Iron Gustav (18 page)

‘And it'll cost you a pretty penny to buy some fresh ones. You'll have to add more than a bit, you know, Gustav.'

‘Are there any horses going, then?'

‘Not today. In two or three weeks perhaps. I think I can collect some in East Prussia.'

‘I'm going to Holland …'

‘The Danes also have some nice little beasts.'

‘There'll be horses on hand again, but heaven knows what they'll cost!'

‘Don't talk rubbish. Gustav can afford to pay.'

‘If they aren't too dear for me …'

‘Listen to Gustav! How can they be too dear? You've got your stable and your cabs, so you've got to have horses too. How can they be too dear in that case? You've got to have them.'

‘Or shut up shop.'

‘Gustav shut up shop! You make me smile. He'll be hiring cabs out when I'm pushing up the daisies. He's made of iron, is Gustav. Ain't that so, Gustav?'

It did one good to be surrounded with so much recognition, so much approval. These men realized what he had achieved. To turn his father-in-law's bankrupt business into the paragon of stables had been no small attainment. Much work, thought and worry had gone into it; not so easy, coping with thirty drivers who were fond of their drop! At home they took it all for granted. Here they understood.

‘And do you remember, Gustav, how old Kublank wanted to force the chestnut mare on you? The one he doped with arsenic? But you weren't having any.'

Stories of horses long dead, of horse-dealers no longer in business – ancient stories. But it was heart-warming. Hackendahl stayed sitting much longer than he had wanted to. But what was there to do at home?

They all ate their evening meal over their beer – cold meatballs or hot sausages with potato salad. And they even went on after. One of them knew a special beer bar nearby. There they sat round a large table, confronting a small stage with a mixture of curiosity, expectancy
and naivety. On it a chanteuse sang shrilly, a miserable conjuror made miserable rabbits disappear, and to finish did card tricks which the horse-dealers could do better. Then a dancer threw up her white lacy layered dress and ran round and round showing her underclothes. The men applauded enthusiastically.

And then came a supplement – the owner was up to date. On the stage stood two girls, one of them with weapon and helmet – a simple soldier. The other had a sword and monocle, distinguishing her as an officer. The soldier was supposed to drill, but didn't want to. The officer shook her sword, made explosive sounds, even lost her monocle – but the soldier didn't move. She refused to drill.

That was all. It quickly turned out that the soldier thought she knew enough. She wanted to go to Paris! To Paris! The officer was delighted with this thought. She caught hold of her soldier, and the two waltzed the Victory Waltz to Paris. Patriotic flags were waved from the wings, Bengal lights glowed. The piano thundered out the national anthem, and the audience stood and sang. All were enthusiastic and in earnest.

Only as he went home did Hackendahl realize that his reaction was not one of total enthusiasm. One could see from the two girls that their rifle drill had not been a success. Girls didn't understand such things.

Anyway, such things shouldn't be attempted. Victory Waltzes to Paris – that made it look as though you need merely dance there, as if there were no need to fight – as if all the military work done in peacetime were superfluous. No, you couldn't do it like that!

Hackendahl promised himself never to enter this public house again. He also didn't want to be seen very soon again by the dealers. They should now do some work for a change and find some horses. A man of self-esteem doesn't drink more than he can take.

He went to his coach yard. Normally he would begin by going into the stable. Only a stable lamp was lit. Rabause was not there. It was clear that it wasn't worth paying stable security for five horses.

Hackendahl entered the grey's stall. The animal stood there, tired, head hanging low. It had enough hay in its rack, but it had a few stalks of straw in its mouth from its bedding, and had forgotten to eat them. So it stood there, rejected, stalks of straw protruding
from its mouth, looking miserable. It hadn't got over the race. It had overdone it. Hackendahl thought to himself that the grey would never again recover.

But he didn't need to eat straw, or hay either. Hackendahl had something better for his grey. When earlier in the cabaret they finished with a cup of coffee, the waiter had put a bowl of sugar on the table. The horse-dealers had naturally all reached for the bowl, including Hackendahl. They emptied it, not for their coffee, but for their horses. In public houses where horse-dealers regularly assemble bowls of sugar are not put on the table. Individual sugar lumps are handed out – sugar bowls are emptied too quickly.

