An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (34 page)

In which everything goes wrong and Dr. Kimmknirsch takes to drink

T
HE TROUBLES OF THE YOUNG
do not upset their sleep. As Rosemarie stood by her bed, she felt so utterly wretched that she never expected to close an eye. But no sooner did she lie down and warm the bedclothes with her body than a gentle hand passed over the scrawled slate and blotted out everything in a deep, warm, soft oblivion.

With her head nestling in the crook of her arm, Rosemarie slept a sound, untroubled sleep—and she would have slept into the following morning, until the detested Schlieker yelled to her to get up, if a strange noise had not awakened her.

As she gradually gained consciousness, the hum of voices in the next room seemed more calculated to put her to sleep again, but she heard another tap on the window.

Rosemarie sat up. In the next room the two Schliekers were talking in the silence of the night. She could not
hear what they were saying, but the woman’s voice was shrill and tearful, while Paul was speaking in an undertone and trying to soothe her.

She was about to lie down again, when there was a rattle on the window like a gust of hail, and Rosemarie was out of bed in one jump. “The boys,” she thought gleefully. “My boys—they haven’t deserted me.”

Outside, there was still moonlight enough for her to make out two shadowy forms. But they could not see her in the darkened window, and another handful of gravel rattled against the panes. Although the Schliekers were talking, and the window of their room was round the corner of the house, they were sure to hear the noise at last.

Rosemarie hurriedly wrenched at the window catch, but the window did not stir. She pulled until the window-frames cracked, but the windows remained rigid. A fresh shower of gravel pattered against the glass, and Rosemarie could only listen in agony to the voices in the next room. In his fury, Paul Schlieker had nailed up the window as securely as could be.

But the boys must be made to stop their noise at any price, or they would get into trouble. She snatched the pillow from the bed, held it against one side of the window, pressed her face to the other side and, cautiously listening for any sound from the next room, she rapped out a signal with her fingers. The voices in the next room continued, but the rattle on the window was not repeated. The boys had heard her signal.

Rosemarie had to be quick, or her friends outside might grow impatient once more. Her sleep, however long it had lasted, had refreshed her. Her gloom and
despondency had passed. Hurriedly she opened the hatch into the beet cellar, and climbed down into it just as she was, in her nightgown. There were some vents in the walls, scarcely as large as her head, to keep out rats and other vermin, but she moved the ladder so that she could reach one of the holes, and whispered eagerly: “Hütefritz! Here—come to the hole. . . .”

The hole darkened. “Yes?” said a voice. “Why don’t you open your window?”

“It’s nailed up, Fritz.”

“We’re all here,” he whispered. “We’ve brought some saws with us, we can saw through these bars as soon as the Schliekers’ light goes out.”

“Nonsense, Fritz— I mean, it’s very nice of you, but it can’t be done. Do you think Schlieker won’t hear you sawing? He sleeps like a hare, with one eye and one ear.”

“But—” protested Hütefritz.

“Besides, it isn’t necessary, Fritz,” she whispered. “Believe me, if I want to, I can get away. But I don’t want to, just yet.”

“Oh yes, it’s your grand friends’ scheme, eh?” he said in an offended tone. “Rosemarie, it’ll only get you into a mess.”

“No, it won’t, Fritz,” she said, “but I would be very grateful if you would do one thing for me. . . .”

“Well . . .” he said, half mollified. “What’s that?”

“But you must do it yourself, Fritz,” whispered the daughter of Eve. “Then I shall be sure it’s properly done.”

“Tell me what it is then,” he urged. “Shall I pinch Schlieker’s horses? Or shall I smash the yard pump so he can’t get any water?”

“No, Fritz, nothing like that. No, but can you spare three or four hours tomorrow?”

Hütefritz, who had sounded so resolute, seemed dubious. “Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said slowly, “it isn’t easy. The cattle, you see. I’ve had trouble with the Tamms lately because I’ve been away a few times, but in the evening, perhaps?”

