*
Friederichsfelde, Berlin: a clear summer evening. Fredersdorfer Strasse: a narrow, roughly paved road, a row of low dilapidated houses, coal yards, and building sites. The filthy, stunted children had stopped making a racket outside. An old couple, bent low, turned off the road into the lane, their dogcart clattering. He was on the shaft with her next to him, her hands inside a greasy red apron, rolled up like a muff. They made their way up the lane, blind to everything, even the blooming chestnut tree growing diagonally opposite their miserable cottage.
A goldfinch leapt up into the tree, hopped onto a twig and off again. It tweeted several times—“k-wish, k-wish”—then sang:
May is green. The vale and down with flowers are crowned.
To the springs babbling bright and clear we wood-birds gladly lend an ear.
The outer branches of the chestnut tree brushed the high paling fence in front of the Nasskes’ cottage. Behind an overgrown yard, piled high with firewood and bricks, there was a narrow vegetable garden in front of a building with one upper storey. The window panes, some covered with rags and sheets, were thick with dust. The windows on the first floor were open. Someone was moaning upstairs and every now and then threw something down. The old couple stepped into the yard and crossed it slowly, gazing vacantly.
The old man freed the dog tied up under a low shed; then balancing a bin on his knees he crouched down and tipped scraps out in front of the snarling animal. They didn’t go straight into the house. The wheels of the cart were buried deep in soft soot; they sat next to it on upturned boxes in front of the vegetable garden. The sparrows chirped and the goldfinch sang on. The old man grumbled: “Arr! What ’av they got t’ crow about?”
They sat next to each other in silence, looking straight ahead. Brown oven bricks lay there, glowing. Then the bird started again: “k-wish, k-wish.”
“We can have a rest here in fronta them branches.” The old man picked up a stone and tossed it over the fence, high up into the foliage. The bird flew off.
A little later, on the first floor, an accordion began to whimper and moan softly. The music floated down behind their hunched backs and wafted through the air. After a while, the grandmother, a dry old stick, began to nod her head under her shawl: “’s a draft. I’m goin’ in.” But he just sat there, stock-still, arms on his knees. The firebricks glowed. “Go, then.” He was listening to the music.
Their gaze held, as tense as a rubber band slowly stretched wide—too wide. Their skin hung loose, as loose as sackcloth on their skeletal frames. They offered pitifully wrinkled faces to the light. Every day they traipsed around the city, picking up pieces of meat, half-rotten fish, and potato peelings at the markets to sell as dogfood. They no longer bothered to talk to each other. Their bones worked tirelessly; like machines left running their hearts chugged sluggishly, hesitantly; their lungs wheezed and their heads swung on withered necks.
Darkness fell suddenly. And as the two of them tidied up in their deathly quiet room, the dog suddenly barked. Footsteps on the stairs, a rough shape thrust its head into the dark kitchen, a switch was flicked and all the sacks and pots, the stove, and the cluttered food tins were bathed in white light.
“Are the Nasskes in here? Uh, it’s dark . . . awfully dark!” A second man came up and stood next to him, a policeman in a helmet with a revolver on his brown belt. The two old people were sitting on a mattress in the next room. She gave him a dig in the ribs and hissed: “Hey!” and pointed at the kitchen. He pretended to be asleep.
“Wait a moment, Fiebig,” said the one with the beard, “there’s no need for you to come too. Stay outside, but leave the courtyard door open.”
He climbed carefully through the cluttered kitchen and shoved the bedroom door open. “Well, why don’t you answer when you’re called? Eh? Are you Nasske?”
The old man scrambled up into the dazzling, probing ring of light and propped himself against the wall.
“Now, are you Nasske? Speak up. And where’s the old woman? Hah! Don’t bother trying to hide, Granny. We’re onto you.”
He grabbed her under the sheets and sat her up. “Your little old pins aren’t much use anymore. But they’ll have t’ do.”
The old woman shrieked, raised her hands above her head and spun around toward the dark wall.
“Now then, little lady, shrieking won’t help. Stand right up now. You’ve gotta come along to the police station.”
“I didn’t steal anythin’, Officer Sir,” howled the woman.
“You can tell us your story later. Don’t you have a hat?”
“I didn’t steal anythin’, anythin’!”
They walked out with the strongly-built man, heads lowered.
“Now, you two, we’ll have no more of this tomfoolery . . . Fiebig, you go upstairs . . .
They’re your friends I suppose, that tall girl Emma with her fancy man Rutschinski. They’re all the same, that lot . . . The dog belongs to the old folk, Fiebig. Say we’ll soon have the Nasskes under lock and key and when you get a chance have a bit of a look around.”
He whispered into the constable’s ear: “Eyes peeled! And don’t keep me waiting.”
