Iron Gustav (35 page)

She might perhaps have been in some danger of exalting a man into a god, of transforming their love into a mere sentimental dreaming, had she not been obliged to live so close to earth, conscious of all its hardships; there were two children to provide for, she had to queue up at the food shops for hours and, although she came home tired out, she must see to the cooking, tidy the flat, do the washing and, in addition to all this, earn the daily bread. A war widow's pension was so small that she had to sit ten or twelve hours at the sewing machine to obtain the barest necessities.

Thus she never had more than five hours' sleep, and sometimes less. ‘You won't be able to stand it much longer,' the kindly old panel doctor would say, shaking his head. ‘You must go into hospital – I've told you that a hundred times.'

‘I'll survive until my little ones are grown up, Doctor.' She smiled. ‘Then I'll definitely take a rest.'

The doctor looked at her thoughtfully. He's not at all sure that this woman won't find rest long before she wants to take it. However, he mistrusts his medical judgement. As far as that's concerned, at least half of his patients would have long since starved to death. But they still come back, these women, almost without sleep, overburdened, theoretically dead – and they go on living.

And the flame of life in these weak, crippled bodies – it seems almost as if it burns stronger, not weaker. Two children and a dream: that seems to be sufficient for life, whatever the circumstances.

And the sewing machine whirred on. Bending over her work, she was now listening to Eva's account of the revolution, which was important, of course, only in its relation to ‘him'. ‘Him' still meant Eugen Bast.

Eva had never loved a man; her first and only experience had been Eugen Bast, and him she had from the beginning feared and hated with all the strength of a weak nature. If one had to take love into account, then Eva Hackendahl was virginal. She had never loved a man, never looked at one with desire. She only knew men from one aspect, and Eugen Bast and certain diseases had made sure that this aspect was utterly disgusting to her.

Sitting there with her sister-in-law she would talk unendingly. She had heard this. She had heard that. And she would twist everything first one way, then another. She was inexhaustible – for Eugen Bast as a theme was inexhaustible indeed.

Eva was still quite pretty but her features had grown sharp and her voice had taken on a whining note. ‘Yes, and they say they'll let everybody out of jail tomorrow, everyone, not only the political prisoners …'

Gertrud's expression was negative. That wasn't what Otto had died for – so that the Eugen Basts of this world could be free once more to run around the streets …

‘Now the thing is, Gertrud, he's not in Berlin at all but in Brandenburg, in the penitentiary there. Perhaps they won't let them out in Brandenburg. What do you think, Gertrud?'

‘If they're intelligent they'll keep them in,' said Gertrud sharply, ‘or else they'll have all the trouble of catching them again.'

‘Perhaps there hasn't been a revolution in Brandenburg,' Eva went on. ‘Brandenburg's only a small town. I've been there twice – I had a permit to visit him. Convicts are only allowed visitors twice a year and he's been in just a year now.'

Gertrud looked severe and unsympathetic; she was horrified to hear her sister-in-law speaking of such things – the utterly shameless way she was talking about prisons and thieves! She let her sewing machine rattle loudly.

‘But I've always had ill luck,' continued Eva plaintively, ‘and so they'll probably have a revolution in Brandenburg too and Eugen'll come out. And I always thought I'd have two more years of peace from him. Oh, what am I to do, Gertrud, what am I to do?' There was real fear in her voice.

Tutti stopped her machining for a moment, turned to her sister-in-law and said: ‘You must leave Berlin. You've saved a bit; you can live somewhere else. As far as I know the chap, from what I've heard of him, I think he will have been so busy with this jolly revolution in Berlin that he definitely won't come after you.'

‘But when my money's gone and I have to come back again he'll get hold of me. And then it'll be worse than ever. I told you how it was after I worked those few weeks in the munitions factory. I couldn't stand it again.'

