you’ve been farming here a long time.”
“Oh, that’s got nothing to do with the case. After the war we had nothing. I wasn’t going to be paid my pension—was I not a traitor? So we landed up here as visitors. I ran around the fields with my father-in-law— slaving like the devil. I found it fun at the time. Then one day he said: ‘I’m getting old, take the place as it stands. Eva will inherit all one day.’ So I started managing it alone.”
“Without any contract?”
“Without a contract.”
“What rent did you pay?”
“Nothing was settled. When he needed money I gave it to him if I had any; otherwise he just waited.”
“And then?”
“Then one day he said: ‘Let’s draw up a contract,’ and so we made this disgraceful lease with which I’m landed.”
“He just said ‘Draw up a contract’? But something must have happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Something’s missing,” persisted Studmann. “Well, Frau von Prackwitz?”
She had flushed. “Well, Achim,” she said hesitantly, “oughtn’t we to tell him? It’s better.…”
“Oh, the old story!” growled the Rittmeister. “Studmann, you’re a real nagger. What good will it do you to know—it won’t alter the lease.”
“Frau von Prackwitz,” pleaded Studmann.
“A short while before the lease was made,” she said quietly, “I had a quarrel with Achim. He thought it was time he started being jealous again—”
“Please, Eva, don’t be ridiculous!”
“Yes, Achim, it’s true. Well, you know him, and I do too. He immediately flew into a temper—you’d have thought the world was coming to an end. Screamed about divorce, adultery—well, it wasn’t nice to listen to. But I’ve been used to it for nearly twenty years and know that he really doesn’t mean it.”
“My dear Eva,” said the Rittmeister stiffly, “if you go on talking about me in this way I shall leave the office. And anyway, I was quite right. That affair with Truchsess—”
“Was years ago,” interrupted Studmann. “Please sit down again, Prackwitz. Don’t forget, it’s your money we are discussing.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of these stories!” cried the Rittmeister fiercely, sitting down, however.
“Go on, Frau von Prackwitz. So there was a little domestic quarrel?”
“Yes, and unfortunately my father heard of it without our knowing. From that time onwards he was convinced that Achim tormented and ill-treated me.”
“Ridiculous! I’m the most peaceful, most placable man.”
“For weeks he urged me to divorce Achim—”
“What!” The Rittmeister jumped up. “That’s the latest! He wanted you to divorce me?”
“Sit down, Prackwitz,” urged Studmann. “As you say, these are very old stories. Your wife is not divorced …”
“No, Papa saw that I didn’t want to. He thinks more of me than you’d expect.” She had flushed again. “And then there came this lease.”
“Now I understand him,” said Herr von Studmann, feeling extremely pleased. “And I hope you understand him, too, Prackwitz, and know what your attitude is to be. Your husband was intended to lose his nerve, become unbearable, be economically ruined; his incapability was to be proved, he was to pile up debt after debt …”
“And that man calls himself my father-in-law! It’s true I could never stand him, but I thought, after all, he’s quite a good fellow in his own way …”
“My dear Prackwitz,” said Studmann somewhat pointedly, “some people regard others as being good only because it is to their interest to do so. But if you don’t pull yourself together now, and if you let your father-in-law notice that you know anything, then you’re done for!”
“That’s impossible!” cried the Rittmeister. “I must be able to tell him my opinion. It makes my blood boil just to think of him!”
“Then you must simply turn aside if you see him in the distance. Prackwitz, for your wife’s sake, pull yourself together. Promise us you won’t talk or begin a quarrel or let yourself be provoked. Go away, say: ‘Herr von Studmann is looking after that.’ Finished! Your father-in-law would find that much more unpleasant! Leave all business matters to me. I’ll find a way out. Why not begin by taking some gold, plenty of gold—the outcome of your work. We’ll see later what we’ll do in the winter.”
“Herr von Studmann is right,” said Frau von Prackwitz eagerly. “This would be the worst moment to give up the lease. Leave everything to him.”
“Well, I suppose I’m just a fool,” growled the Rittmeister. “There’s a man for you, that Studmann! Understands in three weeks more than I do in three years. I—”
“The men are coming!” Vi exclaimed, bursting into the office with Pagel following slowly.
“There,” said the Rittmeister, glad to escape from the hated office, “they’re coming at last! I was beginning to think there would be difficulties there, too! My dear Pagel, will you see that the fellows get some grub right away, that implements are properly distributed, and all that?”
Pagel looked cheerfully at his employer. “Yes, Herr Rittmeister.” He clicked his heels and went.
“What are you doing, Prackwitz?” asked Studmann. “You’ve given Pagel the sack! He’s supposed to take the three o’clock train.”
“I sack Pagel? Don’t be silly, Studmann! You saw that the boy understood me perfectly. A good dressing- down when a young rip like that gets cheeky—and finish! I’m not the one to bear a grudge, you know.”
“No, you aren’t!” said Studmann. “Well, let’s have a look at the men. I’m anxious to know what a gang of fifty convicts looks like.”
V
Yes, there they came. They emerged just where the highway to Meienburg-Ostade turns into Neulohe, in fours, a warder at the side of every fourth row—and they sang loudly and with feeling the song about the nicest place I have on earth, my mother’s grave.
“Lord, they’re singing, too!” groaned Frau Belinde von Teschow to her friend Jutta at the Manor window. “It isn’t enough that the food for these murderers is to be cooked in my respectable washhouse, I’ve got to listen to their bawling as well! Elias, tell the Geheimrat to come to me. Murderers singing—it’s preposterous!”
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” cried the children in the village, and all who were not at work in the fields left standing everything that stood, let fall everything that would not stand, took up positions in the street, and stared—stared open-eyed and open-mouthed.
The prison authorities had spared no pains in doing the thing well. Despite the bad times, they had given the men fresh clothes. There were no worn-out uniforms made up of patches, no trousers reaching only halfway down the calves of the tall men, or jackets which drowned the short ones—their clothes fitted well, were spick and span, and proudly they sang their song: “We’re bold and bad hussars!”
The people in the village street opened their mouths still wider. Where were the cropped heads they had always heard about? Where were the chains and handcuffs? Where was the sinister brooding silence? Where the angry glance suffused with red? No brand of Cain, no wild-beast look. “Say, ma, going to close your mouth again when you’ve had it open long enough?” one of them shouted, and they all laughed.
No. Neulohe had been expecting too much, at any rate expecting something quite different. Large and small, fat and thin; handsome men, indifferent men, ugly men—all were in high spirits. They had escaped from the dead constraint of iron and cement, were able to see the world again, not merely the little section from the cell window, which even so was forbidden them. The fresh air had enlivened them, the sun had warmed them; no more of gray monotony, but new work, different diet, tobacco, the sight of young girls already, of a woman hastily pulling down her sleeve over a bare arm which had been dipped into the flour tub.
They sang:
The Devil’s Hussars are we,
No deed makes us afraid.
We’ve sinned right merrily,
