Wolf Among Wolves (81 page)

“Why doesn’t he wear them?”

Elias shrugged his shoulders.

“Can you understand it, Jutta? A young man having silk shirts and not wearing them?”

“Perhaps they don’t belong to him, Belinde?”

“Oh, not if he has them in his trunk! There’s something behind it—mark my words, Jutta, remember what I said. We must be watchful. The first time he puts on a silk shirt something will be happening. I’m sure of it!”

The three old people looked at each other with gleaming eyes, greedy and curious; old ravens scenting the corpse while it was still alive. They understood each other; even Elias had been their servant long enough to know how to join
in the hunt. “This morning the young man was in the park with the young Fräulein,” he said.

“With my granddaughter, with Fräulein Violet? You must be mistaken, Elias. Violet is confined to her room, she isn’t even allowed to come to us.”

“I know, madam.”

“And?”

“They were in the park for at least twenty-two minutes, at the back behind the trees, not in front on the lawn.”

“Elias! My granddaughter …”

“They smoked, too. He gave her a light, not with a match but with his cigarette. I’m just saying what happened, madam. I saw it. Afterwards, I couldn’t see, because the trees hid them. So I can’t say what happened then.”

The three fell silent. They looked at each other, then they looked away again as if they had caught one another doing something. At last Frau von Teschow piped: “Where was my daughter?”

“Frau von Prackwitz was in the office—with Herr von Studmann.”

The two old women sat motionless, not looking at each other. Then, when Elias was certain that the hook held firmly he said: “The Rittmeister was also in the office.”

The two friends stirred slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. Fräulein von Kuckhoff cleared her throat loudly and gave Elias a doubting look. Frau von Teschow preferred to gaze out of the window.

“What are they doing over there, Elias?” she asked.

Elias had no need to look, he knew, and whatever he did not know he guessed. “They’re bricking-up the door, because madam is upset by the sight of the criminals.”

Frau von Teschow tried to make up her mind whether this was an insult or a kindly considerateness. The two could be so similar, it all depended how one took it. “How are the men to get out of the barracks?” she asked at last.

“They are making a door out of the second window in the large common-room,” explained Elias. “Just behind the bushes, no, on the other side, facing the farm.… Madam will not be able to see them anymore.”

“It’s very inconsiderate of my son-in-law to brick-up my view,” began Frau von Teschow bitterly.

“The Rittmeister knows nothing about it,” Elias hastened to say. “He went straight home when the—er—men came. Herr von Studmann ordered it.”

“How did Herr von Studmann manage to block up my old view of the barracks?” shouted Frau von Teschow heatedly.

“Herr von Studmann makes a very pleasant impression,” said Fräulein von Kuckhoff warningly.

“The Geheimrat spent a long time talking with Herr von Studmann at midday,” reported Elias. “The Geheimrat—er—shouted very loudly.”

“It was very considerate of Horst-Heinz to think of it,” said Frau von Teschow. “I knew nothing about it—he wanted it to be a surprise.”

She gazed thoughtfully at the barracks. Two layers of bricks were already in place. The young man in field gray was talking eagerly to the farm masons; a warder stood by with an inquisitive face. Then all four burst out laughing. Laughing, they looked over at the Manor, at the windows. Frau von Teschow hastily moved her head out of the sun, although, half hidden behind the curtain, she could not be seen.

Still laughing, the two masons ran over to the farm. Young Pagel held out his cigarette case to the warder. They too were laughing.

Horst-Heinz shouldn’t have done this! thought Frau von Teschow angrily. I can’t stare at a bare wall the whole summer. I’m certain to hear stories of all these criminals, what they’ve done, why they’re in prison—and I won’t even know what they look like. She felt tempted to send over Elias to say that the alteration was not necessary, but did not dare. Her husband was good-natured only as long as no one interfered with his plans, which were usually secret. He could bellow in such a nerve-racking way! And he went purple in the face—Dr. Hotop was always saying that a stroke would be dangerous for him.

“Ask the Geheimrat to come to me, Elias,” said Frau von Teschow gently.

“The Geheimrat has gone out. Shall I tell him when he comes back?”

“No, no, it should be now.” A door can be bricked up so quickly. “But you might go over to my daughter and tell her I would like her to send Fräulein Violet for a little while.” Elias nodded. “If my daughter should say anything about the child’s being confined to the house, just hint, Elias—but carefully, quite unnoticeably—that Fräulein Violet went for a walk in the park today.”