That morning, the Nasskes had been searching through a rubbish bin in a house in Rummelsburg. As they went through the entrance with their sack they saw a beer wagon in front of the door. The driver had dumped an empty beer crate down in the entrance hall while he carried a new load of beer through the back door of the tavern. The man had inadvertently placed his pouch of small change in a slot in the empty crate instead of in his pocket. Without thinking twice, Nasske reached for it as he went past. The woman sidled nervously up to him and grumbled softly: “Whata y’ want with that? Put it back.” But he hid the pouch in the cloth sack slung carelessly over his shoulder, and opened the door. Then they tiptoed slowly around the next corner with the cart. The woman was pushing the cart from behind. She was anxious, but he felt it in his bones: “This was meant t’ be—and we got one up on fatso.” He bought a stick of extra fine tobacco from a salesman in the pub. She bought a pair of woollen mittens, as well as a bottle of sweet liqueur and a checked shawl. Then they wedged the rest of the money between the boards on the bottom of the cart.
The worn-out, ornery creatures were taken out to Moabit Prison. They put him in with a wily, well-fed fellow who’d pulled a few fast ones in his time. He’d been about to come into a stack of money, he told the old man, after greeting him with the words, “Gawd, they should’ ave left you in the rubbish dump.” He was just trying to stir “the old stiff” up and get it talking, but it kept mum and stared venomously at the floor, so he taunted it. “Well, what y’ pinch eh—an old herring tail? Then off y’ go, down t’ some low dive, pay yer penny t’ cook it, ‘n gobble it up, all by yerself.” The old man held his tongue. Silent fury welled up in him. As he stubbornly swallowed the soup and licked his plate, the burly fellow came back at him: “I won’t be bitten y’ know; coz I can always get hold of a muzzle.”
One morning Nasske whined and croaked: “Me tooth’s loose.”
“What am I s’posed t’ do about it?”
“I want y’ to get a barber for me tooth.”
“What?”
“I want a barber.”
“Go front up at the zoo with yer tooth, y’ old monkey!”
The old man went on groaning and his cellmate said under his breath: “If he keeps howlin’ like that I’ll giv’im a sock in the moosh and his tooth’ll fly straight out.”
Nasske was there for two more weeks. On the evening before he was released, he started growling again. The crook asked: “Whada you want?”
Nasske stared straight ahead angrily and after a pause said: “Whad I want? Whad I want most is to be dead.”
Emma lived on the first floor at the Nasskes’ place with her sweetheart Rutschinski, who knew a thing or two. While the old couple were in jail, Rutschinski didn’t go out at all because he’d twisted his ankle on the stairs. He was a tall, trim man with a handsome, full face. His fine figure had determined his fate. No sooner was he was out of work and sauntering about, than two young single girls discovered his black hair and cute snub nose—not to mention a pair of good, straight legs. So, not long after that, he was strolling around with a velvet cap and a cheeky curl on his forehead—and the two single girls were working for him. Now he was Emma’s protector—tall blonde Emma, who’d been a nanny. When there was enough money they planned to get married and open a greengrocer’s shop. When the Nasskes were in Moabit, Rutschinski told Emma she’d better go and earn some money quick smart, so they could send the old people a first-class evening meal and hire a lawyer.
At six o’clock the next morning there was a huge racket outside the first-aid station on the corner of Fredersdorfer Strasse. A man was dragging Emma in by the arm. She staggered. She had a deep scratch on her forehead; her nose and top lip were bleeding; strands of straggly blonde hair were strewn over her shoulders. The flowers on her hat were half torn off; dirt from the street clung to her white blouse. The man was holding her parasol in his hand. It had broken in half and both the spokes and the red cover were hanging down. An older man, dressed in a red and white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, came stumping out of a side door from the bright square-shaped room where the instrument cabinets and first aid boxes were kept. He was wearing a monocle; his hair had fallen out from the middle of his crown, but on the sides it was sticking out in thick, bushy black and grey tufts. With arms akimbo, he stood there watching as the worker snorted, dragged the girl across the floor and let her sink down. He commanded grimly: “Put the parasol down next to her. You don’t know this person, do you? All right, you can go.”
Emma was snoring on the floor. Saliva was pouring out of her mouth and already forming a puddle on the linoleum. She reeked of schnapps and tobacco smoke. At the back of the room, a man in a white coat leapt down the steps. He had a thin face with narrow cheeks and the crafty features of a businessman, and he moved briskly. “Doctor,” called the paramedic, who was still standing in front of Emma with arms akimbo: “Here’s a new case.”
“Walter, a blind person can see that. If you don’t need me I’ll leave you to it. This is just what we need first thing in the morning! You wouldn’t think it was possible. She’s wandered over here from Linienstrasse.”
“We get all the tarts in here now, doctor.”