She sat there utterly dispirited, thinking once again of that time when Otto had returned from the Front and there had been that accident in the munitions factory; she hadn't known what to do and had gone back to Eugen Bast. Yes, she had gone straight back to him just as a dog does which has been inhumanly thrashed by its master and runs away, only to return to the blows and the hunger …

And she had experienced all there was of inhumanity, of blows and hunger. He had thrashed her unmercifully and had taken her at once to a bawd, this time not in the Lange Strasse where the takings were very poor but to the Augsburger Strasse in the West End. Day and night she was forced to walk the streets – none of the other girls had to work as hard – but she could never earn enough for him. He took every penny, not leaving her a farthing for food, clothes or rent.

‘Let the police give you board and lodging,' he laughed. ‘You can kick the bucket for all I care.'

Indeed he went so far with his beatings and threats and exploitation that even the hardened ‘proprietress' and the other girls took pity on her and in the end everything was arranged behind his back. But there was always the terrible fear that he would somehow nose it out. Oh, that frightful moment when he discovered that she possessed a silk dress! An evening dress with a low neck, which she had to have because gentlemen often wanted to take a girl into a restaurant or wine bar. He hadn't taken the dress away from her – that was
not how he did things – no, he gave her a pair of scissors and made her cut it to pieces herself … cut up her one pretty frock till even the pieces were of no use to anyone.

And another time he had made her write to the Health Board of the city of Berlin registering herself as a prostitute – he dictating every word – Yours very truly, Eva Hackendahl. On a postcard!

Oh, how she had hated, and still hated, him – all the time feeling more and more strongly however that he was her destiny and that she could never find within herself the strength to oppose him. How she envied the other girls with their carefree lives. They could buy what they wanted, they could stay in bed when they were tired, they weren't compelled to cower before a cat-like tread and the brutal question: ‘Well, idiot, how much dough have you earned for your Eugen? Don't stand like that or I'll sock you one!'

And then heaven or the judge had taken pity on her and sent the ingenious Bast once again to Brandenburg and three years' penal servitude – an eternity of freedom for Eva or at least a breathing space to be happy in, if one could salvage a shop-soiled remnant of happiness from a ruined life … At the end of the three years she would flee with her savings, perhaps to Austria or some remote spot, where she could buy a shop, a tobacconist's or better still a linen draper's business. She had quite good taste in that sort of thing …

And now, already, after only one year, there had come this peace, allowing Eugen Bast to come back to her again. She nearly groaned out loud. It was no use lying to him. He'd see through her immediately. And if that didn't happen right away, he would gossip with that woman and the other girls. He'd come and fetch her. She'd counted on the three years, and casually talked about her plans. Now he would take her money and her clothes, and would punish and torture her for every word she'd uttered …

She really did groan out loud, and her sister-in-law stopped the machine and said, ‘What's wrong with you? Are you really so afraid of him?'

She nodded. ‘They're bound to let him out. Then it will all begin again!'

Gertrud Hackendahl had known for a long time that Eva could
not be helped. So she merely said, with a sigh: ‘What idiots can they be who let those sorts of prisoners out? They belong in there themselves.' And her thin, narrow-lipped mouth twitched. ‘But just wait till the army comes back from the Front!'

‘Do you think so?' asked Eva nervously. ‘Do you think the soldiers would put Eugen back again?' For one moment a rather bleak hope lit up her face, but was immediately extinguished. ‘No, no,' she said with a sigh. ‘Such luck is not for me. The soldiers can't do anything. They've nothing more to say, now that they're defeated and we've lost the war …'

‘What did you say?' asked Gertrud Hackendahl, and stood up from her machine. And she asked in such a way that it was suddenly deadly quiet in the little kitchen.

Eva just stared at her sister-in-law.

Gertrud stood in front of her – a small, crippled figure, with her hands on her heart, as if she were feeling pain. With eyes wide open, she stared at Eva.

‘What was that you said?' she asked again softly. ‘Germany is defeated? Germany has lost the war?'

‘Everybody's saying …' began Eva innocently.

‘You shut your mouth,' came the interruption. ‘Don't ever again speak like that here! Aren't you ashamed? Have you no feeling of honour? You are Otto's sister.' Her eyes strayed briefly to the chest of drawers, but immediately came back to her sister-in-law, and looked at her, ablaze. ‘You know how he died and why he fought – and you dare to say defeated and lost!'

