Wolf Among Wolves (39 page)

“Stop that droning of yours, Hubert!” said Frau Eva, visibly relieved. “You’re a terrible man. For days on end one wishes that you would open your mouth, but when you do, one only wishes that you’d close it again as quickly as possible. And you might be a little nicer to the maids, Hubert; no gem would fall from your crown if you were.”

“Certainly,” said Räder calmly.

“And you, Vi,” she continued severely, “you’re a proper goose. Had you told me, the surprise for Papa wouldn’t have been any the less. Really, as a punishment I ought not to let you go; but if the buck is in Haase’s field only for this evening … You’re not to leave her for a moment, Kniebusch.… God, what’s the matter with you, Kniebusch—why are you weeping?”

“Ah, it’s really only the shock, madam, the shock of seeing you in the doorway,” wailed the old man. “And then I’ve no self-control. But it was a joyful shock, they’re tears of joy.…”

“I think, Hubert,” said madam dryly, “you’d better get ready to go with them, or else, if they meet a wood thief in the forest, our good Kniebusch will burst into tears of joy again and Vi will have to look after herself.”

“Oh, Mamma. I’m not afraid of wood thieves and poachers.”

“You’d better be more afraid of some other things, my dear Violet,” said Frau von Prackwitz energetically. “Above all, you ought to be afraid of secrecy. Then it’s arranged that Hubert’s to go with you.”

“Certainly, Mamma,” said Vi obediently. “Just a second. I’ll change my dress.”

With that she ran upstairs, leaving her mother with the two men, giving them a good talking-to for having “secrets with a mere child.” Frau Eva did this very thoroughly, but she was not quite satisfied with the result, having a womanly intuition that there was something wrong. However, since Vi was still only a child, it couldn’t be really bad, and she made herself easy with the thought that Vi’s misdeeds had so far turned out to be all rather harmless. Her worst wickedness to date had been cutting her beautiful long hair into an Eton crop. But such a crime, thank God, could be committed only once.

IV

The women’s section in Alexanderplatz prison was shamelessly overcrowded. When the prison had been built they had painted the air capacity of each cell on its green iron-plated door: so-and-so many cubic meters inscribed there as adequate for one occupant. Then they had put in a second bed; but that had happened so very long ago that two beds in the one cell were regarded as normal by even the oldest officials. Then came the inflation, and more and more women prisoners. Two further beds were placed in the cell, so that with one stroke the capacity of the prison was doubled. But now, for a long time, that, too, had been insufficient. As the endless procession of women came day after day in the green police van, they were pushed higgledy-piggledy into the cells. In the evening a couple of mattresses and a couple of woolen blankets were thrown after them—let them manage with that.

Seldom had Petra Ledig felt lonelier and more abandoned than in that overcrowded prison. It seemed as if it would never get dark.

True, she did not belong to the class of girl for whom prison means shame and the end of all things. She lived a commonplace existence; she knew that life was a difficult matter for those who were poor and friendless, who never knew what was coming to them, or from which point of the compass the winds of misfortune would blow.

She knew quite well, after the second very superficial examination at headquarters, what she was accused of, and she knew that these accusations were partly out of date, partly untrue. But she did not know what the consequences might be. It might mean the workhouse, or the surveillance card, or weeks or months in prison. Her future lay in the hands of men who were as strange to her as if they had been beings from another world.

She was led at once to the medical officer. The women stood in an endless line outside his door, and in the end it was announced: “No more examinations. The medical officer has gone home.”

So Petra was led back to her cell and she discovered that, meanwhile, supper had been issued and her share eaten up by the others. It didn’t matter very much; she had eaten enough for the time being at the police station. She listened with only half an ear to her fellow prisoners accusing one another—it might well be that the Hawk had stolen her portion, as the fat woman in the lower bed said (already the senior inmate, of two days’ standing).

But never mind. It would be better if they didn’t talk about it, for the Hawk became wild again and attacked Petra with noisy abuse. To have been put in the same cell with her was unpleasant, but that, too, must be endured. The girl couldn’t go on forever with her shouting and raving. When she had first come in she had still been as limp as a wet rag, but now she was restless once more. Again and again she attacked Petra and wanted to beat her. But she no longer had as much strength as formerly; alcohol and cocaine having done their work, Petra could ward her off with one hand. Although she made no reply, nevertheless the Hawk stormed more and more furiously.

