Wolf Among Wolves

There would be no hitch, and no need to be uneasy about it. He was not the over-prudent, crafty Geheimrat Horst- Heinz von Teschow: he was Rittmeister von Prackwitz, and when an old comrade said to him: “Join us!” he went along, without inquisitiveness. The little he had heard was enough for him. The Reichswehr and the Black Reichswehr were in it; that is, the old soldiers and the young ones, against a Government which printed worthless money, which had given up the Ruhr fight, and which wanted to “agree” with the French. One didn’t need to reflect about such things—the Putsch was in order.

What did absorb him, while he stirred the coffee, was his car! It was of course already “his,” although he didn’t even know yet what it should look like. He had wanted one for a long time, only he had never had the money—and, as a matter of fact, there was none now. Indeed, he was traveling to Neulohe so as to be on the spot when the rent for the farm fell due on October the first; that is, the day after tomorrow—a difficult time. The Rittmeister was like a child. When a child has managed ten times not to take off shoes and stockings and splash in the water, it only requires the boy from next door to say the eleventh time: “Ah, it’s so warm today!” In a minute the child, in spite of all commands, goes bare-legged and splashing. The Major had said that he ought to buy a car. Money was scarce, scarcer than ever, and the car would have to go on a dangerous adventure at once. But the Rittmeister didn’t think a moment of that. He didn’t even think of the Putsch and the Government to be overthrown; all he thought of was that he could at last buy a car. This Putsch was a splendid affair; it procured him a car.

The Rittmeister reviewed all the cars of his friends and acquaintances. He hesitated between a Mercedes and a Horch. Cheap ones were not considered. If one was to have a car, it couldn’t look like a country doctor’s—it had to look good; and since it was bought on credit, a bit more or less didn’t matter.… No, the problem was not the car—it was where to get a chauffeur quickly, one who would look all right at the wheel; otherwise the pleasure of sitting behind him was halved. And the thing had to be done quickly, because the Rittmeister wanted, at the least in two or three hours, to be on the way to Neulohe in his own car.… And then there was the garage. Which would be the best place for a garage, close to the Villa?

The Rittmeister, wrapped up in his thoughts, resembled extraordinarily that retired officer who, a few months before, had sat at the gaming table, and who, out of sheer longing not to miss a single stake, couldn’t wait to learn the rules of play. Once again he didn’t know the game, and he was staking higher than he could afford. He might indeed buy some sort of corrugated-iron garage, but such things looked like nothing at all.…

“Herr Rittmeister,” said for the third time a humble voice at the next table.

“Well, I never!” Starting out of his dreams and projects, he stared in surprise at the forester, who sat in his best clothes behind a glass of beer. “What are you doing in Frankfurt, Kniebusch?”

“The court case, Herr Rittmeister!” said the forester reproachfully. “My case about Baumer.”

“Well,” nodded the Rittmeister, “I’m glad the rascal’s to be sentenced at last. What do you think he’ll get, then?”

“But, Herr Rittmeister,” declared the forester solemnly, “it’s me who’s accused. It’s me they want to sentence. I’m supposed to have done him grievous bodily harm!”

“Hasn’t that dirty business been settled yet?” The Rittmeister was amazed. “Herr von Studmann wrote nothing about it. Come and sit at my table and tell me about the case. The cart seems to have lost its way badly, but perhaps I’ve come just at the right time to pull it out of the mess.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Herr Rittmeister! I always told my wife: ‘If only the Rittmeister was here, he’d soon get me out of it.’ ” And having not ineffectually appealed to old soldierly sentiments, the forester fetched the stale dregs of his beer and poured out his heart slowly and with many lamentations. The Rittmeister listened. Then, with the same elan which had been his about the car, he threw himself into legal affairs. Nor did he refrain from some bitter reflections on how everything was neglected even by the most reliable people when he wasn’t there, and how he had to do everything himself. Pettifogging lawyers, poachers, the dollar and the Socialists were cursed, and he did not forget to make it clear to the forester that his employer was actually Geheimrat von Teschow, and that the business really had nothing whatever to do with him, von Prackwitz.

