Little Man, What Now? (9 page)

Schulz disappeared without a word, glad to have escaped.

‘You go to the station, Pinneberg, and look sharp. Order four twenty-ton closed trucks for six tomorrow morning. We’ve got to get the wheat off to the mill. On your way.’

‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz,’ said Pinneberg, and was on his way, sharp. He was not in a very cheerful frame of mind, though he realized Emil’s talk was mainly the effect of his hangover. All the same …

As he was going back to Kleinholz’s from the goods-yard, he
saw a figure on the opposite pavement: a particular figure, a girl, a woman, his wife.

So he slowly crossed the street onto her side of the road. Lammchen was walking in his direction, a string shopping-bag in her hand. She had not noticed him. She went up to the shop window of Brechts the Butchers, and stopped to look at the display. He went right close up to her, casting a wary eye up and down the street. There was no sign of danger.

‘So what’s the grub for tonight, young lady?’ he whispered over her shoulder and moved smartly on. Ten paces down the street he looked back just once and saw that her face had lit up with joy. Oh dear, supposing Mrs Brecht had seen that; she knew him because he always bought his sausage off her. He’d been careless again, but how could he help it with a wife like that. Well, she didn’t seem to have bought any pots yet; they were going to have to be so careful with money …

Back at the office, he found the boss sitting alone. No Lauterbach. No Schulz. Bad, thought Pinneberg, very bad. But the boss paid no attention to him. With one hand he was supporting his forehead and with the other he was slowly struggling up and down the columns of figures in the accounts book, as though he was spelling them out to himself.

Pinneberg took stock. ‘The typewriter’s the best bet,’ he thought. ‘When you’re typing people are less likely to disturb you.’

He was wrong. He had barely written ‘Gentlemen, we are taking the liberty of sending you herewith a sample of this year’s harvest of red clover, guaranteed fibre-free, fertility: ninety-five per-cent, purity: ninety-nine per cent …’… when a hand descended on his shoulder and the boss said: ‘You, Pinneberg, one moment …’

‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz?’ asked Pinneberg, dropping his fingers from the keys.

‘You’re writing about the red clover. You can leave that to Lauterbach …’

‘Oh …’

‘Is that all set with the railway trucks?’

‘Yes, it’s all set, Mr Kleinholz.’

‘Then it’ll have to be all hands to the wheel this afternoon to get the wheat in the sacks. My two females will have to help. Tie the sacks.’

‘Yes, Mr Kleinholz.’

‘Marie is handy at that kind of thing. She’s handy at most things … She’s no beauty but she’s handy.’

‘Certainly, Mr Kleinholz.’

They sat there, facing one another. Something like a pause had ensued in the conversation. Mr Kleinholz’s last words had been productive in intent; like the developer in photography they were intended to reveal what was on the plate.

The boss sat humped before him, in green loden and top boots. Anxious and oppressed, Pinneberg sat and stared at him.

‘Yes, Pinneberg,’ the boss began again, in quite a sentimental tone. ‘Have you considered it? What do you think?’

Pinneberg cast fearfully about for a way out but could see none.

‘What about, Mr Kleinholz?’ he asked feebly.

‘About cutting the staff,’ said the dispenser of his daily bread, after a long pause. ‘Who would you lay off if you were me?’

Pinneberg went hot under the collar. What a bastard. What a swine. Hassling me.

‘I can’t say, Mr Kleinholz,’ he declared uneasily. ‘I can’t speak against my colleagues.’

Mr Kleinholz was enjoying himself.

‘You wouldn’t fire yourself, if you were me?’ he asked.

‘If I were you …? Me? … How can I? …’

‘Well,’ said Emil Kleinholz and stood up. ‘I’m sure you’ll think it over. I’d have to give you a month’s notice, wouldn’t I? That would be from September 1st to October 1st, wouldn’t it?’

Kleinholz left the office to tell Mother how he’d put the squeeze on Pinneberg. Possibly Mother would let him have a drink. He felt just like one.

PEA SOUP IS PREPARED AND A LETTER IS WRITTEN, BUT THE WATER IS TOO THIN

First thing in the morning, stopping only to hang the bedding out of the window to air, Lammchen went shopping. Why hadn’t he told her what they should have for dinner?
She
didn’t know! And she had no idea what he liked.

