Wolf Among Wolves (71 page)

But neither dirt nor stench could upset the Geheimrat now, nor the rags and rubbish of extreme poverty. With his cunning old eyes he looked around, and there on the wall he spotted what he wanted, namely, an old photograph behind which something had been stuffed.

“Yes, that’s Ernie,” moaned the old woman. “He was the last to go out there, just at the beginning of ‘thirteen, just before the Great War broke out.”

“And that’s one of the little pictures that Ernest sent you, Leege, eh? Have you got any more?”

Yes, she had some more, and there were some still in the letters, and she had also made a border of the little pictures in the kitchen cupboard.

“Listen, Leege,” said the Geheimrat. “You’ll get a new roof, I promise you. And if you want a goat you’ll get one, too. And enough to eat as well. And a pair of glasses also. And firewood.…”

The old woman raised her hands toward him, as if she wanted to push the abundance of all these gifts away from her breast, and she began to praise her good old master.

But the Geheimrat was in a hurry. “You stay here, Leege, and in half an hour at the latest I’ll be here with the magistrate; perhaps I’ll bring the pastor, too. And you are not to go out, nor are you to give any of the little pictures away.”

Old Leege promised this solemnly.

And everything took place in proper and orderly manner. With the Geheimrat came the pastor and the magistrate, and a search was made, and old Leege could not marvel enough at the three gentlemen who wouldn’t stop
turning over and shaking out her things. They even messed her pair of winter stockings about; the magistrate pulled the bed straw from its frame—all in the search for these bright-colored little pictures.

As for old Leege, she understood nothing of this business, and although they trumpeted ten times into her ear that this was “proper” money, gold money, foreign currency—while the other was rubbishy money, worthless money, muck—it still seemed to her as if these worthy three—Wealth, Priesthood and Authority—had turned into little children looking for Easter eggs in her cottage.

Geheimrat von Teschow, however, was once more in his element, and now and again he bubbled over, with a remark to the effect that of course an old man like himself had had to come first and look after his old employee, who, legally speaking, was no concern of his, while the magistrate, who ought to look after the local poor in respect of his office, and the pastor, who ought to look after his parishioners as a religious duty, once again didn’t know a thing about anything, and would have let the old woman, with all her wealth, drown from rain and perish from hunger.

Both the magistrate and the parson made the best reply they could to these continual and pointed remarks—namely, none; and scarcely was the old woman’s fortune ascertained to be two hundred and eighty-five dollars and legally recorded, than the parson hastily departed, for the matter was now in the best hands. The magistrate took charge of the bank notes and in return for the little pictures promised the old woman the thatcher for the next day. Also a basket of provisions. “Also a goat, of course, Leege. Also a new pair of glasses. Very good, Leege.”

“What are you going to do with the money, Haase?” asked the Geheimrat, on the way back.

“Yes, Herr Geheimrat, that’s a business,” said the magistrate. “I shall have to think about it first.”

“I believe I’ve read somewhere that foreign currency must be handed over. To the bank. But that need not be true.”

“Yes, Herr Geheimrat, if I take it to the bank I’ll get a worthless bundle of money for it, and if old Leege wants some coffee next week, I shall have to say to her: ‘The money’s all gone, Leege.’ ”

“That’s no good to the old woman, Haase. But I suppose there’s no help for it, if that’s the regulation.”

“Perhaps it isn’t so—the Geheimrat might have read it wrongly.”

“Yes, of course, I might have. There’s so much in the newspapers.”

“That’s true—one gets dizzy merely looking at them.”

The two walked along thoughtfully. The tall, lean Haase with his ravaged, multi-lined face, and the short, fat Geheimrat with his bright red face—which, however, also had its lines.

“The fact is,” began Haase again, “we’re all busy with the harvest; who’s got time to go to the bank in Frankfurt to change the money? And I must give the thatcher something and pay for the straw and the goat—I can’t do that with dollars. In the first place there’d be talk, and anyway I mustn’t do it.”

“Well, in that case someone else must change the money until there is time to hand it in,” said the Geheimrat.

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been thinking all the time. Only, who’s got so much money on hand in harvest time?”

“I think I’ve still got something in my safe. I’ll have a look. I’ll let you know this evening.”