“Then I’ll have to wait a little longer, but never mind,” she said reassuringly. “Will you go to the magistrate and say: ‘Rosemarie hasn’t run away, she is with the Schliekers, and Schlieker has taken the money away from her. . . .’ ”

“Oh, Rosemarie!” whispered Hütefritz gloomily into the vent. “You weren’t telling me the truth. You hadn’t got any scheme. I knew it. When everything is all right, you just order me to do this or that. But when it isn’t, you ask in that appealing sort of way.”

She was silent for a moment, the children’s queen of Unsadel was silent and abashed. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Fritz,” she explained, “I was just afraid for you. Schlieker is more of a beast than ever. I don’t think he’s quite right in his head.”

“You needn’t be afraid for me; if I’m not afraid, then you needn’t be. We agreed we would always tell each other everything.”

“I did mean to tell you everything, but it all happened so quickly, and then I was afraid.”

“But you shouldn’t be.”

“And look here, Fritz, I’m quite certain it will work out all right. When you threw that gravel against the window I was so glad. I’m sure I shall manage it, and
you’ll be able to leave that old souse Tamm and come to us and look after the horses.”

“Rosemarie!—” he said, quite overwhelmed, almost falling over backwards at the prospect. “How about Schlieker? And Philip?”

“I’ll tell you soon how I mean to fix things. Oh, Fritz, we must stop now, the others will be getting cross—and I’m standing here in my nightgown, and freezing like a log in the forest. . . . You’ll go to Schulz, won’t you?”

“Of course, Rosemarie, but not till the evening.”

“And you’ll tell him that Schlieker’s got the money, and that he’s shut me up here, and Schulz is to come along as soon as possible?”

“I won’t forget—he’s to come at once.”

“I hope he will. But the main thing is that he should understand I haven’t run away again. And now tell the others to come and say good night to me, and you get along to bed. Oh, Fritz, you can’t have had any sleep the last few nights.”

“I sleep in the daytime, out in the fields; it’s still nice and warm in the sunshine,” he reassured her. “Good night then, Rosemarie, I’ll be sure and see Schulz.”

Then the others came, and one childish hand after another slipped through the grating. Heini Beier, Robert Hübner, Albert Strohmeier, Ernst Witt, and last of all, Otsche Gau.

“Otsche, is that really you?”

“Of course, I’m one of you now. Am I to say anything to Father? He is quite changed, he actually asked after you. I think he’s sorry he got you into trouble with Schlieker.”

“No, don’t say anything to your father, Otsche. Hütefritz will tell you all about it—by tomorrow or the next day everything will be all right. Good night, Otsche.”

“Good night, Rosemarie!”

“Good night—good night—good night.” A nice warm bed to snuggle down in—good night—good night. They were still talking in the next room, they had heard nothing. She ought to have asked Otsche what time it was, and then she would have known how long she had to sleep.

And then she slept.

Good night. The slim moon vanishes, the southwest wind blows up the clouds and dims its radiance. Good night. The wind is spattering rain against the house. The lovely autumn days are over, storms are at hand, the damp season has come, and the leaves are whirling down. Good night, and if we knew which would be the last night in our own bed, we should not sleep so softly and so sound. Good night.

The day to which Paul Schlieker’s voice awakened Rosemarie broke gray and dark and rainy. And the voice that sent her forth to milk and feed the cattle was harsh and angry. He made her do all the work, standing in the stable door, glaring at her and coughing. She had to rub down the horses and the cows, wash out the stable and lay fresh straw.

It was light, but the day was dark. Great clouds drifted across the sky, a shower fell from time to time, and it was very cold.

“Fill the water tub!” And she pumped and carried two days’ water supply into the house. She peeled potatoes and prepared everything for the day.

“So,” said he. “And now get along to your room. And remember to keep quiet, see?”

