“Any peasants’ fields there?”
“No, only our land. Lots five and seven. And on the other side lots four and six.”
“Good. If you had met six or seven people here half an hour ago, silent, with baskets that looked empty on their backs—what would you have thought, Kowalewski?”
Kowalewski pointed. “Going over there?”
“Yes, over there, toward the outfields.”
Kowalewski pointed. “Coming from over there?”
“Yes, Kowalewski, that’s about where they’ll have come from, not from the village.”
“Then they were from Altlohe, sir.”
“And what do Altlohe people want on our field? Now, at nighttime?”
“Well, sir, there’s nothing on the potatoes yet. But there are the beetroots; perhaps they want to pick the leaves. And then further over is the wheat which we cut on Friday and Saturday—perhaps they want a few ears.”
“Stealing, eh, Kowalewski?”
“They need the beetroot leaves for goats’ fodder, nearly all of them have a goat. And if the wheat’s nice and dry, you can grind it in a coffee grinder—they learned that in the war.”
“Very good. Well, let’s follow them. You come with us, Kowalewski. But I suppose you don’t like to?”
“It’s not for me to say, sir.”
“You needn’t have any more to do with it, Kowalewski, than just to give me a dig in the ribs if one of the people tells me a false name.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I suppose they’ll have it in for you, Kowalewski?”
“Even if they’re Altlohe people, they know I have to do what I’m ordered. They understand that much.”
“But you don’t like admitting that they are stealing, Kowalewski, do you?”
“You see, sir, it’s bad if you’ve got a goat and have no fodder for it. And it’s still worse if you’ve got no flour for the children’s soup.”
“But Kowalewski!” Studmann stopped abruptly, then went on into the growing darkness. “How are you going to preserve order if people simply steal what they need? That would ruin the farm, wouldn’t it?”
Kowalewski kept obstinately silent, but Studmann was unyielding. “Well, Kowalewski?”
“That’s no sort of order, sir, if you’ll excuse me, when people work and yet can’t give their children anything to eat.”
“Why don’t they buy things? If they work, they must have money to spend.”
“They’ve only got paper money, sir. Everybody sticks tight to his goods and won’t take the paper.”
“I see! But still you must agree, Kowalewski, that the farm can’t carry on if everyone takes what he needs. You want your wages when they’re due, but where are they to come from if there are no profits? Take it from me, the Rittmeister doesn’t find it too easy.”
“The old Geheimrat always did well; he made a lot of money.”
“But perhaps the Rittmeister has more difficulties—he has to pay the old man rent.”
“The people from Altlohe don’t take any notice of that.”
“You mean they don’t care?”
“No, they don’t care.”
“And do you think it right for them to steal, Kowalewski?”
“If a man has no fodder for his goat …” began the obstinate old man again.
“Rubbish! Do you think it right, Kowalewski?”
“I wouldn’t do it, sir. But of course I get my corn from the farm and potatoes and free pasture for a cow …”
“Do you think it right, Kowalewski?” Herr von Studmann almost screamed. Pagel began to laugh.
“What are you laughing at, Pagel? Don’t be an idiot! Here’s an old man, who himself has never stolen, advocating the right to steal from his own employer. Have you ever stolen yourself, Kowalewski?”
It was laughable. Herr von Studmann screamed at the old man almost as Bailiff Meier used to. But this did not intimidate Kowalewski.
“Do you mean what you call stealing, sir, or what we call stealing?”
“Is there any difference?” growled Studmann. But he knew there was.
Pagel intervened. “May I put a question, Herr von Studmann?”
“If you like. This warped morality seems to amuse you very much, Herr Pagel!”
“It’s now very dark,” said Pagel cheerfully, “and Herr Kowalewski knows that neither of us is familiar with the fields. Tell me, Kowalewski, where does our beetroot field lie?”
“About five minutes’ walk ahead and then to the right over the rye stubble. You can see it in the starlight.”
“And the wheat field?”
“About three or four minutes’ walk along the path. Then we’ll be right on it.”
“Well, Kowalewski,” said Pagel mischievously, “if you think that these people have a right to take their fodder, why don’t you lead us a bit zigzag in the dark. You know we haven’t the faintest notion where things are!”
“Pagel!” cried Studmann.
“I can’t do that, sir. That wouldn’t be right. If you tell me to do something, I can’t lead you around by the nose.”
“Well, then,” said Pagel with satisfaction, “now we’ve got the thing clear. You believe in what’s right, Kowalewski. And what Herr von Studmann does is right. But what the people from Altlohe do is not right. You understand what they’re doing, but you don’t find it right, you don’t find it proper …”
“Well, sir, that may be. But when the goat hasn’t any fodder?”
“Stop!” shrieked Studmann. “Your success didn’t last long, Pagel!”
The stars glimmered in the almost black vault of heaven, and they saw round them nothing but gradations of black and gray. After a while, Pagel began to speak again. Something had occurred to him, and that something made sense. Because he sensed that the rather didactic and pedantic Studmann had developed an anger for the soft Kowalewski, who only thought and felt in a vague and confused way. Pagel felt the urge to try to reconcile Herr von Studmann with Sophie’s father.
“You know,” he said, “Herr Kowalewski is rather worried about our harvest, Studmann. He says we’re three weeks behind.”
“That’s so!” said the overseer.
“Sounds bad,” growled Studmann.
“We’ve got to have men as quickly as possible, Kowalewski thinks. And since the Rittmeister couldn’t dig any up in Berlin, Kowalewski thinks we ought to have a prison gang.”
“Me, sir?” asked the old man, still more astonished.
“Yes, your daughter told me today that you thought since the prison’s half empty on account of the number of gangs they’ve already sent out, we’d better get a move on, otherwise we’ll be left empty-handed.”
“Me, sir?” asked the old man still more astonished.
“Well,” said Herr von Studmann, “I’ve already spoken to the Rittmeister about it. But he thinks it involves a lot of expense, especially as the convicts know nothing of farming. So you’re in favor of it, Kowalewski?”
“Me? No, sir. They’re just a lot of criminals.”
“Quite so. Men who have stolen. But Herr Pagel just said that you told him …”
“His daughter Sophie, Studmann.”
“Your daughter, then. Your daughter probably got it from you.”
“From me, sir?”
“Now don’t start acting the fool again. All right, Kowalewski, I shan’t bother you again.” He stopped. “How much farther have we to go?” he asked very crossly.
“Here to the right, sir, is the rye stubble. If we cross that we’ll come to the beetroot field.”
“Do you think the people are really there?” Herr von Studmann suddenly felt qualms.
“Our beetroots aren’t much this year; we transplanted them a bit too late. I think if there are any people they’ll be on the wheat.”
“And the wheat is straight ahead, isn’t it?”
“Another three or four minutes.”
“You know what, Pagel—why should we all three make the detour? You dash across the rye stubble, check up on the beetroots, and then come after us as quickly as you can.”