Iron Gustav (84 page)

Now they are neck and neck, the winning post at hand … The white horse has had enough, the chestnut's going to do it, Germany will win the race …

Crash!

The two drivers, with eyes only for one another and not for the track, have collided. Wheel locked in wheel, they sway, are about to fall and save themselves by clinging each to the other.

And so, thus embracing, they pass the winning post simultaneously, faithful to their pledge.

Before Gustav Hackendahl again approached his native Berlin it was autumn. The reddish beard had turned grey; his top hat, white on its departure, was now entirely covered with autographs and stamps, and looked a dirty black. The man himself, too, was hardly recognizable. Full of amazement young Grundeis walked round him. ‘Gustav, man, how you've changed! You've become really slim.'

‘Two stone I've lost. Mother'll go on about it. She never did like the idea o' this journey.'

‘But it couldn't have been the food, Hackendahl. You've been treated like a prince.'

‘The food! Oh, it's the everlastin' people! Lor', Herr Grundeis, I can't tell yer how sick I am of people. I don't want ter see any more of 'em. Wherever I could I've gone round the other way. Always cheerin' and always Iron Gustav … And what's it amount to in the end? Nothin'! A flop!'

‘Now wait a minute, Hackendahl!' Grundeis became energetic. The reception in Berlin, which was to be the climax, appeared in danger, so tired and bad-tempered, so worn-out was the old man. Grundeis therefore spared no pains. Hackendahl was just travel-sick and that was understandable. But he had achieved things – if he
didn't think so, let him have a look at the newspapers. The whole of Berlin was looking forward to welcoming him.

‘Lor, the Berliners, they always want ter see the latest. Show 'em a monkey painted green an' they'll run after it jus' as they do after me.'

‘Rubbish, Hackendahl. You know quite well what you've achieved – the great things you've been able to do in the last months! And you won't have to worry about your old age.'

‘Bother me old age. What do I care about it? I'll be glad to be drivin' me cab again. Properly – as I used ter. Incogniter, you know. I'm sick of cogniter.'

‘Hackendahl, old fellow, Iron Gustav, where's your iron gone? Have a look in the papers at the programme of welcome; you'll change your mind then.'

Hackendahl shot an angry glance at him. ‘Don't you talk about newspapers ter me. I'm on bad terms with newspapers. The stuff they write about me!'

‘What stuff? What have they written about you?'

‘Don't let's talk about it. But it knocked me properly.'

‘Well, what is it? Out with it, Hackendahl.'

‘I'm s'posed to have become too big a swell for a cab, I'm s'posed to have come back from Paris in a car, that's what the dirty dogs have written about me. Not you, but the others. I'll tell you how it was. I'd settled down to a beer an' the boys didn't want ter let me go. An' so another driver offered to take me cab along for me so's I needn't miss me drinks an' we all followed later in a car. An' now I'm said to be too stuck-up fer a cab. Me who was two hours in a car and over five months in a cab! That shows how hateful people are. You ain't got the heart to do anythin', it's not appreciated anyhow.'

Young Grundeis felt like laughing and crying over an old man who was not so much tired as suffering from wounded vanity. The old man was behaving just like a boy, he sulked. But this was no time for laughing or crying. The great reception in Berlin – for which they were keeping the front page open for him – was at stake. In his present mood Iron Gustav was capable of showing his iron will by sneaking off home, leaving the people to wait for him.

So Grundeis talked with the tongue of men and angels, soothed the old man's wounded vanity and at last succeeded in cheering him
up, not with the lure however of the great honours in prospect, the bands, the banquet, the toasts, or the reception by the mayor, but with the reminder that his expedition would end up at the place he had started from, that town hall where an official had most unamiably stamped the first entry in the logbook. This thought consoled him enormously – it would be the finest event of the whole trip.

‘Grundeis, you're right. I'd be a fool to let the fellow off. Snap at me about work an' foolin' around! I'll show him. I pay rates and taxes, don't I? Well, he's livin' on me, that chap. I'll show him how to treat me. Yes, I'm lookin' forward to seeing
him
.'