It was not without reason that he had said that, for presently she heard the chug of a car—no, it was the motorcycle—then the young doctor’s voice in the passage.

She longed to call to him, but he had left her in anger, and she was ashamed to ask his help again.

The doctor stayed a long time. Now and then his voice seemed to grow insistent, perhaps he was asking after her. But alas!—these people did not know Schlieker, he was more than a match for them. No, the doctor certainly hadn’t asked after her. Indeed, it would have been little use. Schlieker would merely have lied.

But she liked to think that he had asked. And that evening the little magistrate would know everything and the whole story would be out. What on earth did Schlieker mean by imprisoning her like this—did he think he could keep her under lock and key for weeks and months? In that case he could not stir outside his house, he could not look after his land or move his horses, he was the prisoner of his own captive.

But perhaps he ignored the future, perhaps he was merely the victim of a senseless rage. It was just the same with the babies. He did not care what happened provided he did not have to obey any orders.

The doctor talked and Schlieker talked, and on one occasion the voices grew so loud that there was one breathtaking second when she was sure he was going to insist on seeing her. But the crisis passed, the voices receded, and once more she heard the chug of the motorcycle. He was gone.

The bolt shot back. Schlieker stood in the doorway glaring at her and said: “Go and cut the chaff.”

As she walked in front of him across the yard, the sound of the motorcycle had died away. All she could do now was to await the evening and the arrival of the little magistrate.

Meanwhile, young Dr. Kimmknirsch clattered slowly and thoughtfully through the village of Unsadel. Yes, he had had a long, and at times a rather heated interview with Paul Schlieker. The man, like so many husbands, had not been willing to admit that his wife was really ill, seriously ill.

“It’s just a touch of cramps,” he said contemptuously. “She ought to pull herself together, as I have to do.”

That he certainly had done, as Kimmknirsch could not but agree. “You ought to be in bed,” he advised. “You are not well, and I don’t like the sound of that cough of yours.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Schlieker.

“And you had much better send your wife into an institution for a couple of weeks, a hospital if you like. She is suffering from what we call ‘absences,’ she is often not in her right mind, and she might do anything then.”

“Well, and what could she do—smash a saucepan or two, eh?—well, that’s cheaper than sending her to a hospital. It’s all very well for you to talk about a couple of weeks in a hospital, but it’s my money that’s going to pay the bill, not yours, Herr Doctor.”

“It’s your wife that’s ill, not mine,” the young doctor replied, still quite unruffled.

Then they lost their tempers. Schlieker grew more and
more violent, he could not endure to be contradicted. The world had to wag as he wanted, and if the doctor said his wife was as ill as all that, she should get up at once and do a job of work—and they would both have a good laugh.

However, they calmed down after a while and agreed that Frau Schlieker should not go into a hospital but should stay in bed. It then appeared that Schlieker himself wanted to consult the doctor.

He bared his left shoulder, and the doctor shook his head as he looked at the four small deep punctures, which were already inflamed.

“Who is throwing forks around in this house?” asked Kimmknirsch finally, and Schlieker was furious that he had guessed.

“That poisonous little toad Rosemarie, of course! She threw the fork at me and ran away. Just like a parson’s daughter!”

“Oh, indeed,” Dr. Kimmknirsch answered, and Rosemarie Thürke was not mentioned by either of them again. They both seemed averse to offer any further explanation.

But Dr. Kimmknirsch was now riding slowly through the damp and windy October day, pondering deeply as he went. Had Schlieker told him the truth? And if not, then what was the truth?

On the previous evening he had, as usual, dined at the round table at Stillfritz’ in the company of the little magistrate. Schulz expressed himself rather irritably on the sudden appearance of Professor Kittguss, who had proved to be a person of substance. He then went on to talk of the girl’s second escape. She had clearly got quite out of
hand and if she did not turn up within twenty-four hours she could expect no further mercy or consideration. There were reform schools for girls of that sort.