Wolf Among Wolves

Violet sat so that she could see the market place; it appeared surprisingly peaceful for a town which had to expect on the morrow a big Putsch which would completely change the constitution and government of sixty million people. In a row stood farmers’ carts with potatoes or cabbages; women went to and fro with their market bags—but there was nothing out of the way, nothing different, and above all no uniforms.

“Papa! I don’t see any uniforms at all.”

“They have something else to do today than stroll about,” replied the Rittmeister sharply. “Anyway, I’m reading.”

But a little later he lowered his newspaper and himself looked out of the window. Glancing at the clock, he called to the waiter: “Where are the officers?”

“They ought to be here by now,” said the waiter, also regarding the clock.

Fully satisfied with this definite information, the Rittmeister ordered a second port. Violet asked for one too, but he frowned. “Keep to your beef tea,” he said. With a slight smile the waiter moved away.

Violet felt deeply disgraced. Never again could she enter this inn. Papa had been absolutely beastly. Tears in her eyes, she stared at the market place and the chauffeur sitting in the car.

“Where are you thinking of driving to now, Papa?” she asked.

The Rittmeister started. “I? I’m not thinking of driving anywhere. Why?”

“You told the chauffeur we were going on immediately, Papa!”

“Mind your own business!” said he, nettled. “What’s more, alcohol is not for young girls in the morning.”

For a long time they stared at the market place. In the end there was nothing for the Rittmeister to do but order a third port. Irritably he asked the waiter where on earth the officers could be.

The man regretted very much, but he couldn’t explain it himself.

Wretched and more and more out of humor, the two gazed from the window. The civilians had long ago recaptured the periodicals; only Kladderadatsch remained with the Rittmeister, and from time to time he glanced at it but found the jokes stupid. The situation was certainly not one for humor. What on earth was he to do all day in a boring town like Ostade, if the officers weren’t going to appear? There wouldn’t be any lunch at home now; besides, he had not the slightest wish to drive back yet—this evening would be soon enough to hear what his wife had to say about Hubert’s dismissal. Most of all he would have liked to drive to one or two barracks, and make some inquiries. Unfortunately he had just told Violet that he had no intention of driving on anywhere.

Her movement made him attentive. Utterly absorbed, she was gazing at the door, and the Rittmeister, forgetting his good manners, turned on his chair and stared also.

In the doorway stood a young man in gray knickerbockers and a greenish-yellow trench coat. He was looking round the dining room, then over at the buffet and the waiter. In his incongruous get-up he appeared so different that it was some time before the Rittmeister recognized him. Then he sprang up, rushed toward the young man and, in his delight at this distraction, greeted him enthusiastically. “Good morning, Lieutenant. You see, I’m already here today …”

“Twenty cigarettes, waiter,” the young man called sharply. Having looked coolly at the Rittmeister he decided to say “Good morning,” very reserved.

“Surely you remember me!” cried the Rittmeister, astonished at this reception. “Rittmeister von Prackwitz. We met yesterday in the train. Major,” he whispered the name, “Ruckert. You … I …” Louder: “I’ve already bought the car, a fairly good one. A Horch. No doubt you saw it outside.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Lieutenant absent-mindedly. The waiter coming up, he took his cigarettes, gave a note, acknowledged the change and asked: “The gentlemen not here yet?”

The waiter brought out his two sentences: “They ought to have been here long before this. I don’t understand it either.”

“Hmmm!” was all the Lieutenant said, but even the Rittmeister felt that this had not been good news for the young man.

The waiter had left. The two men looked at each other in silence a moment.

The Lieutenant made up his mind. “You must excuse me, I am very busy.” He spoke mechanically and did not move, but remained looking at the Rittmeister as if he expected something.

That his announcement about the purchase of a car had made so little impression offended Herr von Prackwitz very much. Nevertheless he did not want the Lieutenant to go. At the moment he was the only person with whom he could talk or from whom he could find out anything. “Perhaps you would join me at my table for a moment, Lieutenant?” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

The Lieutenant was obviously deep in thought. He waved his hand. “I am really very busy,” he said. But when the Rittmeister made a gesture of invitation he went with him. Violet had not taken her eyes away the whole time.

“You have met my daughter, Herr …” The Rittmeister’s laugh was embarrassed. “There now, I’ve forgotten your name, Lieutenant!”

Under Violet’s glance the Lieutenant had become more alert. She looked so fervent and affectionate that a strong repulsion stirred in him at once. She hasn’t even understood yet that she’s finished for me, he thought. You’ve got to be rude first to her.

“Meier,” he introduced himself. “Meier. Meier is a very useful, a very agreeable name, don’t you think?”

He was aware of her glance, plainly begging for pardon and mercy.

“No, I don’t believe that I know the young lady,” he said more harshly. “Or perhaps yes.”

“Yes—in Neulohe …” whispered Violet, cowering under that ruthless glance and remark.

“In Neulohe? Oh? Have we seen one another there? You must pardon me, Fraulein, but I for my part don’t remember it.” Turning to the Rittmeister, transfixed at this incomprehensible scene—for he saw that his daughter was stricken to the heart—the Lieutenant added: “No, please order nothing for me. I must go at once. You had something to say to me, Rittmeister?”

“I don’t know …” began the Rittmeister slowly.

Violet sat there with a pale and lifeless face.

The Lieutenant crossed his legs, basely making show of an expression of boredom, as of one who knew only too well what was coming. Lighting a cigarette he said superciliously: “If you don’t know, Herr—Herr—my excuses, the name escapes me” (with a vindictive look at Violet), “but if you don’t know, I should like to depart, if you don’t mind. As I told you, I am very busy.” And continued to sit there with a provocative air. A little more and it could have been said that he was openly yawning.

The Rittmeister restrained himself; outside his home he could do that. “The long and the short of it is, my daughter wrote you a letter.” He hesitated. “About the matter you know of, and which has got into the wrong hands.”

It was all as had been expected. The Lieutenant, conscious of the girl’s imploring gaze, put out his cigarette in the ash tray. Then he looked up from his dead butt, ran his eyes over the Rittmeister and said: “I am at your disposal, naturally, Rittmeister. I dispute nothing. Only,” he went on more quickly, “I should be grateful if you would wait till tomorrow’s action is over. My friends will call on you immediately afterwards.”

The Rittmeister was a very old man; hollow temples, white hair, a ravaged face. In almost an unintelligible voice he said: “Do-I-understand-you-aright?”

“Papa! Fritz!” cried Violet.

“You have completely understood,” the Lieutenant informed him in his supercilious and insolent voice.

“Oh, Fritz, Fritz! Papa …” the girl murmured, her eyes full of tears.

The Rittmeister seemed paralyzed. Holding his wineglass by the stem he turned it round and round, as if examining the color of the port. On his tongue was no taste of wine; only of bitterness and ashes … the bitterness and ashes of a whole life.

“Oh, Fritz.” It was Violet’s tearful voice.

In a flash he had thrown the remainder of his port in the impudent, conceited face. With great pleasure Joachim von Prackwitz saw the young fellow turn pale and the firm chin tremble.… “Have I understood you properly now, Lieutenant?” he asked.

Violet had moaned. The Lieutenant, before wiping the wine from his face, was young enough to look anxiously round the room—the civilians were sitting behind their newspapers. But the waiter at the buffet had given a start and was now rubbing the zinc bar with embarrassed vigor.