And loved as well, pretty maid.
The warders were smiling too, glad to escape from their monotonous duty, the continual quarrels, objections, complaints, the unceasing worries about breaches of regulations, the outbreaks and revolts. The men would get enough to eat and smoke, they would be contented, there would be no rows—although one could never be quite certain about that. Almost with benevolence the warders regarded their lads—those to whom they devoted their whole life. After having passed through despair, hatred, indifference, they had almost come to love them. The prisoners looked so smart in their new things, they were so merry, they sang so cheerfully. “Warder, did you see the hare?” “Warder, this lunch time I’m going to have three helpings!” “Warder, what have we got for lunch—roast goose?”
They were like children. There were no murderers, no long-sentence men at all in the gang. Four years was already a lot; most were in for short stretches, and all, or nearly all, had served half their time. There were no desperate criminals among them, none of the big shots of the underworld—but in spite of that, in spite of their singing and gaiety, they were still convicts, that is to say, men whose freedom had been taken from them, a freedom which many of them would do everything, or almost everything, to regain. The officials could never forget that they might perhaps have to risk their own lives in keeping those prisoners from a desired freedom.
My darling said: I love you so,
You must not go from me.
No woman’s arms will hold me, though.
The Devil’s Hussars are we!
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” cried Amanda Backs in the Manor washhouse, and threw the ladle into the pea soup with a splash. “Come on, Sophie, let’s have a look at them. We can see the harvesters’ barracks from the coal cellar.”
“I don’t know why you’re so excited,” replied Sophie coolly. “Convicts—I wouldn’t budge an inch for them. The fellows will give us enough to worry about when they come to get their food. They’re all criminals.”
But she followed Amanda nonetheless, and leaned with her against the dirty coal-cellar hatch. Breathing quickly she looked over, saw the procession and heard the song; but could not see him. Supposing he was not there? Supposing they hadn’t sent him?
“What are you groaning like that for, Sophie?” asked Amanda in surprise.
“I? What do you mean, groaning? I’m not groaning! Why should I be groaning?”
“That’s what I’m asking,” said Amanda rather sharply. For the two were not yet friends, because up to now the question as to who was the cook and who the cook’s help had not been settled.
Behind the convicts came two of the farm wagons, bringing the men’s things; blankets, basins, knives and forks, medicine, water cans, buckets, spades, rakes.… Between the first wagon and the men marched Principal Warder Marofke, alone—a little man but a fine one, commander-in-chief of harvest crew five, Meienburg Prison, in Neulohe, the supreme master of fifty prisoners and four warders. He had very thin, short legs, clad in well-pressed gray trousers. His boots were the only ones which were almost shiny—a prisoner had had to “elbow-grease” them just before the entry into Neulohe. Marofke had a huge potbelly which quivered inside a blue tunic and was belted with a sword strap whereon a saber hung. As for his face, it was as tenderly colored as a young girl’s, white and pink despite his fifty years. At the slightest excitement, however, it turned scarlet. His cat-like bristling mustache was reddish-yellow, his eyes pale blue, his voice screeching and curt. Yet for all his curtness and sharpness, the principal warder was good-nature itself—so long as his authority was not impugned. Should that happen, he at once became as malicious, as crafty, as vengeful as a panther.
“Company halt!” he screeched.
The convicts stopped.
“About turn!”
They did so, but in no very military way, for in 1923 most men hated anything military. They turned their backs on the harvesters’ barracks and looked toward the staff-house and the farm.
Young Pagel stepped up to the little despot. “Principal Warder Marofke? Your governor has written to us. My name is Pagel, I’m a sort of—apprentice here. If I may present you to the boss, he is standing over there.” Under the last trees of the park, next to the staff-house, stood the Rittmeister with his family and Herr von Studmann.
Bloated with pride, as if every step lifted him from the lowly earth, Principal Warder Marofke approached the Rittmeister. He clicked his heels together, raised his hand to his cap and announced: “Principal Warder Marofke, at your service, Herr Rittmeister; with two warders, two assistant warders and fifty convicts forming harvest crew number five!”
“Thank you, principal warder,” said the Rittmeister graciously, looking at the little fellow with amusement. “Ex-soldier, eh?”
“Yes, Herr Rittmeister. Twenty-third Transport Section.
“Transport, eh? Of course. Obvious.” A spark glimmered in the principal warder’s eye. “At the front?”
“No, Herr Rittmeister. I had …”
“Whooping-cough? All right! Well, let the men go to their quarters, principal warder. Lunch is probably ready. You’ll look after everything, Pagel, eh? And see that they do some solid work, principal warder, I don’t want to have spent all this money for nothing. Thank you.”
Flaming red, the other went back to his men.
Studmann and Frau von Prackwitz exchanged a glance. Frau von Prackwitz in despair shrugged her shoulders. Studmann whispered soothingly: “I’ll set it right again.”
“Even you can’t set everything right.” Frau von Prackwitz had tears in her eyes.
“What are you pulling faces for?” the Rittmeister asked, turning round. “Queer stick, that principal warder. Got a big idea of himself. A shirker, of course. Well, I’ll put the fellow through it, I’ll show him what service is. Come along, Eva, come along, Vi. Afternoon, Studmann. Must try to get something into my stomach, too—you’ve successfully taken away my appetite this morning. Well, good afternoon!”
VI
“Why does he call me ‘principal warder’—can you tell me that?” the little principal warder asked Pagel heatedly. “We’re not on a parade ground here, he’s not my superior!”
They were sitting in Marofke’s room. In the barracks the prisoners were making an uproar, laughing, swearing, singing, nailing up on the wall photographs of their sweethearts and smuggled pictures of film stars, whistling, putting up beds, already clattering with their tinny knives and forks.
“We want grub!” shouted a voice.
“Like a cigarette?” But Herr Marofke politely refused. “You ought to have a nice cover on your table,” said Pagel, surveying the room. “A few other things, too, mirror, pictures, ash trays. You should shake the young girls up a bit—well, you’ll get round them all right. I suppose you’ve had plenty of experience with young girls.”
“If the governor says to me ‘principal warder,’ then it’s all right. But
“We want grub!” Spoons began to beat on cooking utensils.
“The boss is a queer chap,” said Pagel. “An hour ago he kicked me out. It’s true, Herr Marofke, sacked me on the spot for laughing while on duty. I’m not pulling your leg, word of honor! Well, I suppose he felt sorry for me, and keeps me on because I’ve nowhere else to go. But since he’s still angry he calls me ‘Herr.’ When he’s in a good mood he just says ‘Pagel’ or ‘young rip.’ ”
Pagel sprawled comfortably over the table, blowing very artistic smoke rings and not looking at Herr Marofke at all. The officer scrutinized him suspiciously. “Why does he talk about whooping-cough to me? When I’ve got a double rupture in the groin! It isn’t everyone can get a wound!”
“Poof!” said Pagel scornfully. “Wounds are nothing to the Rittmeister! He calls them whooping-cough, too. It’s just his way of speaking. Forget it.”
“We want grub!” The shouts outside were louder.
“What does mean anything to the Rittmeister, then?” asked the principal warder curiously. “I never heard that before, calling wounds whooping-cough. Supposing a man’s leg has been amputated?”
“He calls it whooping-cough, too. Well, forget it. It’s not worth worrying about. Herr Marofke, I want to ask you a great favor.”