“I’ve been doing my threshing yesterday,” said Haase, “and I think I’ll deliver tomorrow. I’m only doing it, Herr Geheimrat, because I have to pay your forester the day after tomorrow.”

The Geheimrat said not a word.

“I wonder whether the forester would perhaps wait a few days.”

“I don’t understand this. Excuse me, Haase, I’m probably deaf in both ears. I suppose you’re talking about Kniebusch’s mortgage for ten thousand prewar marks?”

The magistrate bit his lip. “I don’t understand it either, Herr Geheimrat,” he said sulkily, “but your Kniebusch is an old hound. He’s swindled me. I can’t cancel the mortgage now, and I have to give him forty hundredweights of rye a year as interest, and that’s why the rye’s going away tomorrow.”

“Well, well!” grinned the old gentleman, extremely pleased that someone had been caught out (for there was nothing in life he esteemed so highly as swindling a person properly). “You do get up to mischief! … Now I understand why the examining judge in Frankfurt speaks so badly about Kniebusch.”

“I only wrote what was right,” cried the magistrate hotly.

“Of course, Haase, what else?” said the old Geheimrat, delighted. “Always in accordance with justice and law and order! But we’ll talk about that this evening. For I’ll bring you the money so that you can change the dollars, since what you get for your rye won’t cover everything. I’m glad to help you, Haase. And if I go to Frankfurt I’ll hand in my dollars, and when you go there you’ll hand in yours—the Government will certainly have learned how to wait. And Kniebusch also. I’ll see to that, you can rely on me. He’s a cunning dog, old Kniebusch; I’d never have thought him capable of taking in a farmer. Well, you’ll tell me all about it this evening, Haase.”

“The dollar is now one million one hundred thousand marks—that’s what we’ll exchange at, I suppose?” asked the magistrate thoughtfully.

“Why, of course,” said the Geheimrat. “What else?”

“And supposing it rises tomorrow? Then I’ll be landed with all those marks and won’t be able to buy her anything.”

“Oh, you’ll be able to buy something for a little while, and lay in a few supplies, anyway. When it’s gone, it’s gone. If someone else had seen the little pictures she would have got nothing. And, anyway, in the letters it says that the grandson sends her ten dollars every month, with twenty dollars extra on her birthday and at Christmas, so there’s always something coming in. Why, old Leege’s got more now than she had in her whole life!”

“We ought to be certain, though, that no one will talk,” said Haase. “Otherwise there’ll be trouble.”

“Who’s to talk, Haase? Pastor Lehnich will keep his trap shut, having made a fool of himself. And we two won’t talk. As for old Leege, she didn’t get wise—she thinks it’s a holiday in heaven. If she does talk no one will understand, and supposing someone does, just let him come and say that Geheimrat Horst-Heinz von Teschow is up to something shady. We’ll hand the dollars in—that’s agreed, eh, Haase?”

“As soon as I go to Frankfurt, without fail, Herr Geheimrat.”

And so the two separated, Haase not quite content, for he would have preferred to manage the business himself; but he knew that the fattest pigs squeal the loudest for food. The Geheimrat, however, was perfectly content; he had not only learned what he wanted to know, he had also done a little business. However rich a man may be, he never feels he is rich enough. Forester Kniebusch, though, was very much astonished at the indifference with which his surly master heard about his unsuccessful search of the crayfish ponds. And still more astonished was he that Herr von Teschow knew all about the readjustment of the mortgage and was even interceding on Haase’s behalf, asking for him to be allowed to pay two weeks later. To this Kniebusch willingly agreed; but all the more obstinate did he prove when the Geheimrat wanted to discover how Haase had been moved to such an unheard-of concession.

The forester swore by all that was holy, his pale blue eyes becoming even bluer and more honest, that Haase was a thoroughly decent man and had done what was right out of sheer decency. “And as a matter of fact it should have been sixty hundredweights of rye, Herr Geheimrat, but I’m not so particular, like Haase.”

“Kniebusch!” cried the old gentleman in a rage, “you can’t pull a hunchback through a lattice fence! Where money begins, decency stops—and now you two old rogues want …”

But no, the forester stuck to it! His forehead was dripping with sweat, and his tone became so sincere and ingenuous that it smelled of lies and deceit for ten miles against the wind. And it must be said that the Kniebusch who had always been subservient to his master had never so impressed Herr von Teschow as did the Kniebusch who was obviously telling him a pack of lies.