The possibilities proved less numerous on reflection and Lammchen’s forward-planning spirit finally homed in on pea soup. It was easy and cheap and could be eaten twice running.

‘Lord, it must be so easy for girls who’ve had proper cooking lessons. My mother always chased me away from the stove. “Get your clumsy fingers out of here.” ’

What did she need? There was water. And a pot. How much peas? Half a pound’s bound to be enough for two: peas swell so. Salt? Soup vegetables? A bit of fat? Well, perhaps we need that in any case. How much meat? And what sort of meat? Beef of course. Half a pound must be enough. Peas are very nourishing, and it’s unhealthy to eat too much meat. Then potatoes of course.

Lammchen went shopping. It was great to stroll along the street on a weekday morning when everybody was in their offices. The air was still fresh, though the sun was hot already.

A large yellow post-van hooted slowly across the market place. Her young man could be behind those windows over there. But he was elsewhere, and ten minutes later he was inquiring over her shoulder what their grub for dinner was. The butcher’s wife must have noticed something, she’s a funny type, and she asked thirty pfennigs a pound for soup bones. Surely that sort of thing
was thrown in, just bare white bones without a scrap of meat. She would write and ask mother. No, better not, better manage on her own. But she ought to write to his mother. And she began composing the letter on the way home.

Mrs Scharrenhofer was evidently a nightbird. In the kitchen, when Lammchen went for the water, she saw no sign that anything had been cooked or was going to be cooked; it was all cold and shiny, and no sound came through from the room behind. She put her peas on, wondering whether to add the salt now. No, better to wait to the end when it would be easier to know how much.

Now for the cleaning. It was hard, much harder than she had ever imagined; oh, those horrible paper roses, those garlands, bleached and poisonous green, and faded upholstered furniture, corners, knobs, balustrades! She had to be ready by half past eleven, to write the letter. Sonny had between twelve and two off for lunch, but he was unlikely to be back before quarter to one as he had to go and register at the town hall.

At quarter to twelve she sat down at a little walnut table with the yellow letter-writing paper dating from her girlhood in front of her.

First the address: ‘Mrs Marie Pinneberg—Berlin NW 40—Spenerstrasse 92 II.’

A person surely had to write to his mother, tell her when he got married, especially if he was the only son, the only child indeed. Even if you didn’t get along with her, even if you disapproved of her way of life, as a son you ought to write.

‘Mother ought to be ashamed of herself,’ Pinneberg declared.

‘But Sonny, she’s been a widow twenty years.’

‘That makes no difference. And it hasn’t always been the same man.’

‘Hannes, you had other girls besides me.’

‘That’s completely different.’

‘Well in that case, what might the Shrimp say if he compared
his birth-date with the date when we got married?’

‘We don’t know when his birth-date will be.’

‘We do. The beginning of March.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘Never you mind, Sonny. I know. And I am going to write to your mother. It’s only right.’

‘Do what you like, but I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

“ ‘Dear Madam,”—That sounds silly, doesn’t it? People don’t write like that. “Dear Mrs Pinneberg”—but that’s my name, and it doesn’t sound right either. Hannes is bound to read the letter.’

‘Oh, who cares,’ thought Lammchen. ‘Either she’s like what Hannes says, in which case it doesn’t matter what I write, or she’s a nice woman, in which case I’d want to write as I feel. So …’

“Dear Mother!

I am your new daughter-in-law Emma, called Lammchen, and Hannes and I got married the day before yesterday, on Saturday. We are happy and contented, and would be very pleased if you would share in our happiness. Things are going well for us, except that unfortunately Hannes had to give up selling clothes and works in a fertilizer business which we don’t like so much. With best wishes from your Lammchen …” ’

And there she left a space. ‘And you
are
going to add your name, Sonny!’

And because there was still a half an hour to go, she took out her book, which she had bought at Wickel’s a fortnight ago:
The Sacred Miracle of Motherhood
.

She read, frowning: ‘Happy, sun-filled days are here. The little child has come, a heaven-sent compensation for human imperfections.’

She tried to understand, but the sense kept eluding her. It seemed dreadfully difficult, and its relevance to the Shrimp was hard to see. But then came some poetry, which she read slowly, several times:

‘Voice of a child,
Voice of unknowingness
But knowing like Solomon
Wisdom in joyfulness,
Meaning in birdsong.’