“You see to it, Walter. Phone the police station.”
The paramedic was alone with the girl. He walked around her and spat disdainfully at her feet: “Ugh!” Then he took a wad of cotton-wool out of the cabinet, poured some ammonia on it, knelt down and shoved it under the nose of the snoring woman. She turned her head away and spat. He followed her on his hands and knees with the cotton-wool and gripped her tousled head tightly in his left arm. She kicked her legs. “What kind of gear’s the slut got on—boots up to her knees?” Her torn, blue silk stockings appeared. With one jerk, she wrenched her head out of his arm, crouched down, and then crept like a dog on all fours to the first aid table, her hair hanging over her swollen face, and then straightened up with a snort. He was right behind her with the cloth. She staggered towards the wall, tugged at the lock on the medicine cabinet and smeared the glass pane with her face pressed hard against it. He shoved her aside. “Hey, get your paws off that.” Once again he pressed the pungent swab at Emma’s mouth from behind as she staggered past. She gulped, roared, and fell sideways onto her hands. The doctor called out in a shrill voice from inside: “What, the woman’s still screaming? Aren’t you finished with her yet?”
“She’s just waking up, doctor.”
“That’s alright then.”
Emma’s face was completely swollen and her eyes were brimming with tears. The bald man bent over her from behind as she crouched down again; he clenched his teeth, grabbed her by the arm, dragged her up to the first aid table, and slammed her down onto it. He whispered: “Now lie still you bitch.” Splat! The damp swab was in her face again. She started struggling, thrashing her legs to get off the table and escape the stinging vapour. He pressed her down with his upper body, clamped her knees down, and held her in a tight embrace on the table top. He gnashed his teeth and his bald head glistened with sweat: “Leave my shirt alone you common little guttersnipe! You oughta be ashamed of yourself, behaving like this—You oughta be ashamed!” As she came to, she fought harder and harder, but he wouldn’t let go of her nose. As she fought her way down from the table, her clothes riding all the way up her backside, she scratched him across the cheek; the furious man shrank back, gasped for breath, and slammed the cloth in his hand against her mouth and teeth twice, so hard that she groaned and foamed at the mouth, her eyes staring wildly. She ended up sitting on the floor in front of the table, drooling.
“Please yer Honour, I can’t help it. Don’t hurt me.”
“Don’t give me any of that guff!”
“Franz hit me first yer Honour, with me parasol.”
“Up y’ get and shut y’ trap!”
He went over to the little mirror above the washbasin and wiped the huge welt on his face with an antiseptic swab.
There was a ring at the door outside. A sallow young man in a blue cloak stormed in.
“Franz,” bawled Emma in a hoarse voice. “Come here darling, please darling—He’s me fiancé, y’ know.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’ll do somethin’ to meself, if y’ don’t come over here.”
“Calm down Emma. It’s not as bad as all that.”
All of a sudden she gave him a sharp look. “Reckons he’s a lawyer,” she said, crawling around on the floor and squinting at him, “and says he’s me fiancé. And then he goes n’ breaks me umbrella on me. What y’ doin’ here, anyway? The Nasskes’ll get out without y’.”
“But Emma my . . . !”
“What makes y’ think I’m your Emma? You swindler! I tell y’ yer Honour, this here’s a swindler.”
She sat bolt upright at the table, cursed even louder and threatened the little man, who went and stood right next to the paramedic. “I’ll get even with y’. First he gets y’ sozzled and then he wants an advance payment from y’. What for? Him, a lawyer! You . . .”
She tried to get at him but the man in the shirt held her back and pushed her down onto the chair: “Sit down and stop yer blathering.” She waved her hands around and straightened her hat. The old man bandaged her nose and flattened her hair, scowling.
The following day, Emma was released by the police. The Nasskes were back home already. Rutschinski greeted his fiancée with the words: “They should’ve chucked you outta the emergency station, instead of patching you up.”
She pulled some money she’d been saving out of her stocking. He calmed down and counted it. “So, you’ve been busy after all Emma—my golden girl. Now, you mustn’t make me worry about you so much, especially as I’ve got a sore leg and can’t come too.”
When he asked about the parasol she told him all about little Franz, to distract and flatter him. He knew the fellow all too well and flew into a rage, spat into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and whistled, promising he had a remedy for that particular little problem.
Nasske couldn’t get rid of his dog food any longer. Two other scavengers had beaten him to it. He couldn’t get over his resentment. Hunger had moved in with them. The old man couldn’t bring himself to work. If he could just get his hands on that fat beer-cart driver! She wound long rags around her swollen leg and stuck chunks of chewed bread underneath them. He whined: “What y’ keep on fussin with yer leg for? Just put that good bit o’ bread on it. Y’ don’t have to swallow it, y’ know, just chew it ’n spit it out.”