“Well, I never!” said the old gentleman when he was alone again. “My Kniebusch is getting on. But just wait! What one won’t tell, the other will babble—and I’ll eat my hat if I don’t worm everything out of Haase this evening.”

But in this he was mistaken: the magistrate kept as mum as the forester, to the old gentleman’s surprise. For such a thing had never happened before.

To be sure, he did not yet eat his hat on that account. The Geheimrat was not one to give up hope so easily.

VIII

Studmann and Pagel had taken leave of their fair companion outside her home, and the villagers had seen with astonishment that these suspicious gentlemen from Berlin had not simply passed on with a nod, as was usually done with a farm girl, but had shaken her hand properly, as if she were a real lady. The older one, with the egg-shaped head, had raised his cap. The younger was not wearing one.

Admiration for Sophie, who seemed to the villagers like a butterfly which has emerged dazzling and gay from its dull chrysalis, had immeasurably risen. What her clothes had begun (and the journey with the Rittmeister) was completed by this formal leave-taking. Mothers no longer found it necessary to admonish their urchins to behave themselves with Sophie—“She’s a real lady now!” Henceforth she was as safe from their mischievous tricks as, say, the young Fräulein in the Villa. None of them wanted to get into trouble with the gentlemen from Berlin, who might be detectives. And the gentlemen had gone on their way without any inkling that they had achieved the isolation in the village of a dangerous enemy.

Räder was waiting for them in the office. Madam would like to speak to Herr von Studmann at a quarter to seven.

Herr von Studmann, glancing at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past seven already. He looked at Räder inquiringly. But the servant did not move a muscle or utter a word.

“Well, I’ll go right away, Pagel,” said Studmann. “Don’t hold up supper because of me; you’d better begin.”

Wolfgang Pagel remained alone in the office. He did not begin his supper, however, but paced up and down, contentedly smoking his cigarette and
glancing every now and again through the wide-open windows at the green park loud with the song of birds.

As is the way with all young men, he didn’t think about his situation. He just went to and fro, smoking, moving between light and shadow. Nothing weighed on him, and he desired nothing. If he had thought about his situation and summed it up in the shortest way, he would have said he was—almost—happy.

On closer examination he would perhaps have discovered a slight feeling of emptiness, like the convalescent who has survived a life-threatening illness and hasn’t yet been counted among the living. He’d survived serious danger, but still had no purpose in life; indeed he didn’t fully belong to it. A secret power which wanted him healthy led his actions and, even more, his thoughts. Quite unlike Herr von Studmann, he was not interested in whatever lay behind things; he was only interested in the exterior. He instinctively defended himself against having to worry. He didn’t look at rental contracts and made no painful calculations about rent levels. He considered old Herr von Teschow a good-natured, bushy-bearded old man and didn’t want to know about his cunning and sinister intentions. He was fully satisfied by the simple, tangible life-tasks—going out into the field, the stoking up of the barley, and the deep, dreamless sleep that comes from extreme physical exhaustion. He was carefree like a convalescent, superficial like a convalescent, and still felt, without being clear about it, again like a convalescent, that frightening hint of what he had only barely escaped from.

Tomorrow they would begin gathering in the sheaves again—excellent! They could, of course, have gathered them in today, as all the farms in the neighborhood were doing; but the old lady in the Manor (he had not yet seen her) was supposed to be against working on Sunday. Good. Studmann had planned something for this evening; what it was he didn’t know, but it was bound to be pleasant. Everything was pleasant here. He hoped Studmann would soon return. Wolfgang didn’t like to be alone. He felt best in the midst of people.

Thoughtfully he came to a stop in front of the pinewood bookshelf, where the black annual volumes of laws and decrees stood in long rows. Row upon row, volume upon volume, year upon year they decreed, proclaimed, threatened, regulated and punished from the beginning of time to the end of the world, and yet every individual continually battered his skull against this world of law and order.

Pagel lifted down one of the oldest volumes. From the spotty brown paper a decree spoke to him, forbidding that a servant or inmate be given more than six score crayfish a week to eat. He laughed. Today bathers were chased from
the ponds, thus protecting the crayfish from the people; in those days people were protected from the crayfish!