Hackendahl offered the sugar to his grey, who turned its sad blue eyes towards its master in the yellowing light. It snuffled his hand and the sugar with its lips – and sank its head again.

‘Don't you want it?' said Hackendahl, suddenly annoyed. ‘Well, leave it alone then!'

But he no longer wanted to share the sugar among the other horses. Angrily, he left the stable. He went upstairs, wondering in what way he normally went up at night – whether loudly or softly. But he couldn't decide. In any case he'd no need to be particularly quiet: he hadn't drunk more than he could stand.

At the top he stood still for a moment, thoughtful. Of course he must make his usual evening round; he didn't want anyone to think that he'd been drinking.

Opening the door into the boys' bedroom, he was surprised to find how dark it was. Then he recalled that he was doing his round much later than usual, which was why it was so extremely dark. It was night. What could the time be?

Cautiously, on tiptoe, he groped his way into the room and passed his hand over the top of the bed. He felt it once again; yes, he was right, the bed was empty. He stood lost in thought. It wasn't right. It was all wrong. The bed shouldn't be unoccupied. A son should be asleep in it. And he considered what he ought to do now. Ought he to reprove the boy? But how could he reprove a boy who wasn't there? Ought he then to scold the others? Of course he ought to! They should have kept their eyes open. It was always the same – let him be out even for a moment and everything went wrong.

He groped for the second bed. That bed, too, was empty.

Over his distressed features spread a smile – just as well that he had had a look round. Now he had caught two absentees. If the third son was also out – well, he'd show them what order meant in his house!

But the third boy was there, quietly sleeping in his bed. Feeling about in the dark, his father seized a lock of hair and pulled it. ‘Bubi!'

There was a sigh.

‘Bubi!'

‘I'm asleep …'

‘Bubi, where are the others?'

‘What others?'

‘Otto.'

Heinz sat up, gazing sleepily at the dark figure. ‘Otto?'

‘Yes. Stop repeating the name!'

‘Father, you went with Otto yourself to the station.'

‘I went with Otto?'

‘Yes, when he joined up.'

Hackendahl became embarrassed. ‘I mean Erich.'

‘Erich?' asked Bubi, to gain time.

‘Yes, Erich. Where's Erich?'

‘Erich?'

‘Yes, Erich. Where's Erich I want to know.'

By now Heinz had begun to understand and at once set about concealing Erich's absence. ‘Erich – he's been helping Mother settle with the cabmen. You weren't here. Where have you been, Father?'

‘I went to the bank,' said Hackendahl peevishly. ‘But Erich …'

‘The banks close at five, Father. Where did you go afterwards? Do tell me! Were you outside the Schloss?'

‘I was making enquiries about new horses. We must have some. But Erich …'

‘New horses? Oh, that's fine, Father.'

‘There are no horses to be had in Berlin at present. But they'll be here soon. Then we'll get some.'

‘Splendid! Father?'

‘Yes?'

‘Lie down here for a bit! You won't disturb Mother then. She's been asleep for a long time.'

‘It won't disturb your mother. She never hears me coming to bed. But I won't take Erich's. Besides, where is he?'

‘He was helping Mother with the cabs. Wait, Father, I'll help you off with your boots, then we can talk. I love talking in bed.'

‘I won't take Erich's.'

‘Otto's bed is also free, Father, and it's more comfortable than Erich's. Wait, Father, I'll hang your jacket here. We needn't switch on the light; nobody'll notice anything …'

‘Notice what?'

‘Hoffmann says they don't want to take out the cabs tomorrow, but the luggage vans. There'll be a lot doing for them, he thinks.'

‘Rubbish! Luggage vans! Who's going to go away now?'

‘But they're all coming back from the holiday resorts. They're clearing out and want to get home quickly, because nobody thought there'd be a war. There are hundreds at the stations with trunks – and no carriages to be had, Hoffmann says.'

‘Oh, Hoffmann!' Hackendahl pulled the blanket over him. ‘I must think about it. Carting luggage means wearing out the horses.'