Lammchen didn’t quite understand that either. But it was so happy; she leaned back; there were times now when her body felt so heavy, her womb so rich; she repeated with closed eyes: ‘Knowing like Solomon wisdom in joyfulness, meaning in birdsong.’

‘A baby must be about the happiest thing there is,’ was her feeling. ‘The Shrimp will be happy! Meaning in birdsong …’

‘Lunch!’ called Sonny from the hall. How had he got there? She must have slept a little; lately there had been times when she was very tired.

‘That lunch of mine,’ she thought, slowly rising to her feet.

‘Isn’t the table laid yet?’ he asked.

‘In a moment, Sonny love,’ she said, and rushed to the kitchen. ‘May I bring the pot to the table? I’ll use the tureen if you like.’

‘What is there, then?’

‘Pea soup.’

‘Fine. Bring the pot. I’ll lay the table.’

Lammchen filled the plates. She looked rather worried. ‘Isn’t it rather thin?’ she asked anxiously.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, carving the meat on the little serving dish.

She tried the soup. ‘Heavens, it’s thin!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. Followed by: ‘Oh Lord, the salt!’

He too laid down his spoon. Across the table, over the plates and the heavy enamelled pot, their glances met.

‘And it was meant to be so good,’ wailed Lammchen. ‘I had the right quantities: half a pound of peas, half a pound of meat, a
whole pound of bones. It
ought
to be good soup!’

He had stood up, and was stirring reflectively in the pot with the enamel ladle. ‘Now and again you do come across a pea husk. How much water did you put in Lammchen?’

‘It must be the peas. They haven’t swelled up at all.’ ‘How much water?’ he repeated.

‘The pot full.’

‘Five litres—and a half a pound of peas. I believe, Lammchen’, he said with an air of detection, ‘that it’s the water. The water is too thin.’

Lammchen was cast down. ‘Do you mean I put in too much? Five litres. It was meant to be enough for two days.’

‘Five litres—I believe it’s more than enough for two days.’ He tried once again. ‘No, I’m sorry Lammchen, it’s really only hot water.’

‘Oh, my poor Sonny. Are you dreadfully hungry? What shall I make? Shall I run down quickly and get some eggs, and make egg and fried potatoes? I’m sure I can do that.’

‘Let’s get going then!’ he said. ‘I’ll run down for the eggs.’ And he was off.

When he came back to her in the kitchen her eyes were streaming, but not from the onions she had been cutting up for the potatoes.

‘Lammchen,’ he said, ‘It’s not a tragedy!’

She threw both arms around his neck. ‘Sonny love, supposing I turn into a useless housewife! I want to make everything so nice for you. And if the Shrimp doesn’t get proper food he won’t thrive.’

‘D’you mean now, or later?’ he asked, laughing. ‘D’you think you’ll never learn?’

‘There you are! You still aren’t taking me seriously.’

‘As for the soup, I was just thinking about it on the stairs. The only thing wrong with it is too much water. If you put it on again and let it boil a long time, the extra water will boil away, and we’ll
have some really good pea soup.’

‘Great!’ she said, beaming. ‘You’re right. I’ll do it this very afternoon, so we can have another plate of it for dinner.’

They moved with their fried potates and two fried eggs each into the living-room. ‘Does it taste nice? Does it taste the way you expect it to? I hope it’s not too late for you? Can you lie down for a moment? You look so tired, Sonny love.’

‘No, not because it’s too late. Today I can’t sleep. Kleinholz is a man who …’

He had considered at length whether to tell her anything about it.

But they had promised each other on Saturday night that there would be no more secrets. And so he told her. And it was such a relief to be able to say everything that was on his mind.

‘What do I do now?’ he asked. ‘If I don’t say anything, he’ll certainly give me the sack on the first. What if I simply told him the truth? Supposing I tell him I’m married; he can’t just put me out on the street.’

But on this matter Lammchen was entirely her father’s child: an employee could not expect anything from an employer. ‘He couldn’t care less,’ she said angrily. ‘There used to be a few honest ones, possibly. But now with so many people unemployed and getting by somehow or other, they think, oh well, it doesn’t matter about my people either.’

‘Kleinholz isn’t bad really,’ said Pinneberg. ‘He just doesn’t think. He ought to have it explained to him. That we’re expecting the Shrimp and so …’

Lammchen was outraged. ‘You’d tell
him
that, when he’s trying to blackmail you. No, Sonny, you must never, never do that.’