Wolf Among Wolves

“Form up in twos!” called Studmann. “Get your baskets on your backs! We’re going to the farm, where we shall take your names. Then everyone can go home. Pagel, you lead the way; I’ll bring up the rear. We’d better leave old Kowalewski out of it; he can shuffle along behind. I hope they obey. We can’t go shooting people on account of a few beetroot leaves.”

“Why not?” asked Pagel.

The roles were changed. Pagel still trembled from the excitement; having felt himself threatened, he regarded his supposed threateners as bad lots, almost criminals. Every measure against them seemed justified to him. Studmann, who had seen how the thirty had let themselves be held up by a cigarette case, inferred therefrom the harmlessness of their activities. It was all a mere trifle.

Neither Studmann nor Pagel was right. The men from Altlohe were certainly no criminals. Yet they were just as certainly determined not to starve, but to get their food where they could find it, since they couldn’t buy anything. They accepted a first surprisal almost good-humoredly. A second might make them vicious. They were hungry—and saw the huge farm where abundance grew. The smallest fraction of the harvest, a little corner of one field, could still their hunger, silence their ever-gnawing worry. The Rittmeister didn’t know how much a goat gobbled up, they said. What difference did a sack of potatoes make to him? This spring he had sent a thousand hundredweights of frozen potatoes to the starch factory. Last year the rye had been so wet when they brought it in that they couldn’t thresh it. It was all rotten—afterwards it had been thrown on the manure heap!

As long as they had been able to purchase their requirements with their wages, they had bought and not stolen. A few lazy rogues had always done a bit of stealing, but they were rogues and regarded as such. But now the people couldn’t buy anything—and there had been the war with its thousands of regulations which no one could ever remember, and its ration cards which only enabled one to go hungry. Many of the men had been at the front, where it had not been a disgrace to “forage” what you needed. The moral standard had gradually grown laxer; it was no longer thought shameful to break the law, unless one were caught doing it. “Don’t let yourself get caught!”—this increasingly popular saying was an indication of the decay in morals. Everything was topsy-turvy. It was still war. Despite the armistice, the Frenchman was still the enemy. Now he had marched into the Ruhr; horrible things were said to be taking place there.

How could these people think otherwise than they did—behave otherwise? When they passed by the Villa and heard the plates rattling they said: “He doesn’t starve! Do we do less work? No, we work more! Then why should we starve and not him?” From this thought sprang hatred. If they had heard the plates rattling like that ten years ago they would have said: “He eats roast lamb, and our salt meat’s like straw.” That was envy. Envy is not a feeling that makes a man pugnacious—but strong haters become strong fighters!

This time they had been caught—caught for the first time; so they went along quietly. After five minutes they were chatting and laughing. It was just a night adventure. What could happen to them? A few beetroot leaves!

They spoke to Wolfgang. “What are you going to do now, sir? A few beetroot leaves! You write our names down and report us to the police for field stealing; that used to cost three marks—today it costs a few million. Well? By the time we pay our fine it’ll be nothing, not a penny—we’ll be able to pay it with the smallest bank note! Is that why you have to go popping off guns?”

“Quiet!” ordered Pagel angrily. “Next time we won’t shoot into the air.”

“You want to do a man in for the sake of a few beetroot leaves, do you? That’s the sort you are! So long as we know! Other people can also shoot.”

“Shut up!” called the others. “There’s no need to say things like that.”

“Quiet!” cried Pagel sharply. He thought he had seen figures on the path. Could it have been the Rittmeister with his wife? Impossible. He would have said something.

In passable order they approached the farm. Now curses were raised when the people had to empty their baskets. They had thought their fine would have enabled them to take the leaves home.

“What shall we give our goats?”

“An animal like that won’t understand. He wants his fodder!”

“We’ll have to go foraging again!”

“Be quiet!”

Their good humor was gone; they said their names crossly, aggressively, snappishly, defiantly. But they said them. Kowalewski had no need to do any rib-digging.

“You won’t get me next time!” declared one.

“Write Georg Schwarz II, bailiff,” said another. “Don’t forget the II. I don’t want my cousin to get mixed up with such a bloody business.”

“Next,” said Studmann. “Pagel, hurry them up a bit, will you? Next!” Till at last he could say: “Good night, Kowalewski. Oh, and thanks very much. I hope this won’t cause you any unpleasantness.”

“No—not me. Good night.”

Studmann and Pagel were left alone. The desk was untidy with papers, the nicely waxed floor was dirty and covered with sand, which grated at every step.

Studmann got up from the desk, glanced curtly at Pagel. “Actually we set forth in good spirits at half-past eight, didn’t we?”

“Yes, it was a nice walk, too, despite your quarrel with the overseer.”

“Oh, you can’t make him understand. Nor these others. It’s just like the hotel in Berlin: they consider everything we do as low-down trickery.”

“You mustn’t ask too much of them, Studmann. After all, they can’t help it.”

“No, these can’t, but …”

“But?”

Studmann did not answer. He was leaning out of the window. After a while, he turned back into the office. “No, he’s not coming,” he said quietly.

“Who’s not coming? Are you waiting for someone?”

Studmann waved the question aside. Then he recollected himself. “You played the chief part in this success, Pagel. I thought the Rittmeister would come to thank us, or rather you.”

“The Rittmeister?”

“Didn’t you see him?”

“I thought … on the path … was it really him?”

“Yes, it was. He tried to avoid us. I spoke to him, but he obviously felt awkward. He didn’t want the people to see him.”

“Why not?” asked Pagel, astonished. “He wants us to put an end to this field stealing, doesn’t he?”

“Of course! But we have to do it. We, Pagel! Not him; he doesn’t want to have anything to do with it.”

Pagel whistled thoughtfully through his teeth.

“I’m afraid Pagel, we’ve got a boss who wants strict officials so that he can appear all the milder. I’m afraid we won’t get much support from Herr von Prackwitz.” Studmann stared once more at the window. “I thought at least he’d come here. But if not, all right! If we have to depend on each other, we can still carry on, eh?”

“Splendidly.”

“No getting annoyed with one another, always say what’s on your mind! No secrets, always tell everything, every trifle. To some extent we’re in a besieged fortress, and I’m afraid it will be difficult to hold Neulohe for the Rittmeister. Anything wrong, Pagel?”

Pagel withdrew his hand from his pocket. It’s not my secret, he thought. I must speak to the young Fraulein first.

“No, nothing,” he said.

Newspapers, newspapers …

People, be it in Neulohe or Altlohe, in Berlin or anywhere else in the country, bought newspapers. They read these newspapers. More people bought newspapers than at any previous time, to find out the dollar rate—as yet there was no broadcasting. And as they turned the pages in their search for these figures running into millions, the events of the day, whether they liked it or not, leaped up at them in huge headlines. Many did not want to read them. For seven years they had been fed with ever-larger headlines, they wanted to hear no more of the world. The world brought nothing good. They wanted as much as possible to live alone. Alone. But there was no help for it;