“First of all,” said Meier, “I didn’t set fire to the forest—your Lieutenant did. If you betray him you know what’ll happen. And, secondly, suppose I had set fire to it; well, I’m going this evening at ten o’clock to the village magistrate’s to belong to the Black Reichswehr. And if you betray me then, Kniebusch, you know how traitors are dealt with by the Vehine.”
Meier stood there, grinning in the middle of the path and looking impudently and defiantly at Kniebusch, the old coward. If the Putsch story does no other good, he thought, it puts paid to this miserable sneak—he’d better not risk saying another word about me to the old gentleman or to the Rittmeister.
The forester, however, stood facing him, alternately paling and flushing. He may have been thinking: I’ve managed in forty years of service to get along; with many scares and having much to put up with, but always hoping that life would become simpler. But, instead, it gets more and more complicated, and now even in my sleep I wake up with a start, fearing that something terrible has happened. I’ve never felt like that before. Before, it was only the timber accounts and wondering whether I’d added up correctly; or when the old gentleman wanted to shoot a buck and was waiting for it in ambush, whether it would come along that day as it usually did. But now I lie awake in the darkness with my heart beating quicker and quicker. Timber thieves and lieutenants about the place and this rotter getting cheeky, and a Putsch coming off.… It will end by my being in the soup, although I have nothing against the President of the Reich.…
But aloud: “We’re comrades, Meier, and have played many a game of cards together. I’ve never yet said a word about you to the Rittmeister, and what I said about the forest fire only escaped me in anger. I’d never have given you away, of course not.”
“Of course not,” and Meier grinned insolently. “Now it’s nearly twelve and I won’t have time for the beet field. But I must be present for the fodder, and so I have to cycle. You can run behind me, Kniebusch, you won’t mind that, will you?” And Meier got on his bicycle and pushed off, calling out: “All in order, comrade,” and was gone.
The forester stared after him, shaking his head gloomily and wondering whether to take the private path instead of the road to his house. On the road he might come across timber thieves, and that would be embarrassing.
II
The pawnbroker sat on a high stool writing in his account books, while an assistant negotiated in an undertone with two women, one of whom grasped a bundle of feather beds wrapped in a sheet, the other holding a black dummy figure like those used by dressmakers. Both had sharp faces and the elaborately unconcerned look of those who only rarely visit a pawnshop.
The shop itself, situated on the mezzanine floor of a busy building, looked, as always, dirty, dusty and disorderly, although it was scrupulously tidied. The light filtering through the frosted windows was gray and dead. As usual, a huge safe stood wide open, revealing a heap of small packets wrapped in white paper, suggesting costly jewels. As usual, the keys were in the lock of the little wall-safe which held the pawnshop’s cash. From dozens of errands it was so familiar that Wolf took it in without looking. It was quite usual, too, for Uncle to glance at him over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and then continue writing.
Wolfgang Pagel turned toward the assistant, who apparently could not come to terms with the woman wishing to pawn her tailor’s dummy. Lifting his suitcase onto the table he said in a low voice, but lightly: “I’m bringing the usual. Just have a look.” And he unlocked the case.
Everything was really there as usual, everything they possessed—a second pair of trousers very worn in the seat, two white shirts, three dresses of Petra’s, her underclothing (scanty enough), and the gem of the collection, a small real-silver handbag of hers, probably the gift of an admirer—he had never asked.
“Three dollars as usual, isn’t it?” he added, just to say something, for he thought the assistant was looking rather hesitatingly at the things. The man, however, replied: “Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”
And then when everything seemed settled, a high-pitched voice from the office stool exclaimed, quite unexpectedly: “No.”
Both Wolfgang, who was known there only as the Lieutenant, and the assistant, looked up surprised.
“No,” said Uncle once more, and shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant, but this time we can’t oblige you. It doesn’t pay us. You always come and fetch the goods the next day, and we have all that bother—and, besides, these dresses are going out of fashion. Perhaps another time, when you have got something … more up to date.”
He glanced once more at Pagel, pointed his pen at him—at least it seemed so—and went on writing. Without looking up, the assistant slowly closed the suitcase, snapping the catches. The two women looked at Wolfgang, embarrassed and yet somewhat malicious, like schoolboys with a fellow pupil who has been reprimanded by the master.
“Listen, Herr Feld,” said Pagel briskly and crossed the pawnshop toward the man, who calmly went on writing. “I’ve a rich friend in the West End who’s sure to help me out. I only want the fare. I’ll leave the things here and on my way back this evening, before you close, I’ll drop in and pay back the money. Fivefold if you like. Or tenfold.”
Uncle looked reflectively at Wolfgang through his glasses, frowned and said: “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant. We don’t lend money here, we only advance money on pledge.”
“But it’s only the miserable few thousands for my fare,” insisted Wolf. “And I leave you the things.”
“I am not allowed to retain the articles without a pawn ticket. And I don’t want to take them in pawn. I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant.” And the pawnbroker looked at Wolfgang with a puzzled frown as if he wanted to judge from his face the effect of his words; then he nodded slightly and returned to his books. Wolfgang, too, had frowned and nodded slightly as if indicating that he didn’t take the refusal too badly. But, turning toward the door, he was struck by an idea, and once more went up to Herr Feld. “Look here, Herr Feld,” he said. “Buy the things from me. For three dollars. Then the poor mind will be at rest.” It had occurred to him that the rich Zecke was sure to help him out with a largish sum, and it would be a huge joke to surprise Peter with an entirely new outfit. What would be the use to her then of the old rubbish? No, away with the lot.
Herr Feld went on writing for a while. Then he stuck the pen in the inkpot, leaned back a little and said: “One dollar—with the case, Herr Lieutenant. As I said, the things are not up to date.” He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes to twelve. “And at yesterday’s dollar rate.”
For a moment Wolfgang felt like flaring up. It was the most impudent swindle in the world; and he ought to consider Peter, too, her only possessions at that moment being some toilet articles and his very ancient summer overcoat. But just as quickly came the thought that Zecke would give him money. And if he didn’t, he had always managed to get some, somehow. With a quick gesture which was to show how little it mattered, he said: “All right, then. Hand out the dough. Four hundred and fourteen thousand.” It was really nothing when he considered that yesterday evening he had gambled away almost thirty millions on zero. And one had to laugh at such a microbe as this Feld, who toiled for such muck, for such ridiculous amounts.
Uncle, wicked tough Uncle, the microbe, slowly climbed down from his office stool, went to the safe, rummaged in it for a while, and then paid out Wolfgang four hundred thousand marks.
“But where are the fourteen?”