That was tiresome. Under these continual attacks and this shouting Petra could not think as she would have liked to. There was the matter of Wolfgang—would he return that night? Would he ever return? She knew what the authorities thought of her and what they would tell him at the police station. What would he then think of her? In his place she would have come all the quicker, but with him you never could tell.

She looked around the cell. She would have liked to ask the gray-haired woman on the bed about the visiting hours, but the Hawk was shouting louder than ever. It seemed, as a matter of fact, not to disturb the others at all, not even to interest them. Two nut-brown gypsies with impudent, restless, birdlike eyes were squatting side by side on one corner of a mattress, whispering loudly, with many gesticulations; they looked at nobody else in the cell. The tall pale girl in the other lower bed had already crept under her blanket: one saw only her shoulders convulsively shaking. No doubt she was weeping. On the stool perched a little fat woman who, scowling, picked her nose.

The gray-haired woman sitting on the edge of her bed looked up and said angrily: “Shut up, you silly bitch. Sock her a couple, jail-birdie, so that she spits teeth.”

The title “jail-birdie” was meant for Petra, probably because she was the only person there who wore the blue prison dress. She had been given it immediately on her arrival.

But Petra didn’t want to hit the Hawk. It was useless; the girl was beside herself with the craving for cocaine or alcohol. Already the warders had knocked on the cell door twice and demanded silence, and each time the Hawk had leaped forward and begged: “Oh, please, do give me a drink. Only one, just a very small one. You can do it, boys. You yourselves like a drink now and then. Oh, please do give me one, boys.”

But their footsteps had died away; she got no response—at most, one of the warders laughed. Then the Hawk was seized with a fit of rage, battering the iron door with her fists and shouting abuse after the men.

Slowly, however, she changed. Gradually the sky outside the cell window grew dark and the electric light over the door brighter; it became increasingly apparent that the girl no longer knew where she was. Probably she believed herself in hell. Like a caged animal she rushed from wall to wall, blind to her companions. Incessantly she muttered to herself. Suddenly she stopped and shrieked in a high-pitched tone, as if in terrible pain.

Again the warders knocked; again their reprimand gave new impetus to the tormented creature’s heart-breaking appeals and furious abuse. This time she collapsed before the door; her head resting against its iron panels, the miserably ruffled Hawk crouched there as if she were intently listening. She started to mutter to herself: “Something’s running, something’s scuttering in my belly. Oh, so many legs! They want to get out—my whole body is full of them, and now they want to get out.”

With trembling fingers she tore her clothes, trying to free her body. “Ants,” she moaned, “transparent red ants. They’re running about inside me. Oh, leave me in peace. I haven’t got anything. I can’t give you any snow.”

She leaped up. “Give me snow,” she shouted. “You’re to give me snow, do you hear? You’ve got snow.”

With a faint cry the gray-haired woman fell down backwards; without any attempt at resistance she lay whimpering beneath the raving girl.

The gypsies interrupted their unintelligible whispering and looked on with a grin. The tall girl’s shoulders stopped shaking. Slowly she turned her head and looked with frightened eyes at the other bed, prepared at any moment to crawl completely beneath her blanket. The fat, gloomy woman on
the stool grumbled. “Do stop that row! How can one think when you make such a noise?”

Petra jumped up. It was easy to pull the emaciated creature off the woman lying beneath; it was impossible, however, to disengage the clinging hands from the victim’s hair.

“Will you be quiet, you women!” yelled the warders outside. “Now they’ve got each other by the hair, the miserable creatures. You wait, you’ll get such a thrashing.”

Petra turned and called angrily: “Come in. The girl is in a fit. Do help us!”

For a moment there was silence. Then a polite voice spoke up. “We’re not allowed to, Fräulein. After locking up we’re not allowed to enter the women’s cell. Otherwise it would be said at once that we were carrying on with you.” And another voice added: “It might be a trick on your part. We’re not taken in by that.”

“But this can’t go on,” protested Petra. “She’s half mad. There must be a wardress in the place. Or a doctor. Do send for a doctor, please.”

“They’ve gone by now,” said the polite voice. “She ought to have complained when she was admitted, then she would have been taken to the sick ward. You five will be able to manage her.”