She grizzled and poked him under the chin: “. . . and if y’ keep yacking away y’ old duffer y’ can go. Don’t bother braggin about how clever y’ are.”
They lay on their mattresses in silence. Then he said: “I’ll string meself up.”
She seized him with rage and shook him: “Y’ can hang yerself to yer heart’s content. All I have t’ do is pay a few pennies extra and I can go with Emma t’ the knockin’ shop.”
Rutschinski limped down to the old man, who never budged from the house now, leaving the old woman to go out with the cart on her own. Rutschinski asked him why he wanted to hang himself.
Nasske roared: “What’s that t’ you? Whippersnappers, all of y’! Y’ don’t ask me if y’ can give Emma a lickin. I can hang meself if I want.”
Rutschinski placed a bottle of brandy on the window sill. “Hang yerself, an old fella like you! Hah! You just don’t have the knack. Nah Nasske, just have a drink with the old girl.”
The old man waved him off. He sat alone hour after hour, hunched on the mattress in the deserted room. His withered face was bitter. As evening drew near, the birds began to squabble and sing. He went to a corner, took a swig of brandy, then walked out into the yard, fetched an old dog lead from the shed, and hanged himself on a window hook.
He hung there, behind a sack of rags, tied by the neck, like a long, light parcel dangling on a wire, without swaying.
The arch of the bridge loomed overhead. The current lifted the boat and lowered it into a stream. Like a feather blown along, it moved freely and smoothly, till finally it sank.
*
The old woman trotted in with the dogcart, and then squatted on the box in front of the vegetable garden. She limped wearily through the kitchen into the bedroom. When she saw the bundle hanging on the window hook she stopped and bent forward, folded her hands over her apron and stared at it for several long minutes without moving. She stood there frozen, then shook her head. “Well, he’s hanged himself alright, the old rogue—couldn’t a cared less about God or the world.” She whined through the door to Emma and Rutschinski, and then showed them the corpse: “He’s there, hangin.”
Rutschinski asked: “But little Nan, why don’t y’ cut yer old man down?”
She shuffled irritably back into the kitchen. After a while they heard grizzling: “So now I’m s’posed to cut him down, the old rogue. A dead thing like that, it makes me sick.” Later, when the corpse was lying on the mattress she said to Rutschinski: “Get rid of it! Get a move on!”
In the days before the burial old Frau Nasske didn’t go out with the cart. Emma brought her things to eat. Whenever she sat in the garden on her box Rutschinski played his mouth organ for her—only cheerful pieces or popular tunes. And in the afternoon, after the burial, Emma and Rutschinski took the old woman by the arm and together they marched slowly down the country road in the warm, summer sunshine. Emma was wearing a little black cape. She still had plasters on her face and her lips were swollen; but deep maidenly dimples showed in the corners of her mouth. She had put on a long dark jacket over her light-coloured dress. Rutschinski—looking pale, but smart as ever, his waxed moustache twirled high—was busily peering right and left. His hair was smoothly parted, his curls plastered to his forehead, and a stiff black hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head. He was carrying a knotted stick and wearing a chic grey suit with a red carnation in the buttonhole. The old woman had disappeared into her new checked shawl. They pulled her into the garden of a tavern with a green fence around it. There was a little wooden sign above the entrance: “BISMARCK PLAYS HERE.” They sat down. Emma pulled her dress up, took her purse out of the stocking above her right knee and gave it to Rutschinski.
Frau Nasske sat in silence behind her brandy. She seemed to be frozen. Emma whispered: “She’s still hoppin’ mad at the old man. Let her alone.”
The burly publican in a huge beer apron stopped in front of their table. Rutschinski stood up: “Nice day, but sad. The old man sold dog biscuits, ’n y’ know how hard it is these days, y’ get the idea.”
“Dead, is he?”
Rutschinski said under his breath: “Turned the lights out on himself.”
“Eh, so that’s it—poor old woman!”
“She doesn’t say a word. Play a bit of music will y’. Where’s that Bismarck?”
“Right here, at your service!” A servant with an enormous bald head sat down at the square piano. Rutschinski gripped his stick tightly for a moment. If that squirt Franz turns up here again the publican should send for him: “I need t’ have a word with him, man to man—some friend! Just look at me fiancée’s nose.” Blonde Emma held old Frau Nasske in her arms, begging her to drink a little. She took a sip and smiled weakly. Bismarck pounded the keyboard. The birds were twittering in the beech tree in front of the pub. A boy was cracking his whip: “Hey you, that’s my spinning top. Don’t step on it.”
The goldfinch sang:
Take heart mankind, leave woe behind.
In May buds burst, fruit flourishes,
Desire quickens and love nourishes.
So beg God to show us a kindly face
And evermore grant us mercy and grace.