‘Father!'

‘Yes?'

‘You must have had a strenuous time with the horse-dealers.'

‘Why strenuous? All business is strenuous. And there were no horses.'

‘No, I was only thinking of the drink. You carry it magnificently, Father, but it's just as well Mother doesn't know.'

‘Doesn't know what?'

‘Well, that you'd had one over the eight.'

‘Me? Not at all. It just seems like that to you because of the darkness. I was in the stables till now.'

‘And whose bed are you lying in, Father?' giggled Heinz.

‘Whose bed? Don't be silly! As if I don't know!'

‘Well, tell me then. In Otto's or Erich's?'

‘Bubi, Otto's gone to the Front. You said so yourself.'

‘Well?'

‘Then this must be Erich's bed.'

Heinz shook with laughter, hiding his face in the pillows. But his father's voice reached him. ‘Bubi!'

‘Yes, Father?'

‘I didn't look at the girls. Help me out of bed. I must go and see whether they're at home.'

‘The girls, Father?'

‘Yes, help me out of bed, I feel a bit giddy.'

‘But Sophie lives at the hospital, Father. For some time now.'

‘Yes, that's a fine thing, that! But I won't have it. Five children – and not one of them at home.'

‘I'm here, Father.'

‘But where's Eva?'

‘She's been in bed a long while.'

‘I want to make sure.'

‘Let me go – you'd only wake her up. Then she'd tell Mother.' Slipping out of bed, Heinz went into the adjoining room.

Hackendahl propped himself up on the pillows. I should have gone myself, he reflected. You can't rely on Bubi either.

Bubi came back. ‘Eva's asleep, Father.'

‘That's the real truth, eh?'

‘Eva's sleeping, really and truly. She's lying on her side and snoring.'

‘Well, that's all right. Then we'll go to sleep too. Goodnight, Bubi.'

‘Goodnight, Father. Sleep well.'

Conversation in the dark.

‘What I wanted to ask was why didn't you come when you got the wink?'

‘Father was there!'

‘So your father counts more than me?'

‘And I had to say goodbye to Otto – he was going to the Front.'

‘So your brother also counts more than me?'

‘What else could I do, Eugen? Don't go on at me so. You upset me.'

‘Well, you let me tell you something now, my girl, about bein' upset and all that. When I whistle, if you don't come from now on in
spite of your father and your mother and the whole blooming shoot, there's going to be trouble. Got me?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘There'll be a bloody row.'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘Yes, Eugen. Always “Yes, Eugen!” Got any idea what I'm like when I cut up rough?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘And you'll do whatever I tell you?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘An' I'm more to you than your father and brother?'

‘Oh! … Yes, Eugen.'

‘That upset you, didn't it? Say it again.'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘I'll upset you a bit more. You're dossing here tonight.'

‘Oh, Eugen, Father …'

‘Father! Father! Who's Father?'

‘Oh!'

‘Come on, out with it, immediately: Father's mud. Say that or I don't know what I'll do.'

‘Father's mud.'

‘That's right. Tonight you're staying with me.'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘And when your old man chucks you out tomorrow you'll turn up here.'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘You want to come to your Eugen, don't you?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘You like me better than father or mother?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘See, you're eating out of me hand already. I c'd take on six like you. You'll come to like it in time, you see if you don't. An' you'll even like me too. D'you like me, Evchen?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘Silly bitch! Get up, put your duds on and buzz off to your old man. Quick, d'you hear? You get on my nerves. You hopping it or not?'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘Well, maybe you'd better stay.'

‘Yes, Eugen.'

‘But you'd rather clear out?'

‘As you like, Eugen.'

‘All right, then hop it, idiot. But when I whistle …'

‘Yes, Eugen, then I'll come.'

The young man in field-grey uniform ran up the steps in great bounds, two at a time. Without thinking, he rang the bell several times, and then twice more when no one immediately opened. Fleetingly he looked at the nameplates, many of them – big but plain, black on white enamel: ‘Justizrat Dr Meier – lawyer and notary. Consulting hours from 10–1, 3–6. Member of the Reichstag.'