Like many Germans, particularly elderly people, faced by the monstrous fantasy of inflation, Elias, too, refused to believe in a general devaluation. A man who had been saving assiduously for more than fifty years had to retain something; it was impossible that the whirlpool should swallow up everything. And it did not require much thought to convince him that “real money” from prewar times would remain “real.” This was already borne out by the statement on the notes themselves that they were redeemable at the Reichsbank for gold. And gold was “real.” Money which had been issued during or after the war was not, of course, “real.” It was the war which had started the fraud of “linen” shirts made of paper and “leather” shoes of cardboard!
When old Elias first noticed the signs of inflation, he began to buy 1,000-mark notes. There were always people who could not think so deeply as he did. Certainly he had heard that the Reichsbank in Berlin no longer redeemed these notes for gold; but that, of course, was only bluff, intended for fools. The Reichsbank wanted to call in its own notes cheaply—to save its scanty gold. Elias, however, being no fool, did not hand over his notes cheaply to the Reichsbank. He waited; he could afford to wait; one day he would receive gold, as was plainly stated on the notes.
Thus it started—in the beginning as a capital investment. Then Elias found that this investment had its own science; in his old age, without knowing it, he discovered the delights of collecting.
There were so many kinds of brown 1,000-mark notes! Of course, one learned at the very outset that only notes with the red stamp were valid. Those with the green stamp originated during the war or postwar times and should not be collected. But there were notes with one red stamp and some which bore two red stamps; bank-notes with no fiber strips and notes with a blue fiber strip on the left side and others with the strip on the right side. There were notes bearing eight signatures, some with nine, and some even with ten. There were notes with the series letters A, B, C, D, followed by seven and eight figures. Yet it was the same brown 1,000-mark note, pictures and text never changing—but with what a multitude of variations!
Old Elias jotted down and compared; he was now no longer collecting brown 1,000-mark notes, he was collecting variations, differences, distinctions. His big, round, smooth head grew crimson over his task. He beamed when he found a specimen which he had not seen before. He was firmly convinced that its distinctive features were secret signs made by connoisseurs for connoisseurs. They possessed a significance. He who knew how to interpret them would be rewarded with much gold thereby.
Let the old Geheimrat laugh at him! With all his cunning the old gentleman understood nothing of these secret matters. He believed what the people in the banks told him; he believed what was printed in the newspapers. Old Elias was not so credulous, and for that reason he was richer than his master; he possessed more than a hundred thousand marks in gold currency—or in currency as good as gold.
Tonight he was very happy; he had three perfectly new specimens among his recent purchases, among them a note from the year 1876. He had not known of any 1,000-mark notes of such an early date—his earliest hitherto was of 1884. He would think twice before going so far as to change these notes for gold. They were so beautiful with their engravings of human forms which, as he had heard, represented Industry, Trade and Transport.
“Industry, Trade and Transport,” he murmured and stared at the notes awe-struck. The labor of a whole people! Except that Agriculture was not included, which seemed a pity.
What would he do with gold? He could not carry about with him over a hundred thousand marks in gold. With gold he would be in a state of perpetual anxiety—whereas this paper money was so beautiful.
The old servant was happy. Each note was carefully folded before it found its way back into his pocketbook. The bank-note presses in Berlin harassed the people in an ever-increasing delirium—but they had presented Elias with happiness, great happiness. With beautiful notes.
The mulled wine had had its effect. From her pillows Frau von Teschow, feeling more lively, spoke to her friend: “Would you read to me, Jutta?”
“From the Bible?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff, quite agreeable.
But this suggestion did not find favor tonight. The evening devotions directed to the conversion of an erring girl had miscarried; the Bible and its God were rather in disgrace.
“No, no, Jutta—we must continue with Goethe.”
“Gladly, Belinde. The keys, please.”
Fräulein von Kuckhoff received them. On the top shelf of the wardrobe, with the hats, was hidden a thirty-volume edition of Goethe in half-calf—Frau von Teschow’s confirmation present to her granddaughter, Violet von Prackwitz. Violet’s confirmation already belonged to the distant past, but it was impossible to predict when the Goethe would be handed over to her.
Fräulein von Kuckhoff took down the seventh volume: Poems. Lyrical. I. It looked oddly swollen. Nearby, Fräulein von Kuckhoff placed scissors and paper.
“Paste, Jutta!” Frau von Teschow reminded her.
The friend added the little pot of paste, opened the book and at the marked place started to read the poem of the goldsmith’s journeyman.
After the first verse Frau von Teschow nodded approvingly. “This time we’re lucky, Jutta.”
“Wait and see, Belinde,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “Never count your chickens before they are hatched.”
And she read the second verse.
“Good, good!” nodded Frau von Teschow and found the subsequent verses praiseworthy.
Till they came to the lines:
Her little foot peeps in and out,
And calls to mind what is above;
I recollect the garter, too,
I’m giving to my love.…
“Stop, Jutta,” cried Frau von Teschow. “Again!” she lamented. “What do you think, Jutta?”
“I told you so,” declared Fräulein von Kuckhoff. “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.”
Frau von Teschow waxed indignant. “Even present-day writers aren’t worse. What do you say, Jutta?” But she did not wait for a reply. Sentence was passed. “Paste it up, Jutta, paste it up well—suppose the child should read it!” Fräulein von Kuckhoff was already pasting up the lewdness. “Not much left, Belinde,” she said and held up the volume for scrutiny.
“It’s scandalous.” Frau von Teschow was very indignant. “And such a man regards himself as a classic! Oh, Jutta, why didn’t I buy a Schiller for the child? Schiller is much nobler, far less carnal.”
“Don’t forget the old proverb, Belinde—‘No rose without its thorn.’ Schiller, too, is not good for young people. Think of ‘Intrigue and Love,’ Belinde. And then that female, that Eboli woman.…”
“True, Jutta. Men are all like that. You’ve no idea the trouble I’ve had with Horst-Heinz.”
“Yes,” said the Kuckhoff. “Every pig to its sty. Well, I’ll read on.”
Thank God, next followed the poem about Johanna Sebus, the rescuer. That was really noble; but why the poet referred to Johanna Sebus as “Sweet Susan” was not clear.
“He ought to have written ‘Sweet Hannah,’ oughn’t he, Horst-Heinz?” For the Geheimrat had just come in. Smirking, he watched the two little women. “He may have considered Hannah as too common,” he suggested after a close examination of the point. In socks and shirt sleeves he paced up and down the room, the book in his hand.
“But why ‘Suschen’?”
“I think, Belinde, Suschen is an abbreviation of Sebuschen. And Sebuschen, you know, Belinde—well, what do you think, Jutta?” The Geheimrat was serious, but the corners of his eyes were twitching. “Sebuschen, Buschen, Busen, Bosom; that, too, sounds indecent, don’t you think?”