was just in love with me, but he really liked Erich. He could get anything out of him with his laughter.'

‘He's certainly a cunning devil,' admitted Heinz.

‘A dandy!' cried Irma, ‘a regular matinée idol!'

‘Heinz,' asked Tutti, ‘show me that pass once again, will you?'

She
took it and looked. ‘Workers' and Soldiers' Council,' she whispered. ‘But no soldiers are back from the Front yet!'

She held up the pass and looked at Heinz. ‘Heinz, if you'll listen to me, you'll put the pass, with the newspaper, straight into the oven.'

‘So we shouldn't go into the Reichstag? But what's going on there is extremely interesting, Tutti. I'm definitely not going there because of Erich. I couldn't care less what he does. But I know nothing about the revolution. You really have to know about that. What are the Spartacists? Why does my beloved brother Erich steal audiences from Liebknecht? Liebknecht is a Social Democrat, too, I believe? You've got to know something about all that, you know!'

‘But why must you know more about it, Heinz?' asked Tutti, upset. ‘You already know the revolution is bad, simply from how it feels … and don't feelings show you what's right?'

‘Yes, perhaps – for sure. But that isn't enough. You've got a head on your shoulders too. You've got to
know
as well.'

‘And you think you'll get anything out of Erich?' asked Eva mischievously. ‘So idiotic! He merely wants to schmooze around, so you don't tell Father.'

Heinz kept his mouth shut tight. He knew very well that Eva could never stand Erich; and he didn't actually like him either … but Eva's way of doing things was not right – pure hostility, to find everything bad just because Erich was involved.

‘Look, Tutti,' he said, and completely ignored Eva. ‘I'm sorry to begin it all again, even if it does hurt you. About the street-fighting, I mean. I know you are shocked. But there were many hundreds of people on the streets, and war-wounded as well. You saw that too, didn't you, Irma?'

Irma nodded.

‘And if no one had done anything, and if the old soldiers believe the street-fighting must stop, there must be more to it than just bloody-mindedness. I mean there must be a meaning to it somewhere.'

‘Bloody-mindedness is always the same,' insisted Tutti. ‘I can't understand why you're trying to make sense out of it. Injustice always remains injustice.'

‘I'm
not saying,' began Heinz again, very stubbornly, ‘that injustice is justice. I only want to understand, Tutti, why—'

‘I never want to understand such things,' said Tutti bitterly. ‘I don't even want to know about them.'

‘Yes, you do, Tutti. You do!' countered Heinz. ‘You've committed an injustice yourself and discovered that it was quite just.'

She stared at him uncomprehending. ‘I what?'

‘You took butter and eggs where you could, and said it's right!'

‘That's completely different!' she almost shouted. ‘How can you say such a thing, Heinz? Should I have left my children to starve?'

‘Of course it's completely different, Tutti,' he said quietly. ‘I don't want to hurt you. What's the same is the others who are starving even more, and the judges who judge them as unjust.'

‘Fancy comparing a pound of butter (and I never took more than a half) with street-fighting!'

‘Just ignore the tearing-off of shoulder straps. It's just a symbol of people not wanting bosses any more. Everyone should be equal, or something like that.' He got confused, but soon found the thread again. ‘Just think how it is with the Hackendahls – father and children. Wasn't it true of Otto, Tutti?'

‘What do you mean, Otto? You shouldn't even mention Otto, if you talk about shoulder straps!'

‘I'm talking about Father, about Father and Otto! Didn't Otto hate Father and didn't he in the end rebel against him? And what might Father have thought about that, Tutti? Didn't Otto tear off Father's shoulder straps too?'

For a moment it was deadly quiet in the kitchen. Heinz stood tall and pale over his little sister-in-law.

Her eyes were closed. She was finding it hard to think.

Then she begged him: ‘Get out, please. All of you get out of my kitchen. No, I'm not angry with you, Bubi. You may even be right. Perhaps what you say is true, but I don't want to know … I don't want to hear about it ever again … You've really hurt me, Bubi. I only know that Otto was good, and if he hurt his father, it was because he had to, but he didn't want to …'

‘Come along, Heinz,' said Irma. ‘You're only tormenting her.'

‘Yes,
Heinz, go to the Reichstag. Go everywhere, listen, and whatever you like. You'll only find bad things.'

He stretched out his hand hesitantly. ‘Goodbye, Tutti!'

She smiled weakly. ‘Oh, Bubi, you dear boy! How you're going to get your fingers burnt! You've such a soft heart. What you said hurt you just as much as it did me. All you Hackendahls are soft – the children I mean.'

‘Goodbye, Tutti.'

‘Goodbye, Bubi! Try not to hurt yourself too much …'

Once down in the street, Irma asked, ‘But we're going to the Reichstag, aren't we?'

‘You can depend on it,' said Heinz.

‘And when do we go home?'

‘When it's time.'

‘And what will your father say?'

‘I don't even think about it!'

Of course he did think about it, but suddenly he didn't care what his father would say. For very many years his father's words had sounded like thunder, or the word of God, in his ears. Now he had become deaf to them, just as soldiers no longer heard their officers' orders, and workers no longer listened to their employers.