And it would indeed have been a pity if Hackendahl's mood had deprived him of his Berlin welcome. The Berliners had read how their citizen had been received in Dortmund and Cologne, in Paris and Magdeburg, and they, of course, couldn't be behindhand. Quite naturally therefore they overdid it somewhat. Three hundred thousand people, not one of whom would have dreamed of spending even a mark on the cab six months before, were on their feet for half a working day waiting for its driver, while the police were out in full force for the purpose of regulating traffic and keeping the crowds in order – it was really a fine sight. Old Hackendahl would have been sorry afterwards had he gone home by another route.

As it was he drove right into the midst of it. The Charlottenburger Chaussee was black with people. At the Grosse Stern they formed a dense mass. Unter den Linden gave passageway only for one person and that person was Gustav Hackendahl.

Along he drove, up Unter den Linden – everybody cheering him. In his wildest dreams, in the days of his prosperity, he could never have dreamed that his native town would ever cheer him thus.

As he passed the French travel agency he stopped, made a gesture, stood up. The band ceased playing, he waved his top hat, then roared out: ‘Vive la France!'

And they roared with him: ‘Vive la France!'

Yes, cheers for the country which had received their fellow citizen
so hospitably but, above everything, cheers for the fellow citizen. He's a splendid old boy, one of us, a Berliner – we're cheering ourselves when we cheer him. Magnificent, indestructible, immortal – we Berliners!

And Gustav Hackendahl drove on, past the Schloss. In the Königstrasse the press became dangerous and if Grasmus hadn't grown accustomed to crowds it might have been serious, but they got through safely and drove up to the town hall.

In the same moment all the motor cars started their honking and wailing – this time no zealous Grundeis incited them to it, this time no indignant policeman interfered. Standing on his box, old Hackendahl's voice accompanied their honking. He had no trouble in distinguishing the melody. It was ‘The man who in God's favour stands'.

Outside the town hall they were waiting for him. A mayor was there to welcome Iron Gustav and in a neat speech to honour this plain man of the people as a reconciler of two nations, and to present him with the ceremonial drink of the city.

Gustav Hackendahl was used to ceremonial drinks. He drained the goblet. But when they awaited a speech in reply, he merely said: ‘Excuse me a bit, gentlemen,' and hurried into the town hall.

He ran along the corridors. Thank God he remembered the number of the room. Yes, he had his logbook in his pocket. Well, he wasn't going to spare that fellow. You wait, me lad!

Ah, here was the door. He rushed in. What's this? ‘Where's the chap who used to be here?'

‘Whom d'you mean? What d'you want? What's the idea of rushing in like this? Lord, it's Iron Gustav! I know you from the newspapers. Well, this is an honour, Herr Hackendahl. What can we do for you?'

‘I'd like to have me return to Berlin certified in this book. Yes, it's full now. But I'd like the same gentleman who was here at the time o' my departure. Isn't he here now?'

‘Herr Brettschneider? Did you know him personally? Yes, a charming man … Unfortunately, Herr Hackendahl – influenza, you know – as long ago as May. He would come to the office – and six days afterwards, how shall I put it? – gone like that. A pity, don't you think?'

‘A great pity,' said old Hackendahl, deeming it a pity indeed that his opponent had decamped like that. A bitter drop in his cup of joy. The human heart is strange – the whole of Berlin was there to cheer him, yet he missed one dead Berliner.

Then the drive went on. They were expecting him at the great newspaper building, where they wanted to celebrate the return of their successful traveller, which they duly did. Managing directors and directors, editors and sub-editors (among whom the now bright-red Grundeis now ranked), all were awaiting him, celebrating him.

And after the many honours there everyone went to a banquet of pigs' trotters, sauerkraut and pease-pudding – his favourite repast was set before Berlin's famous citizen, on whose right hand sat a film star and on whose left sat his wife. Yes, they had dragged Mother to the banquet, Mother who no longer went out anywhere. Clad in a new silk dress, she welcomed her Gustav tearfully. ‘Thank God you're back, Father. People are knocking the house down asking after you. And they're all bringing things – the whole flat is full of paper and presents and cardboard boxes – where am I to put all the stuff? And yesterday, someone came who wanted to bring you a canary, some special breed, but I sent her packing. Who knows what she meant by it? “Who sings like a canary round here, that's our business, not yours,” I told her. But I don't think you'd do that, Father. People are sometimes so nasty!'

But she was not the only one to make a speech that day. Director Schulze rose to his feet and gave an address which sounded as if it had been ordered from the same firm as the mayor's. Next rose Iron Gustav, to announce the toast: ‘Berlin – Paris – Berlin. Thought out, done!'

