Wolf Among Wolves (124 page)

Pagel had now reached the place where the forester and his two overseers were working. It was not yet time for felling, of course; the great old beech trees which stood there had as yet hardly lost their foliage, and there was still too much sap in them. But all day the forester was out with these two, who would later have charge of the woodmen. He indicated the tree to be felled; the overseer’s ax flashed and a broad strip of silver-gray bark flew to the ground. Yellow, with rapidly reddening scars, the white tree shone in the wood. There, accommodate yourself to the winter; you will never know another spring. The woodmen will recognize you by your scar.

In reality it is a very epic calling which the old forester carries on there as deputy of the reaper who is called Death. And since death does not
immediately overtake the one marked for it, since a certain respite has been granted to that which is ignorant of the sentence just passed—this makes his occupation almost a little unearthly. When, however, Pagel sees the forester walking among the trees, muttering or coughing hollowly, the shadow of a man withered by age, anxieties and a never-conquered fear of life—when he sees him point at a trunk with a bony forefinger already trembling—then the epic becomes grotesque. Then this reaper Death is himself visibly marked by death, carries out his regency only in an uncertain reprieve and perhaps even knows this. The overseers go from tree to tree, the trembling finger points, the ax rings clear and silvery, and they advance, slowly, leaving behind them the gleaming scars.

Pagel said a very polite good day to the forester, who, out of the corner of his prominent seal-like eyes, examined him, muttered something in reply, then went on, pointing. At his side strolled young Pagel, his hands in his pockets, smoking—he did not want the old man to have the feeling that he was being supervised—yet he could not help noticing how seldom the axes obtained something to do, how seldom the finger pointed, although it was nearly all timber fit for felling, indeed almost overseasoned. “You’re marking extremely few today, Herr Kniebusch,” he said after a while.

The forester turned his face away, muttering, but did not reply. He made a concession, however; he pointed at a tree—but, as the ax was lifted, he exclaimed: “No! Better not.” Nevertheless the ax was not lowered; it struck and the trunk was branded.

“It’s already getting hollow, forester,” shouted the overseer.

Murmuring something like a curse, the forester looked angrily at Pagel. Then he walked on slowly, head lowered without bothering about the trees, as if he had quite forgotten his work.

“Your job’s to do what the forester tells you,” Pagel shouted.

“Herr Pagel,” replied the man in a tone not at all disagreeable, “what we’re doing today is really utter nonsense. The last few days, this morning even, he let us mark again and again; but since midday not a thing! We point out to him rotten and overseasoned timber, but he shakes his head and goes on. It’s childish what he’s doing now; that’s not why we scour the woods and get sixty milliards of marks a day …”

“Oh, shut up, Karl!” said the other overseer. “Herr Pagel knows what’s wrong with the old fellow, he doesn’t cycle into the wood every day just for pleasure. The old un’s getting crazy, and since midday he’s quite mad.”

“Hold your tongue, man!” shouted Pagel. The forester had been standing two paces away and must have heard everything. He kept his face lowered;
one couldn’t tell if the brutal words had hurt him. As if made aware of their glances, he lifted his head, said: “Time to knock off,” and walked quickly out of the trees into the glade, one hand holding his gun sling.

“It’s not half-past three yet,” said the more tactful overseer, reaching for his watch, “and it’s daylight till a quarter to five. It’s absurd, Herr Pagel, for him to send us home now.”

“Oh, shut up, Karl,” again said the other, who preferred to talk himself. “He knows why he’s afraid of the wood in the dark. People say that the dead man in the Black Dale walks about; and the one he wants to find knows it too and takes care to get out of the wood before it gets dark.”

Pagel mastered his anger. “Listen, my man,” he said, “the forester is your superior and you’ll do what he tells you, you understand?”

“If a man’s mad I’ve no intention of doing what he tells me,” said the fellow. “The forester’s mad, and I’ll tell him so till he clears out of the forest.”

“Listen, you!” began Pagel passionately.

The overseer interrupted him. “One can see that he’s got a bad conscience,” he declared. “No one’s found the dead man’s revolver, and a good many say it was nothing less than a rifle shot.”

“Oh!” shouted Pagel. “Oh! You old washerwoman!” Then his anger broke out. “God, man, aren’t you ashamed to repeat such stupid rubbish? There you have a decent old man; don’t make his life any harder than it is already.”

