“Yes. That man hates evil. His hate urges him on without rest.”
“It’s over four weeks now that he’s been with Violet; he must provide for her somehow or other.” This mother abominated the wretch who had made her daughter miserable, but because he permitted the girl to live she did not like to think of his falling into the hands of that pitiless fat man.
Pagel stood up. “Madam, at least don’t worry about the Geheimrat. For the moment nothing will happen. Something has intervened. Plans do exist.…”
“Yes, we’re supposed to leave this place.”
“But they can’t be carried out for the moment. If anything happens, I’ll let you know.”
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he added, “You needn’t trouble your father with a letter either. As you can’t do what he wants anyway, you could do just as well not to write him.”
“Thank you, Herr Pagel. Thank you for everything.” She gave him her hand, smiling at him. “It has done me good to talk to you.”
And with that sudden, inexplicable woman’s transition, she said, “And now, Herr Pagel, you must do me a favor too.”
“Yes, please,” he said, “gladly.”
“Don’t put up with this wretched woman Backs anymore! It’s said you eat with her and that she’s always sitting with you in the office. Oh, don’t be angry with me, Herr Pagel!” she cried hastily. “I’ve absolutely no mistrust for you. You simply haven’t noticed that the girl is in love with you.…”
“Amanda Backs is not in love with me, Madam,” said Pagel. “I only do her good because she’s been left on the shelf. What’s more, she does me good. Life in Neulohe is sometimes a bit too much for a young man like me. I sometimes like to have someone around with whom I can exchange a word.”
“Oh, God, Herr Pagel!” she cried, genuinely shocked. “I really didn’t mean that. I only meant Backs, because she’s with that Meier—and he really is horrible.…”
Pagel looked at her, but she didn’t notice. She really noticed nothing; she saw absolutely no parallels.
In the hall outside the clock struck midnight.
“Well, Herr Pagel,” she said earnestly, “see that you get to bed now. It’s really too late for you. I can believe that the work here is often a bit too much for a single person. Have a thorough sleep for once. Let the laborers manage for a bit alone; I’m agreeable to anything. Good night, Herr Pagel, and my best thanks again.”
“Good night, madam. I have to thank you.”
“A thorough sleep, then, without fail!” she called out after him.
Pagel smiled to himself in the dark. He didn’t hold it against her; in many respects this clever, alert woman was a child. By work, she always meant something like schoolwork. You can’t do much about it, but a teacher can occasionally grant a whole day free and then the children are happy! She had not yet understood (and probably never would) that life, that every day, has its tasks which no one is spared.
In the office building above, a white shadow appeared in the window. The faithful concierge was checking up on him.
“Everything shipshape, Amanda,” murmured Pagel in her direction. Sophie had put herself out in vain. “Go to sleep, get warm, and wake me tomorrow morning early at half past five—but with a coffee.”
“Good night, Herr Pagel” was heard from above.
IX
The next morning this takes place in front of the Villa:
Frau Eva is already in the car, giving Oskar directions, when the front door opens and out steps the Rittmeister, followed by his attendant. He walks with a queerly stumbling gait to the car. The attendant remains standing at the top of the steps.
Like a guilty child the Rittmeister asks: “May I drive with you, Eva?”
Frau Eva throws an astonished glance at the attendant, who nods emphatically.
“But, Achim!” she cries, “won’t it be too much for you?”
He shakes his head. His eyes are full of tears, his mouth trembles.
“Oh, Achim! Achim—I’m so happy indeed. All will be right again, you see. Sit down next to me. Herr Schümann, please help the Rittmeister into the car. Oskar, fetch another rug, the fur one. Herr Schümann, you must then go at once to Herr Pagel and tell him; he’ll be so pleased.”
The car starts. The Rittmeister makes an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, Eva,” he says quietly. And again with much effort, “I can’t speak properly yet. I don’t quite understand, but.…”
“But what do you need to speak for, Achim?” she says, taking his hand. “Surely, as long as we are together, everything will be easier?”
He nods vigorously.
Chapter Fifteen
The Last Does Not Remain Alone
I
Soon it would be December. With storms of ice, snow and sleet the year was approaching its end. The last of the potato diggers had fled—a great blow—ten thousand hundredweight and more were still in the earth. Angry shame seized Pagel when he saw the leaves rotting in the fields and thought that, while people were dying of hunger in the towns, the potatoes themselves were rotting underground.
I have done a lot of things wrong, he thought. But how the devil could I have known better? Nobody told me, and I had so much to do I couldn’t think a day ahead. I ought to have had the potatoes taken straight to the station; then we should now have the little bit of money which is always lacking. Stored in the clamps they are threatened by frost and thieves, and won’t be saleable till spring. And who will have this place then?
The threshing machine hummed outside—but it was too loud, too noticeable. There was a man in Frankfurt who had once furnished a large sum of inflation money, and a car had been purchased with it; now the man wanted his goods. The times were beginning to change. In Berlin they had at last stopped the note presses, so people said, and the mark wouldn’t be falling any lower: it had stopped falling when for one American dollar 4,200 milliard marks were given. And perhaps it would stay at that level.
The threshing machine hummed—sometimes it was busy with rye for the man in Frankfurt; sometimes he went away empty-handed because another had been quicker. Geheimrat von Teschow had left the beautiful region of Nice and now lived in the agreeable town of Dresden—to be more exact, at The White Hart, in Loschwitz. Perhaps he wanted to lose weight, or his gallstones gave him trouble if he thought of Neulohe. Or the old lady was having trouble with her nerves. Emissaries of his frequently visited Neulohe—they were bailiffs: and a certain attorney had become a familiar figure to Wolfgang, for the Geheimrat had a writ of execution—oh, everything was in the best of order. Once again he had snapped up three hundred hundredweights of rye which the man in Frankfurt should have had.…
Pagel sat at his typewriter; it was only half-past eight in the morning and the letter must go by the next post, without fail.
Dear Herr So-and-so, I regret to have to inform you that the wagonload of rye (Baden 326485, 15 tons), concerning which you had already been apprised, was seized at the goods station here by that other creditor of Herr von Prackwitz already known to you. I beg you to be patient a few days longer; as quickly as possible I will send you a delivery in replacement. In the meantime I would beg you to consider whether the grain assigned you could not be fetched direct from the threshing machine by truck. I have already verbally explained to you that there is no lack either of goodwill on our part or of the possibility …