Everything seemed chaotic and increasingly confusing – Tutti and the newspaper, the torn-off shoulder straps, Otto's rebellion against Father, brother Erich with his office in the Reichstag, and the kidnapped Liebknecht-followers – and the sailor. All confusion! Nevertheless there was a light in everything, a ghostly but increasingly palpable light. There was a sense that some meaning must lie behind all the confusion. Perhaps it was only the feeling of being young, of wanting to live, and not be led by bunglers and become their scapegoats – of wanting to lead his very own life, with all the possibilities of victory and defeat.

‘You say nothing,' said Irma, worried by her friend's silence. ‘I suppose you are thinking.'

‘Exactly!'

‘So what about? About your brother?'

‘That too. What do you think, Irma, did I talk a lot of rubbish at Tutti's?'

‘Half-half.'

‘No, tell me really!'

‘You were perhaps right, but you shouldn't have contradicted Tutti, of all people, if you're angry with all the Hackendahls.'

‘But I didn't mention that.'

‘Of course you did – only that!'

‘Oh, no …' He grew quite angry. So that's what it looked like to others – to stupid women, for instance – if he spoke to the point. ‘Oh, you women,' he consoled himself.

‘Thanks a lot! I'm not a woman – I'm your girlfriend!'

‘Well, true …'

‘And if you let your brother Erich have a bit of your anger with the Hackendahls, that would really please me. There's the Reichstag!'

Yes, there it was. Gloomy and dark, with no crowds swarming round it now, it lay wrapped in the mists of a November evening. Only a very few street lamps were lit. Somewhat uneasily Heinz and Irma mounted the steps to the main entrance, where they were stopped by a soldier, a proper wartime soldier with rifle, steel helmet and hand grenades. The man however wore an armlet with something stamped on it and Heinz assumed that this was identical with what was stamped on Erich's permit, but here he was mistaken. Folding up the slip of paper, the soldier returned it. ‘No longer valid,' he said.

‘But why? I got it only this afternoon.'

‘And this afternoon we smoked the comrades out of here. Workers' and Soldiers' Councils have no standing now. We're Noske's people.'

‘But my brother …'

‘It's quite likely,' said the soldier indifferently, ‘that they're still in the Schloss. But they won't be staying there much longer either; we'll see to that, even if we have to blow up the whole damned place.' And he turned away into the entrance. Rather depressed, the two went back down the steps.

‘What
are we to do now? Shall we go to the Schloss?'

‘That's no use. The pass is for the Reichstag.'

‘But it's not valid.'

‘It'll be even less valid in the Schloss – that's logic, isn't it?'

Undecided, they prowled round the dark building. They tried a second door but were turned back again.

At the third door, however, they were luckier. The news that the Workers' and Soldiers' Councils had been thrown out seemed not to have reached the sentry at the back of the building. ‘See that corridor? Go along there and you'll find a porter. Not that he'll know much either; nobody does at the moment. But you can try.'

They found the porter in his lodge – a dignified, white-haired old gentleman who seemed utterly confused by the excitement and uproar of the last few days. ‘Yes, indeed, Herr Hackendahl has a room here. Of course!' Helplessly he looked at his telephone switchboard, and at the indicator on the wall, showing names and room numbers. He gave a disconsolate shake of the head. ‘No, none of my gentlemen is called Hackendahl. But my gentlemen aren't coming here now. I beg your pardon, Herr Ebert still comes and so does Herr Noske, Herr Breitscheid, Herr Scheidemann …' He seemed to want to continue the list of those who still came there.

‘But I'm looking for Herr Hackendahl. He's got a room here.' (Heinz however was not so sure of this now.)

‘Then come along,' said the old man, going ahead of them. Their youth seemed to inspire him with confidence. ‘I oughtn't to leave my post,' he confessed, ‘it's against regulations … I should really hand you over to a messenger. But all our messengers have run away.'

This was strange but they were to come across even stranger things in the outwardly dignified gold-domed building, so often passed with such feelings of awe and respect … A door opened and from the room came a burst of laughter. A crowd of men sat there in a blue fug of drifting tobacco smoke; all were laughing and all were in shirtsleeves.

In their ugly, worn-out shoes Irma and Heinz strode over thick plush carpets. Halfway up some stairs lay a soldier in field-grey, snoring with open mouth, his head on a knapsack. They stepped over
him and came to an open window looking into the grey November night. Peeping from it stood two machine-guns on long, thin feet, menacing the scarcely visible buildings opposite; they stood there forsaken. Not a soul was in sight.

They went up a staircase. Above, some laughing soldiers were clustered. They were watching a man on a ladder who was disfiguring with black paint a gold-framed portrait of the Kaiser.

Again and again their guide stopped to make enquiries, sometimes of men in dark uniforms like his – in which case the talk went slowly and amiably, with much shaking of heads. Sometimes, however, he timidly questioned soldiers or people who were not officials and was glad then to get his information and move on.

They were now in a far busier part of the great building. Everywhere men were running about, most of them soldiers in active service uniforms, and they could hear telephones ringing and the click of typewriters behind doors. Suddenly they were in a large, marble-flagged corridor, walking between pillars. Here tall doorways led to a huge, dimly lit hall. ‘That is the chamber of session,' explained their guide.

This corridor too was full of soldiers, some sprawling on the benches, others strolling up and down smoking cigarettes and many still wearing their steel helmets. And they had actually brought a field gun there, a monstrosity on wheels camouflaged with daubs of green, brown and yellow paint. This was trained on a door.