Elias bowed.

“You needn’t mention anything about the young man to my daughter,” said Frau von Teschow. “I’ll talk to my granddaughter about it myself.”

Elias’s face showed that he had understood everything, that everything would be carried out perfectly. He asked whether there was anything else she wanted. But there was nothing. Elias went, dignified and calm, every inch the possessor of an enormous fortune.

“If Violet doesn’t come today I’m going to the Villa!” added Frau von Teschow energetically. “Even if Horst-Heinz grumbles. I’m not going to have my granddaughter disgraced!”

“May I come with you, Belinde?” asked Fräulein von Kuckhoff excitedly.

“I’ll see. Anyway, we must wait until my son-in-law leaves the house. And go at once and see if you can find Minna. Perhaps she knows something.”

Young Pagel had had a brain wave. Fifty men in the harvesters’ barracks laughed, five warders laughed, the masons laughed—soon the whole village would be laughing.

At first the atmosphere had been very unpleasant. This order to brick up the door, certainly a good solution on the part of Herr von Studmann, had not been a pleasant welcome to the convicts. “If they don’t want to see us then they shouldn’t bring us here to do their work,” they growled. “If we’re not too bad to dig up the potatoes they eat, then they shouldn’t feel bad at seeing us. Who knows how he made his money? He didn’t make his little pile by saying prayers!”

And the warders, too, had shaken their heads and pursed their lips. They considered they had—with two or three exceptions—a very orderly gang. The labor detachments from Meienburg were often far different. If the men behaved decently and worked well there was no need to keep on reminding them that they were convicts. It only made them restless and the warders’ duty more difficult.

And then Pagel had had his brain wave. They had all laughed. They had all grinned. “That will remind them to pray for us every day,” they said. “That’s the way to treat them. Always pull the leg of a sod like that—it’s the best way.” For sheer pleasure they would have liked to burst into song again, thunder out “Arise! ye starvelings from your slumbers!” or some such thing to make the ears in the Manor tingle. But they did not want to cause the young man any trouble. With cheerful faces they sawed their planks, drove nails into the shelves for the utensils, packed and checked the washing. Today they were only to work half a day; today they first had to get everything in order, a thing the principal warder regarded as indispensable, everything in rank and file, everything shipshape and polished—just as in Meienburg prison. Numbers on every eating bowl and numbers on every wash-basin; numbers on the beds, numbers on the stools, every place at the dining table numbered. Important deliberations in a whisper among the warders; who ought to sit next to whom at the table? Which men could share a room? A faulty distribution, and the germ of an attempt to escape or a mutiny would be created.

And all the time one or other of them would slink up to the slowly diminishing doorway to have a look. And on his return the others would ask with a grin: “How far have they got? Can you recognize it yet?”

“They’re just putting in the sixth layer. They’ll only be able to recognize it properly when the crossbeam comes.”

Von Studmann did not recognize it, either. He came from the village where he had at last found Sophie; and this time she hadn’t been at all to his liking. Stubborn, close, untruthful. What could have entered into the girl? She was quite changed. Was the Geheimrat the cause? Yes, he must have stirred her up somehow. It was just like him. The whole day he had only been thinking how to make trouble. Oh, yes. The harvest. It is harvest time. Every little bit that is threshed and sold gives him pain. I must go immediately to Prackwitz and see that he doesn’t again do anything stupid. Oh, yes, and I must ask Amanda what’s behind what Kowalewski said. Today’s one of those days when, once again, no sensible work will get done. You run about the whole time chasing your own tail. I would never have believed it, but it’s almost worse than working in a hotel.

“What’s the meaning of this, Pagel?” he said somewhat crossly. “There are plenty of red stones behind the cattle-shed: why mix in these ugly white cement ones?”

The two masons looked at each other and grinned. As is the way with such people, they pretended not to hear, but calmly went on with their work. An assistant warder, who poked his inquisitive head through the opening, drew it back hastily on seeing Herr von Studmann.

“Well?” asked Studmann very irritably.

Young Pagel gazed at his friend and superior with twinkling eyes. He threw his cigarette into the bushes and said with a sigh: “It’s a cross, Herr von Studmann.”