It did not look so. The gypsies sat mute, the fat woman squatted sulkily on her stool, the tall girl had crawled beneath her blanket, and the old woman was groaning beneath the Hawk’s claws.

For a short time the assailant had been lying, quietly sobbing, beside the old woman; now she started to scream again, tugging mechanically but fiercely at the other’s wisps of hair. The old woman also screamed.

“You must help!” cried Petra indignantly, kicking the iron door till it clanged. “Or I’ll make such a noise that the whole prison will start shouting.”

It had almost come to that already. Many cells were resounding with angry cries for silence. A woman started to sing the Internationale in a high-pitched voice.

The door flew open; two armed warders wearing felt shoes so as not to disturb sleeping prisoners stood in the doorway.

“We won’t come in,” said one, a tall, blue-eyed man with a ginger mustache. “We’ll tell you what to do. You look quite sensible, Fräulein. Quick, take a pinch of salt out of the cupboard.”

Petra hurried. “You old scarecrow on the mattress,” ordered the warder, “take the woolen blanket and help a bit. You, too!”

The gypsies jumped up, grinning, and did what they were told.

“You there, the little beauty on the bed,” called the warder in the doorway, “up with you now. You’ll get some snow.”

With a shout of joy the Hawk leaped up and staggered toward the warders. “You’re splendid fellows!”

The old woman sat up groaning, feeling her scalp cautiously.

“Keep off,” cried the ginger mustache to the Hawk. “Keep your distance!” He gave her a scrutiny. “Yes, she’s not acting. She’s a dope-fiend right enough.”

Scared by his command, encouraged and made obedient by his promise, the Hawk waited. Her arms hanging limply, she looked at the men with a cringing hopeful expression. Petra and the gypsies also waited. But the tall pale girl crawled beneath her blanket to get away from the warders’ glances, and the fat woman grumbled. “Oh, hop it with your rubbish. Let me think in peace.”

“Lie down flat on the floor, you!” ordered the ginger warder. “Yes, go on. Or else you won’t get any snow.”

The girl hesitated; then with a moan she lay down.

“Keep your arms close to your body,” ordered the warder. “Do as you’re told. Now roll her in a blanket. Tighter! Tighter! Very tight, as tight as you can. Rubbish, it won’t hurt her. Show her the snow, so that she doesn’t resist! The salt, I mean, you fool. Show it to her, she believes it all right. Yes, my lamb. You’ll get it presently, only be good for a moment.”

The girl moaned. “Oh, please, please! Don’t torture me so. Give me the snow,” she implored.

“Just a moment. Now the other blanket—no, roll it round her the other way. Turn her over like a parcel. It won’t kill her by any means. You there, the fat one on the stool, take your finger out of your nose and help. Fetch two sheets from the upper beds—yes, my dear; in a moment. Don’t you see what a lot of snow there is? You’ll get your shot presently.”

In accordance with the warder’s instructions, they knotted the sheets like ropes around the parcel. The girl submitted willingly. She didn’t lose sight of the hand which held her salvation, the cocaine, the salt. “Please give it to me,” she murmured. “How can you be so cruel? It’s so beautiful.… I can’t stand it anymore.”

“There,” said the warder after a moment’s scrutiny. “That’ll do. Well, it’s really unnecessary because she’ll find out at once, but never mind, give her the salt.”

“Yes, the snow. Please, please, the snow!”

Hesitatingly, reluctantly, Petra held her palm with the salt on it under the Hawk’s nose. And witnessed, oddly moved, the change in that tormented face.

“Nearer,” the girl whispered with a compelling glance. “Hold it right under my nose.” She sniffed it in. “Oh, how good it is.” Her sharp contorted features smoothed themselves out, her eyelids sank. Where there had been dark hollows,
soft flesh filled out the cheekbones. The deep furrows round her mouth vanished; the cracked lips became fuller; she breathed rhythmically. What bliss!

But it’s only salt, Petra thought, disturbed. Common cooking salt. But she believes in it and so it makes her young again. And a sudden thought-association made her think of Wolfgang, of Wolfgang Pagel, whom, as she now realized quite well, she had been expecting, minute by minute, the whole evening, in spite of everything. How did others see him?