Cheers and applause.

Further toasts, merriment, shaking of hands. Not only that. Opportunity was found to slip an envelope into old Hackendahl's pocket. No need now for the old man to worry overmuch about making ends meet …

It was night now and Frau Hackendahl was urging a departure, in anxiety about the flat and the many handsome gifts in it. There was a further argument too – they were bent on driving him home in a car, leaving somebody to follow on with Grasmus.

But no. With his old stubbornness Hackendahl refused to go by car. His wife, yes, she could if she liked but he'd drive home in his cab.

‘Don't be so silly, Mother. If I got back safe an' sound from Paris surely I'll be able to manage the little stretch to the Wexstrasse!'

Naturally, he got his way. He saw her off and went to his cab. A couple of compositors helped him stow the garlands, the flags and streamers, the placard on the back of the cab, the presents, in one of the offices.

‘I'll come an' fetch that stuff sometime. I want to rattle home incogniter. A proper cabby. I've had enough o' crowds.'

He set forth. At first he looked warily at people, to see if they recognized him, but it was night and all were in a hurry; they hardly glanced at the cab rolling slowly along the street.

How comfortable it was on his box. Nice to be driving through Berlin once again as a real cabby. Click-click went the taximeter – it sounded so homely. It was good that he had made that trip to Paris, but best of all was to be driving again down the streets – the old streets he had driven down hundreds of times before.

A policeman, whose profession gave him better eyes than the ordinary townsman, recognized Hackendahl and, remembering the honours of the morning, saluted him in army fashion.

‘Hey,' called out Hackendahl, ‘that's all over an' done with. D'you want to do that ev'ry day when I'm plyin' fer hire? I'd drop all that lardy-da if I was you.'

And, very pleased with himself, he drove on. If they thought he was going to give up driving now that he had a bit of money they were mistaken. Driving was the finest thing in the world; that is, driving in Berlin as a genuine driver, of course.

Now he had only one wish – and hardly had he framed it when it came true.

‘Hi, driver! Help me get this hamper in your cab. To the Zoo! I wanted to go by tram but they told me the basket was too big. But don't make it expensive, driver.'

‘No, no, it's not goin' ter cost yer a fortune. Well, gee-up, Grasmus!' And he drove to the Zoo very cheerfully indeed. His wish had been granted. Berlin had given him earnest-money that life would go comfortably in the future.

Now and then he turned round and stole a glance at his fare. Didn't he realize he was being driven by a famous man? But the fare, a weedy fellow much too small for his heavy burden, showed no awareness. Dejectedly he was staring into space, probably wondering how much the cab ride would cost him, and thinking how cheap the tram would have been. Well, he'll get a surprise!

It was old Hackendahl, however, who got the surprise.

At the Zoo Station he helped the little man lift his basket out of the cab. Then he asked, proudly happy: ‘D'you know who's bin drivin' you? Well, you've bin ridin' with Iron Gustav, you know, who made the famous tour from Berlin ter Paris an' back.' And the little man replied: ‘Oh, shut up! What do I care? Look after my basket for me, please, I must catch the train to Meseritz. Paris! The mere mention of the place! You just mind your own business! One mark twenty for just round the corner! Why, it wouldn't have cost fifty pfennigs on the tram.'

Here the sorely tried little man vanished; without batting an eyelid he left the famous cab driver to guard his hamper. And the people rushed past. They were in a hurry to catch their trains, they bumped into Gustav Hackendahl, but they did not look at him – they had practically forgotten him already – forgotten the famous Iron Gustav.

It started when he was helping his wife to tidy up the flat. The place was really inconveniently crowded by presents from all over the world, which the two old people untied and unwrapped and put away, and there was many a thing there that ought to have pleased Mother, yet did not.

‘Do look, Mother,' said old Hackendahl. ‘It's really a handsome beer glass the Pasewalk Cuirassiers have sent me with the barracks painted on it. You c'n almost see the room where I used ter live when you met me. Nice, ain't it?'

‘Put it away, Father,' she said. ‘What's the good of that to us? Nice! Why, the monkey in the Zoo thinks the carrot nice you push through the netting, but all the people want is to see how a monkey eats a carrot.'