“There you’re right, Herr Pagel,” said the other overseer. “I always say …”

“Shut up, Karl! We all know officials stand by one another. But when something’s pretty wrong, I say so; and there’s something wrong with the forester.”

“You are dismissed,” bellowed Pagel. “You are dismissed on the spot. I’ll give you a week to get out of your cottage. Good evening.”

He turned and walked to his cycle, not feeling at all happy. But what was one to do? The poor devil was not to blame for being boorish. But then neither was the forester for being worn-out and ill. The young overseer, now it was time for felling, could find work anywhere, the old forester hardly ever again …

He trod hard on the pedals and tried to think for a moment about his mother’s letter. Barely two hours ago he had been almost happy! But however hard he tried, the letter remained very remote, like a faint light seen through trees at night—a light one never reaches because dark bushes and branches get in the way and extinguishes the little glowing spot.

Pagel had overtaken Kniebusch, who was dragging himself along with lowered head, exactly like a dog which has lost its master. And when the young
man sprang from his bicycle he didn’t raise his head but trudged onward as though alone.

For some time they walked together without a word. Then Pagel spoke. “I’ve just got rid of Schmidt, Herr Kniebusch. He won’t be at work tomorrow.”

The forester kept silent for a long time. Then he sighed. “That won’t help anything, Herr Pagel.”

“Why won’t it? A mischief-maker the less is an anxiety the less, Herr Kniebusch.”

“Oh, for every anxiety which disappears there come ten new ones.”

“And what ones came today? Has it something to do with your not marking any more timber?” That, however, was too blunt a question for the man Kniebusch had become; he did not reply.

After a while Pagel tried again. “I was thinking, Herr Kniebusch, of ringing up the doctor this evening and having a talk with him. Then you can go to him tomorrow and he’ll put you down as ill and you can take a complete rest. I’ll answer for it. You know you’re entitled to sick benefit for twenty-six weeks.”

“Oh, who’s going to live on sick benefit?” said the old man despondently, yet no longer in despair.

“You have your allowance, Kniebusch. We should go on giving you that. We shouldn’t let you starve, you know.”

“And who will do my work in the woods?”

“I can also not mark the timber, Herr Kniebusch,” said Pagel amiably. “And I can make good use of your woodmen on the farm for a while.”

“The Geheimrat will never agree to that in his life,” cried the forester.

“Oh, the Geheimrat!” said Pagel disdainfully, to make the forester understand how little importance was to be attached to the old gentleman. “We’ve heard nothing from him for a month, and so he’ll have to be content if we settle his affairs here in the manner we think right.”

“But we have heard from him,” contradicted the forester. “He wrote a letter to me.”

“What! All of a sudden? And what does Herr Horst-Heinz von Teschow want? Can it be that he’s coming back to help look for his granddaughter?”

The forester did not react to this mockery. Fräulein Violet too did not interest him any longer, however much value he had formerly attached to getting on good terms with her. He was now only interested in himself. After a long while he said broodingly: “Do you really believe that the doctor will put me down as ill?”

“Of course! You are ill, Kniebusch.”

“And you will go on giving me an allowance in spite of the sick benefit? But that’s forbidden, Herr Pagel!”

“While I’m here you will get your allowance, Kniebusch.”

“Then I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow and have myself put down as ill.” The forester’s voice had quite another ring. But nothing more came. He was probably lost in dreams of a life free from anxieties, annoyance and fear.

“Well, what did the Geheimrat write about?” asked Pagel finally.

The forester started out of his visions. “If I’m ill I shan’t need to do what he wrote about,” he said unhelpfully.

“Perhaps I could do what he wants done,” proposed Pagel.

The forester looked at him bewildered; then a slight smile started to creep over his face. Yes, a smile. It was not a pretty sight, rather as if a dead man were smiling; nevertheless it was meant for a smile. “You would be in a position to,” he said, still smiling.

“Position for what?”

The forester was once again surly. “Oh, you will only go and talk about it.”

“I’ll hold my tongue, you know that, Herr Kniebusch.”

“But you will tell madam.”

“The lady at the moment is not in the mood to hear anything. What’s more, I promise not to tell her.”

