He hammered against the door. Officer, open up! Hey, Tiede, see that no one escapes—!
Confusion, yells, laughter.
Policemen entered. The fat Criminal Commissar stormed up and down. “Get into line, all of you. We’re going to search you. Will you be quiet over there? Look under the tables and chairs as well.”
It appeared that one or two of these arrested had not known how to employ the time more usefully than by screwing off the bronze door- and window-fittings. There were no more door-handles, no more window-handles, no more lock-fittings. Even the policemen laughed. The Commissar himself could not but smile.
“What a nerve! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Of course the fellow’s already gone, or the fellows, for there must have been a few of them—one man couldn’t have hidden it all. I questioned them and noticed nothing! Well, I shall have to look through the identity lists at once.”
“A moment, Herr Commissar!” called Studmann.
“What do you want? You heard, didn’t you? I haven’t any time now. Oh, it’s you, man. I’m very sorry, Oberleutnant von Studmann. The light’s so bad. What are you doing in our shop, my old friend of the Baltic Corps? Well, come along, then; of course it’s your turn next. Only a few formalities, but you’ll get a fine. Still, you needn’t turn gray because of that; the currency devaluation will settle that. Your friends? How do you do, Rittmeister? How do you do, Lieutenant? I’m Commissar Künnecke, formerly quartermaster-sergeant in the Rathenower Hussars.… Yes, this is how we meet again. Wretched times, aren’t they? So you’re the young man who made that enormous pile? Incredible. And just then the wicked police had to come in! Yes, the money has gone bye-bye; we don’t give it back again. What we have we keep. Ha, ha! But you shouldn’t let it worry you. Money of that sort never yet brought any luck—thank your Creator you are rid of it! The doorknobs? Our colleagues will enjoy pulling our legs tomorrow. I still can’t help laughing. It was good bronze—they’ll get a sack of money from the old-iron merchant. All right, and now the personal details. Herr von Studmann—occupation?”
“Reception manager.”
“You? Lordy, lordy, lordy! What have we come down to? You—reception manager! Excuse me, Herr Oberleutnant …”
“Certainly, certainly—and at that I am an ex-reception manager, now agricultural apprentice.”
“Agricultural apprentice? That’s better. Even very good. Land is the only real thing today. When were you born?”
XI
Outside a door lined with sheet-metal stood a table, an ordinary deal table, on which lay a packet of sandwiches and a thermos flask. At the table sat an old man in police uniform, reading a newspaper by the very weak illumination of a fanlight. Hearing footsteps coming along the passage, he lowered the paper and glanced up over his pince-nez.
The young man came slowly nearer. At first it seemed as if he was about to walk past the table. “Excuse me,” he said, “does this lead to the police prison?”
“It does,” said the official, folding his paper carefully and laying it on the table. “But it is only a door for those on duty,” he added.
The young man hesitated. “Well, what’s on your mind? Do you want to give yourself up?” the old man asked.
“What do you mean—give myself up?” asked Pagel.
“Well,” said the old man slowly, “it’s getting on for four. Sometimes about this hour someone who is troubled because he’s been up to something comes and gives himself up. But then you must go to the Night Division. I’m only on duty at the door.”
“No,” said Pagel, “I’ve not been up to anything.” He fell silent. Then, seeing the old man’s calm glance: “I only want to speak to my girl-friend. She’s inside there.” And he motioned with his head toward the door.
“Now?” The old man was almost indignant. “At night, between three and four?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have really been getting up to something which won’t let you rest?”
Pagel made no reply.
“There’s nothing doing. Visits aren’t allowed now. And anyway …”
“Isn’t it possible at all?”
“Absolutely impossible!” The old man reflected. At last he said: “And you know it as well as I do. You’re just standing here like this because it won’t let you rest.”
“I’m here in the police station quite by accident. I didn’t come here on purpose.”
“But you came to this door on purpose? It wasn’t easy to find at night, eh?”
“No.”
“There, you see,” said the old man. “It’s just the same with you as with those who come to give themselves up; they also say that they don’t come because of a bad conscience. Bad conscience! There’s no such thing anymore. Why do you come, then, at two or three in the night? That’s a strange time. A man’s alone with himself then; he suddenly gets very different thoughts from the daytime. And then he comes here.”
“I don’t know,” said Pagel gloomily. And he really did not. He didn’t want to leave Berlin without at least having asked her whether it was true. Sometimes he told himself that the official must have misinformed him—it was preposterous. He knew Petra! And then again he told himself that an official wouldn’t tell him anything that was untrue; he had no interest in telling him a lie. Yes, the game was finished; victory had turned into defeat. How alone Peter now is. Peter—someone was once with him, something alive, that clung to him. Is everything now lost?
“I am going away early tomorrow morning,” he pleaded. “Can’t anything be done tonight? No one need notice anything.”
“What are you thinking?” cried the old man. “There are night warders inside. No, it’s absolutely impossible.” He thought for a moment, looked at Pagel critically. “And anyway …”
“What do you mean—‘and anyway’?” Pagel asked, somewhat angrily.
“And anyway, visitors are not usually permitted.”
“And unusually?”
“Unusually neither.”
“I see,” said Pagel.
“This is a police prison here,” said the old man, feeling there was some need to explain the situation. “In the remand prison the examining magistrate can give permission for visits, but here it’s not allowed. Most of them only stay with us a few days.”
“A few days? …”
“Yes. Perhaps you can inquire next week in Moabit Prison.”
“Is it quite certain that I can’t visit her tomorrow morning? No exceptions are made?”
“None at all. But naturally, if you know something to prove that your girlfriend is inside without cause, and tell it to the Commissar tomorrow, then she’ll come out—that’s plain.”
Pagel reflected.
“But you don’t look as if you had any information of that sort, do you? Otherwise you wouldn’t come here to me at night. You just want to have an ordinary talk with your girl-friend, don’t you—in private?”
“I wanted to ask her something,” said Pagel.
“Well, write her a letter, then,” said the old man kindly. “If there’s nothing in it about the charge she’s here for, then it’ll be handed over to her, and she’ll also be allowed to reply.”
“But it’s precisely about the charge that I want to ask her!”
“Well, young fellow, then you’ll have to be patient. If you want to inquire about that, you can’t do it in the remand prison, either. Until the charge has been tried, nobody is allowed to discuss the matter with her.”
“How long will that take?” asked Pagel desperately.
“Well, that depends entirely on the charge. Has she confessed?”
“That’s just it. She has confessed, but I don’t believe her. She’s confessed something she hasn’t done.”
The old man seized his newspaper very angrily. “Now run along to bed,” he said. “If you want to persuade a self-confessed prisoner to withdraw her confession, then you can wait a long time for permission to visit her. And you won’t be allowed to write to her, either, which is to say, she won’t get your letter. You certainly have a nerve. You want me to help you to visit her secretly. No, you go home. I’ve had enough.”