“What is a cross?” asked Studmann very testily, for he hated to have to grumble at or criticize a necessary labor.

“That!” Pagel pointed at the doorway. The two masons burst into laughter.

Studmann stared at the wall, at the doorway, at the stones white and red.… Suddenly it dawned upon him. “You mean that is going to be a cross, Pagel?”

“I thought it would look nicer,” said Pagel, grinning. “A blank red wall would be very boring to look at, I thought. But with a cross—a cross somehow inspires contemplation.”

The masons were working away with an almost counter-revolutionary zeal, wanting to protect the cross as far as possible from any prohibition. After a moment of reflection Studmann also laughed. “You’re a cheeky scamp, Pagel,” he said. “But still, if the effect is too bad we can always paint the white stones red.… See that you get it finished soon,” he said to the masons. “Put some beef into it, understand? I suppose they can’t yet see from the Manor what it’s going to be?”

“Not yet,” they replied. “When we get to the crossbeam, could the young gentleman go away for a bit? If they send over, we’ll say we’re only doing what we’ve been told.”

“Yes, do that!” Studmann did not want any conspiracy with the men against the Manor. “Listen, Pagel,” he said. “I’m going over to the Villa now, to tell Prackwitz about this.” With a gesture embracing the Manor and the barracks: “In the meantime you will, in all circumstances, maintain the position.”

“Position will be maintained, Herr Oberleutnant!” said Pagel, clicking his heels and saluting.

Studmann, however, did not go to the Villa, but to the staff-house, having remembered that he might meet the ladies. He couldn’t possibly appear covered with perspiration; at least he ought to put on a fresh collar. And with a von Studmann it is only a step from a fresh collar to a fresh shirt. So the ex-lieutenant washed himself from head to foot in cold water—and in the meantime Fate took its course. While he was washing, disaster crossed the path to the Villa, with a beating of wings.

Old Elias had not been mistaken: his master had gone into the park. If nothing at all occurs to us any more, we still have whatever is left over from our original plans. Something like that had just occurred to Herr Geheimrat. Without hesitation, but looking around carefully out of his round, reddish, seal-like eyes, he had betaken himself to that spot in the fence where he had once stood at night. As before, he brought no tools with him but his hands. But memory is a wonderful thing; what we want to remember, we do remember. Despite the darkness of that night and the days that had since elapsed, the Geheimrat had not forgotten where the loose slat was. A pull, a little leverage, and he held it in his hand.

Puffing a little, he looked round. Again his memory worked excellently: he looked sharply at the bush in which he had once thought he saw Amanda Backs. Now, in the daylight, he recognized that it was a witch-wood bush—and no one was hiding in it. He went and thrust the slat into the middle of the bush and walked round it. The bush fulfilled all that was expected of it—the slat was invisible.

Nodding with satisfaction, the Geheimrat went in search of Attila. It was not his way to make a hole in a fence and then leave it to the geese to find, probably at the wrong time—this was the moment! The geese were, so to speak, the drop that was to fill the Rittmeister’s cup of bitterness to overflowing.
Now
the Geheimrat went looking for Attila.

He found the geese—eighteen in all—on the meadow by the swans’ pond, moodily cropping the park’s sour grass. They greeted him with a disapproving and excited cackling. They stretched their necks, laid their heads on one side,
squinted at him wickedly with their blue eyes, and hissed. But the Geheimrat knew his geese, even if they did not recognize him. These angrily hissing ladies were temporary phenomena; God’s vice-regent here on earth, in this case Frau von Teschow, delivered them annually to the cook’s knife, with the exception of three or four kept to breed. They were merely fleeting guests on the Geheimrat’s meadow; hardly were they grown up when their flesh changed into smoked breasts and salted legs.

The only one who remained, surviving generation after generation, was Attila the breeding gander, a heavy bird weighing twenty-one pounds. Proud and superior, he regarded himself as the center of creation, bit the children, fluttered angrily at the postman’s bicycle, making him fall, hated women’s legs, which of late revealed more and more of themselves from under their skirts, and snapped at them till they bled. A stern despot in his harem, absolute monarch and autocrat, he tolerated no contradiction, was inaccessible to flattery, and had only one soft spot in his goosey heart—for Geheimrat Horst-Heinz von Teschow. Two kindred souls had recognized and fallen in love with each other.