The forester thought for a time. “I’d rather not,” he said. “The less one says the better. I’ve learned that at last.”

“You learned that in Ostade from the fat detective, didn’t you?” asked Pagel. And was immediately sorry he had said this. It was more brutal than the jeers of the boorish overseer. The old man turned deathly pale; he laid a shaking hand on Pagel’s shoulder and brought his face close. “You know that?” he asked trembling. “How did you know? Did he tell you?”

Pagel let go of his cycle and put his arm firmly round the forester. “I ought not to have said that, Herr Kniebusch,” he said, distressed. “You see, my tongue too runs away with me sometimes. No, you need have no fear. No one’s told me anything. I just worked it out myself, because you were so changed after coming back from Ostade.”

“Is that really true?” whispered the forester, still shaking violently. “He didn’t tell you about it?”

“No, on my word of honor.”

“But if you guessed about it so can someone else,” cried Kniebusch despairingly. “Everyone will point me out as a traitor to his country, and say I sold myself to the French.”

“And you haven’t done that, Kniebusch?” asked Pagel gravely. “Little Meier—”

“Little Meier made me drunk and pumped me!” cried the other. “He knew I was as talkative as an old woman and he took advantage of it. You must believe me, Herr Pagel! The detective believed me in the end. ‘Run home, you old fool,’ he said. ‘And don’t open your mouth again in your life!’ ”

“He said that? Then you don’t need to be afraid anymore, Kniebusch.”

“Oh, he was terrible,” gasped out the old man. To be able at last to relieve himself from the burden which was crushing him seemed almost intoxicating. “If he’d shot me down at once he would have been more merciful. ‘The dust of the man your tongue killed must grate on your teeth whenever you move your jaws,’ he said.”

“Quiet! Quiet!” Pagel laid his hand gently over the other’s mouth. “He’s a pitiless man, and also an unjust one. Others have more guilt toward the dead than you. Come along, Kniebusch. I’ll chuck down my bike here and fetch it tomorrow. I’ll take you home to your bed, and then I’ll ring up the doctor at once and he’ll visit you this evening and you’ll feel at peace.”

The man leaned on him like one seriously ill. Now that he had found someone whom he could trust, all resistance left him. What had kept him on his feet had been his isolation. Now he let himself sink into illness and prostration, confident that one stronger than he would care for him. Without check he prattled confusedly of the fear that people might learn of his shame; of his fear of the escaped poacher Bäumer, whose tracks he thought he had come across in the forest; of his fear that everything might yet come out if Fräulein Violet or the servant Räder were found; of his fear whether Haase the magistrate would go on paying the rent now that the Lieutenant was dead; of his fear that little Meier would turn up again; of his fear of the Geheimrat who would turn him out of the ranger’s house tomorrow, if he learned that his forester was not doing what he had written.…

Fear … The man’s entire life had become fear. So much could a man torment himself, then, about a meager life which had known little pleasure. And now that it was in decline, and had become quite flat and unblessed, the fear grew worse. From every side it assailed him; it was not the will to existence which kept him among the living, no, it was the fear of existence. Wolfgang Pagel soon gave up speaking to the old man comfortingly and consolingly. He clearly didn’t want consolation. He sat as if in the middle of his worries, which came at him like waves from all sides, lifting him up, ready to drown him! “Yes, Herr Pagel, I read every day in the newspapers about suicides, and that there are so many old people who do it, seventy and eighty years old. But I can’t, I just can’t do it; I have a sick wife and I keep on thinking: What would become of her if I went first? There’s not a soul who worries about her; they’d simply let her die like an animal. That’s why I’m so afraid.”

“Oh, stop talking, Kniebusch,” said Pagel, wearied. “Get into bed now and the doctor will come this evening; once you’ve had a sleep everything will look different. And while you’re undressing give me the Geheimrat’s letter to read.”

Kniebusch, the old forester, a little bad-tempered and complaining, clumsily removed his clothing. Pagel stood under the lamp and looked over the letter the Geheimrat Horst-Heinz von Teschow had written to his forester. In a big chair at the window sat the forester’s wife, whom the people in the village said grew stranger and stranger. She was staring into the night. On her knees was a book with a golden cross on the cover, no doubt a hymnal.