“Listen, Kniebusch,” he said finally. “Your case comes on at half-past ten, eh? Actually I have a lot to do—I’m going to buy a car, you know, and shall have to engage a chauffeur, too …”

“A car! That will please Frau von Prackwitz.”

The Rittmeister was not so sure; it was a point he preferred not to discuss. “I’ll go with you to the court and give the gentlemen there a real piece of my mind.… You may rely on it that the whole thing will be settled in ten minutes, Kniebusch; one has only to put matters in a proper light, and it’s high time that this persecution of landed property was stopped. Well, all that is going to be changed the day after tomorrow—you’ll be surprised, Kniebusch.”

The other pricked up his ears.

But the Rittmeister changed the subject. “And immediately afterwards I’ll buy the car, get a chauffeur—a good chauffeur’s a condition of purchase—and then I’ll take you to Neulohe. You can save your fare, Kniebusch.”

The forester’s thanks knew no limit; this program delighted him, and wisely he suppressed the doubt which he perhaps still entertained that his case, in spite of the Rittmeister’s intervention, might not pass off so smoothly. Herr von Prackwitz was now in a hurry. With his long legs he steered himself through the town of Frankfurt as though each step brought him nearer the car he yearned for; and a little behind trotted Kniebusch, puffing.

And thus they got to the court fifteen minutes too early. Nevertheless the Rittmeister pressed on to the courtroom indicated in the summons—where they knocked, listened, warily opened the door. The room was dirty, dreary and empty. Intercepting an usher, they showed him the summons. He looked from one to the other.…

“Is it you?” he asked the Rittmeister.

“Good heavens, no!” The Rittmeister did not at all like this, however readily he might be espousing the case.

“Oh, you then! Well, just wait a little! It’ll take a little time yet. Your case will be called.”

Sighing, the Rittmeister sat down with the forester on one of those benches where, perhaps because of their construction, perhaps because of the situation, no person can keep still. The corridor was dingy and deserted. People kept coming; their steps, however softly they trod, reverberated from stone walls and floor and ceiling. In the gray light they peered short-sightedly at the numbers on the doors, made up their minds to knock, and listened a long while before they entered.

Angrily the Rittmeister stared at a notice on the wall opposite, announcing “No Smoking. No Spitting.” Underneath was a spittoon. He might now have been running around Frankfurt acquiring a magnificent car and going for a trial drive, instead of sitting in this dreary corridor out of pure good nature. The affair had really nothing to do with him at all.

“What a time it’s taking!” he cried angrily, although it was no more than twenty-five minutes past ten.

The forester perceived the restlessness of a companion whom it was so very important to retain. Moreover he had been meditating on what the Rittmeister had alluded to.

“The weapons are still in the Black Dale,” he said discreetly.

“Shush …” went the Rittmeister, so loudly that some one at the far end of the corridor started, and turned inquiringly. Waiting till the man had disappeared into a room, he asked in a low voice: “How do you know about that, Kniebusch?”

“I had another look yesterday afternoon,” whispered the ever-inquisitive forester. “One likes to know what is happening in one’s own wood, Herr Rittmeister!”

“Oh,” said the Rittmeister importantly. “And if they are still there today, tomorrow they won’t be.”

The forester pondered. The Rittmeister had used the word “tomorrow” twice already.

“Are you buying a car because of that, sir?” he asked cautiously.

The Rittmeister had traveled in an express train with an important man, the leader of a Putsch; he had brand-new information. It was very irritating, then, for the forester to presume to know as much as he himself did.

“But what do you know about this business, Herr Kniebusch?” he asked ill-humoredly.

“Oh, nothing at all, Herr Rittmeister,” replied the forester apologetically, aware that he had blundered somehow, and not wishing to admit that he was fully in the secret until he knew which way the wind was blowing. People in the village talked such a lot, however. They had been saying a long time that something was going to happen soon, but no one knew anything about the day or hour. Only the Rittmeister knew that!