‘You mean me, Mother?' asked Hackendahl. ‘Are you comparin' me with a monkey an' this beer glass with a carrot?'

‘Don't start an argument, Father. I feel so strange in the head. I'm all confused. And then you go and talk of monkeys.'

‘It's bein' in all day, Mother. You never go out now. Wait a mo, I'll harness up Grasmus an' we c'n go for a quiet drive in the Tiergarten. Now we c'n afford it, we may as well.'

‘You do what you like, Father. I've always done what you've wanted, you can't deny that. For once I'd like …'

‘Well, what, Mother? I c'n see you're not feelin' well …'

‘Get out of the cab, Father. You won't do anything I'd like, you never did.'

‘Well, speak up, Mother. What d'you like? I'll do it if I can.'

‘You won't do it, Father.'

‘Course I will. What is it?'

‘Well, then – throw away that old beer glass from Pasewalk.'

‘What, the glass the Pasewalkers sent me! Mother, yer can't really meant that. Yer can't be feelin' well. Shall we go fer a drive? Would yer like to, Mother?'

This sort of thing happened many times but the little trips into the fresh air did not cheer her up, and when he did her bidding for once it counted nothing against the many occasions when he had had his own way. Waking up in the night, the old man would stretch his hand out to the other bed. It would be empty, and by its coldness he could feel that it had been empty for some time.

Then he would rise, get a light and look for her. As often as not she would be sitting in the dark, sitting on the bed from which he had driven Erich. Or standing in the kitchen at the sink, with the tap turned on so that the water dripped over her hand.

‘Come, Mother,' he would say gently, ‘come back to bed. You'll get a chill.'

And readily enough she would go and lie down.

‘What makes yer wander about like that, Mother?' he said in the end, having blown out the light. ‘You still in a rage with me because of the journey ter Paris?'

‘Something's pressing against my heart and then it rises. Then it comes down again and I think it's Otto. Do you remember Otto, Father?'

‘I do, Mother. I remember him perfectly.'

‘Sometimes I think it's only me who remembers we've had children and that I brought them up just like the other children – and now they're gone and nobody remembers anything about it, nobody at all.'

‘Only Otto is dead, Mother. All your other children are alive.'

‘And why I let the water drip on my hand … no, Father, I can't explain it to you … I don't know myself. But I can't get away from the feeling that they've given Otto a bad coffin made of rotten wood, Father, and the rain's dripping on his face. And so I hold my hand in between so that I can do something for him, Father.'

After a long while old Hackendahl said: ‘You must have dreamed it. Otto's at peace, he sleeps soundly, Mother. There's no rain can disturb him.'

And a little later: ‘Tomorrow I'll fetch the doctor, he mus' give
you a prescription. You've got water in yer legs, Mother. That's pressin' against your heart and gives you all those ideas which are out o' the natural. You mustn't take any notice of them.'

‘Just as you like, Father.'

So the doctor was sent for and confirmed what old Hackendahl had said – there was water in the legs and it was rising. He prescribed drops which helped for a while, and when they were of no further avail, then he tapped the water. That gave her some relief, and when the young people came (as they did rather frequently now), she couldn't recount too often how much water the doctor had taken away – it became a little more every time.

‘Well, Father, what d'you think?' said Heinz one day in the passage, on his way out.

The old man shook his head and looked at his son. But he said nothing.

Heinz made up his mind. ‘Shall we look in again after supper, Father? The doctor thinks …'

‘Leave me alone with her,' whispered the old man hoarsely. ‘What's got to be done with Mother I've got to do, you understand? You children never think that she was a girl once and me young wife. You always think of her as Mother.'

He was gazing fixedly at his son, his eyes gleaming as though they were about to fill with tears. But those old eyes would not weep whatever the circumstances. ‘I'm seventy, Bubi, but when I think what she was like as a girl!' And he pushed his son out of the door. ‘Leave me alone with her when she dies. P'r'aps it'll come back to her too, what she once was.'

She was sitting up in bed, struggling for breath. Her eyes were wide open, empty eyes, and she was gabbling to herself about many, many things.

He tried to take hold of her hand which she kept on withdrawing. ‘Mother!' he begged. ‘Auguste!'

