The principal warder gave young Pagel a glance full of understanding. “Yes, sir; I wonder if I could have a tablecloth and an ash tray?”
“You shall have everything you want,” said Herr von Studmann pleasantly. “We’d like you to feel comfortable here. Pagel, go and get your lunch; it’s already on the table. The officer and I will supervise the sharing out of the food.”
Pagel gave the principal warder a glance of profound disappointment, but, at the other’s amiable nod, he said: “Right, Herr von Studmann,” and disappeared.
“Warder Siemens!” the principal warder screeched into the passage. “Have four men ready to get the food. Choose old men, married; there are pretty girls in the kitchen.”
Laughter and cat-calls arose in the barracks.
“Who told you about the pretty girls?” asked von Studmann in surprise. “Was it young Pagel?”
“A prison official has to know everything,” smirked the principal warder. “I have to be on the look-out with the boys—they get up to all sorts of tricks!”
“You haven’t told me where you got your information from, officer,” said von Studmann dryly. “It was Pagel, wasn’t it?”
“Well,” said the principal warder patronizingly, “I think the young fellow is in love. Between ourselves, in strictest confidence, he asked me to keep an eye on his girl.”
“Really!” Studmann was very surprised. “Which of the two is it? Amanda or Sophie? Of course, it’s Sophie, isn’t it?”
“He hasn’t told me yet. He was going to point her out when we went to fetch the food, but then you came along.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” laughed Studmann. “Well, he’ll be able to do it some other time.” Thoughtfully he followed the principal warder, and listened to a somewhat excited dispute as to why there were not four elderly married men detailed to fetch the food, but only three—the fourth man was young, with an unpleasantly smooth handsome face, shifty eyes and a too strong chin.
“I don’t want Liebschner!” shouted Herr Marofke. “When I say elderly men it doesn’t mean Liebschner. He’s wormed his way in—you don’t belong to my gang at all; you should be in your cell making mats! Brandt’s got boils on his feet and can’t get the food. I’ve got a boil too—in my stomach—but I can get it.” Applause and roars of laughter. “If I catch you fetching food again, Liebschner, you’ll march straight back to solitary! Understand? Hey, you there, Wendt, grab hold of the food-bin! March!”
Herr Studmann listened attentively. But he completely misheard it. It went in one ear and out the other. Studmann was thinking about Pagel. Young Pagel interested him. Studmann was one of those men who have to think and brood over something, but never over themselves. He did everything that had to be done, quite naturally, and was a completely uninteresting man. Pagel, however, was very interesting. Studmann had observed him carefully; the youngster did his work well, was always good-tempered, and adapted himself surprisingly to the unaccustomed farm life. Pulled his weight. He had been a gambler, but nothing indicated that he was longing to gamble again. He had no weakness for alcohol. He smoked too much, but that was a modern disease from which even Studmann was not free. Continually lighting up, puffing away. Yes, there was nothing wrong with young Pagel. He did his job!
And yet there was something wrong. There was no life in him; he was never enthusiastic, never angry. The fellow was twenty-three years old—he couldn’t go on running around with that half-hidden smile forever, regarding himself and everything as unimportant, as if the whole world were a swindle and he the one who had discovered it! He was, when you came to think of it, like a man seen through a veil, hazy, vague—as if he were just vegetating, as if his emotions were paralyzed.
Herr von Studmann had at first thought that this lack of vivacity was a temporary phase. Pagel was a convalescent. He had had a love affair from which he still suffered. Perhaps it had been wrong to forbid any mention of it, but Studmann was of the opinion that wounds should be left to heal.
And now came this news that Pagel was in love again, that he spoke to others about it, that he thought of a girl with anxiety. In that case everything was quite different; in that case something was rotten in the State of Denmark; in that case he was no convalescent, but merely a lazy-bones, an indolent fellow who must be urged into activity. Studmann decided to observe Pagel much more closely and to handle him in a more comradely way. There was still an invisible wall between them. A twenty-three-year-old lad with no close contact to any other person in the world, and didn’t even want any contact—that was nothing but weird. Twenty-three is surely no age to be a hermit! As far as Studmann knew, Pagel had not even written to his mother yet—that was not right; he would start on that first. All his nursemaid’s instincts were suddenly awakened. Herr von Studmann felt he had a task, and he would ponder over it and perform it.
Had Studmann ever thought about himself, he would have realized that he was eagerly rushing into this new task because he had failed with the old. After the morning’s discussion he had, without knowing it, given the Rittmeister up. The Rittmeister could not be saved, he was an incorrigible hothead—rescued from one rashness, he plunged into the next. He was a child that would never learn its lesson and the teacher was obliged to give up his job. When the lieutenant thinks about the Rittmeister, he no longer thinks, another step forward, but, now what’s he going to get up to? He did not want to forsake the Rittmeister (there was a wife and a daughter, both desirable problems), but a riddle that one wanted to solve, and which turns out to be no riddle at all, but a mass of contradictions, has no more attraction.
Thoughtfully Herr von Studmann let a friendly glance rest alternately on Amanda Backs and Sophie Kowalewski. Amanda, sturdy as a strong-boned Belgian horse, seemed to him out of the question, although one could never judge another’s tastes. Sophie, however, was quite pretty, though on closer inspection he found that her girlish features now and then acquired something sharp and evil, when her eyes became like pin-points, her voice almost hoarse. As when she now said to Principal Warder Marofke: “Is that supposed to mean we’re not trusted?”
Herr Marofke might perhaps be a queer stick, one that might break easily, but he was also an experienced prison official. One could have fared worse. He had made the four food carriers and his colleague Siemens wait outside the wash-house; he had made the girls give him a spoonful to taste; he had even praised them. “This is good stuff! This’ll please my lads.” Then he had told them to withdraw to the cellar passage before the men came in. At which Fräulein Sophie had asked very angrily: “Is that supposed to mean we’re not trusted?”
“Of course not,” said little Marofke very pleasantly. “That applies to all women—not just such pretty little ones!”
Sophie Kowalewski threw her head back angrily. “We wouldn’t get mixed up with convicts like that! You needn’t think that about us!”
“But my boys would be very glad to get mixed up with you, Fräulein,” explained the principal warder.
“Come on, Sophie!” urged Amanda. “I’m not so keen on seeing the fellows.”
Sophie was strangely obstinate—she had lost her head. Merely in order to discover at once whether he had come, she risked everything. Why had she asked for the job in this ugly old kitchen, disfigured her well-kept hands with potato peeling and splashing in cold water, given up her leisure—if she wasn’t to meet him here? She had come off worse than all the others now: if she had stood outside the harvesters’ barracks or in the village street, then at least she would have seen him marching by!