‘But Gertrud, please. Of course I didn't mean Otto …'

‘So what did he die for, if we are defeated? Where have we been defeated? Tell me a single battle we've lost? Tell me! Devil take you – the shame of it! We've won. We've fought against the whole world and won. Not a single enemy soldier stands on German soil, and you say we're defeated! So where are we defeated? Where?'

She stood there furious. She had spoken ever faster and ever angrier. Never in her life had she been so angry. Gustäving had heard his mother's voice and now stood in the doorway, looking from his mother to his aunt, his hands making a fist.

‘Don't do anything to Mummy!' he shouted.

But his mother didn't even notice him, and shouted: ‘It's quite right that they're releasing prisoners. Everyone can see then what sort of a revolution it is!'

She stood there, shocked, looking at her sister-in-law. Then she realized whom she'd been saying all that to. It was pointless – Eva understood nothing. There was nothing to her. Otto had once been – almost – like her, but there'd been something in him which his father hadn't destroyed: he had the capacity to love. Eva had nothing to her.

‘Just don't say that in my kitchen again,' said Gertrud finally. ‘Gustäving, go into the living room and look after your little brother.'

She sat down at her sewing machine again.

After a pause Eva said, in a weak voice, ‘I don't care what people say. Just as long as Eugen doesn't come out.'

Gertrud didn't answer but sat and sewed. She'd just got her first sewing job from a private client. She was altering a field-grey army greatcoat to become a lady's coat. She'd never thought of it before, but she suddenly realized that, up to then, there had been no such work. There had never been enough army greatcoats, and now what's in her hands is superfluous and would become – a coat for a lady!

She sewed more and more hesitantly. Then she stopped entirely and stared at the coat.

Suddenly she realized, because of the work she was doing, that the war was finally over, that what Otto had fought for was no more … That people say the war is lost, and what that meant, and what it meant for her. Especially for her!

She sobbed and sobbed.

‘Gertrud!' interrupted Eva. ‘Someone's ringing at the door. Didn't you hear? Shall I open it?'

‘No, leave it. I'll go.'

The doorbell rang again.

‘Gertrud! Gertrud! Oh – one moment!' Deep concern was to be
heard in Eva's voice. ‘Supposing it's Eugen? Please let me go into the living room. I won't touch the children – of course not!'

‘Do you really think,' said Gertrud, ‘that I'd let that fellow into my house? Never! But go into the living room anyway. But, yes, leave the children alone.'

It was a completely different, an enlivened Gertrud Hackendahl who let Heinz into the kitchen with his girlfriend, Irma. Now she was the real Tutti, who never forgot that Heinz was the only Hackendahl who had congratulated her on her marriage and had been completely in agreement with her choosing Otto. She liked Heinz so much because he often visited them, just to chat, and because he spent hours with the children, because he liked bringing his young girlfriend to see them.

Despite his immaturity and his boasting, she saw in him something of her dead husband – an utter decency and a stolid, stubborn reliability.

‘Heinz! Irma! That you should be here on such a day! Come in!' Then softly, ‘Eva's here too.'

‘Eva?' asked Heinz Hackendahl nervously.

He thought briefly and looked at Irma. He hadn't seen Eva since she left their parents' house.

‘Well, I don't know … shouldn't we just leave?'

‘For my sake?' asked Irma. ‘Don't be so stupid, Heinz!'

‘Come right in, Heinz,' agreed Gertrud. ‘She's quite – at peace …'

‘Hello, Eva,' said Heinz, and then, a little embarrassed, ‘Long time no see. Old folk now! And now you're making a revolution too? Fantastic!'

But he turned back again to Tutti immediately. ‘I must show you something. I've invested a few groschen in – the first steps towards an archive of the history of the revolution.'

He pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it so that everyone could see the headlines and proudly asked: ‘Great, isn't it?'

‘
The Red Flag
– Organ of the Spartacists,' they read.