She did not hear him. She did not even know he was there. All the others were, but not he. She wasn't with him, she was with the others. In a high-pitched voice she cried out: ‘Evchen, is the soup ready? Make haste, Father'll be coming up from the stables – Bring me another cup of coffee, he won't notice it – Sophie, lay the table
quickly. Get it ready before Father comes – Bubi, tell Erich to finish dressing, Father can't wait.'

She hurried them up, she worried, she scrutinized the room, dim in the light of a solitary candle. She was back again in the Frankfurter Allee preparing the breakfast table.

‘Evchen, put the crusts so that Father gets one too. He always wants us to eat the hard bits. Let him try as well.'

‘Mother,' begged the old man groping for her hand. But again it was withdrawn.

She was staring into the darkness towards a shadow. ‘Where's Ottchen? Is he still in the stable? Ottchen is to come at once, I can't bear it when Father shouts at him.'

She leaned back and closed her eyes, speaking now only in a whisper.

‘Mother! Mother!'

‘Are you there, Father? I see so badly. I must have been dreaming. Why had you only a candle burning? Put on the gas – you can spend a little money on me in my last hour.'

He climbed on a chair, lit the gas. But when he returned she was already wandering again.

‘He thinks he's somebody because they blame him for being of iron. But he's nothing at all. He's done nothing. The way he ran my father down because of his slovenly stable and so on, and what kind of a stable has he got himself? Always making a row and ordering about – he thinks he's someone then – but we've fooled him!' She sat up in bed giggling.

‘Fooled him! All of us. The cab drivers and the children and me more than anyone. And then he thinks he's somebody!'

‘Auguste, do listen! Will you listen?'

Awake now and alert. ‘Yes, Gustav?'

‘D'you remember how you got the first prize at the Cuirassiers for the best-cooked luncheon? D'you remember, Auguste?'

‘Yes, Gustav, I remember. A fat cookery book it was, only somebody stole it right away. They were all so jealous!'

‘Auguste, d'you remember how at the ring-stickin' you had the most rings on yer sabre? An' how Colonel de Pannwitz danced the first dance with you? I was wonderful proud!'

‘Yes, Gustav, I remember that, too. I had on my white dress with the pierced embroidery and a blue silk scarf round my waist.'

‘An' Auguste, d'you remember when you had Otto, an' the midwife praised you because you didn't make a sound?'

‘Yes, Gustav, yes. You sat beside the bed and held my hand. Give me your hand, Gustav …'

Yes, he had succeeded. He had managed it once again. He had summoned her back to himself, to their common youth, away from enmity and the shameful league with her children, the cab drivers, everyone else … And yet he knew that all she had just said about him were her real thoughts. He knew her.

But this he would not suffer. No one must die like that. And he summoned her back again and yet again. In that endless hour between two and three in the night some idea always occurred to him by which he won her back. Already the shades of death were settling on that old, weak face and the breath rattled in her throat, but he said: ‘An' d'you remember, Auguste, yer little bird, yer Hänsecken? How he'd perch on yer finger but wouldn't ever come ter me?'

Over. Finished. The End.

The old man rose, passed his fingers over her eyes, but he did not look into her face. Climbing on the chair, he turned off the gas. That left only the candle burning.

Without looking at his wife he went out of the room, taking the candlestick. He had seen many a man die, had looked in the face of many a corpse, and he knew how the features which show for a time traces of the death throes change once the struggle is over. Peace has come. Often a child's face long vanished, oh how long vanished, looks out of the dead face.

It was then that he would see his wife.

He entered the small kitchen and started to search in the cupboard. Finally he found the beer glass and examined it by the light of the candle. It was a very nice glass indeed …

While he had been reminding Mother of all the old happenings of their youth in Pasewalk he had remembered this glass which the Pasewalkers had sent their famous fellow citizen; he had remembered that she had asked him to smash it. And that he had half promised to do so.

He looked at the sink. All he had to do was to strike the glass against the cast-iron basin and Mother would have had her way.

For a while he stood thus, glass in hand, seeing not the glass but his long, long years of married life. He was not thinking now about their youth, but of what had come later – many things – and how he had been always in the right. Even death couldn't change wrong into right.

Iron Gustav shook his head. ‘It wouldn't help you, Mother,' he said quite loudly in the empty kitchen, ‘it wouldn't help if to please you I smashed this glass so you could have yer way fer once. It's a handsome piece o' glass …'

Putting it back, he picked up the candle and returned to the bedroom, to look at his wife's face.

THE END