to smoke.
“Now to our questions,” the secretary began.
But Pagel interrupted him. “May I smoke?” He was holding the packet of cigarettes in his hand.
The secretary rapped on the table. “The public are forbidden to smoke in this office.”
The superintendent puffed vigorously at his cigar. Angrily, but without losing his temper, Pagel put away his cigarettes.
“Now to our questions,” said the secretary again.
“One moment,” interrupted the superintendent, putting his big hand on the other’s shoulder. “Are you examining the man about his own case or the girl’s?”
“So I also am concerned?” Pagel asked with surprise.
“We shall see later,” said the secretary. And to his superior, again in that ridiculously audible whisper: “About his own case.”
They treat you like dirt, do what they like with you, thought Pagel bitterly. But I won’t be upset. The main thing is to get Petra out this evening. Perhaps Mamma was right, after all. I ought to have employed a lawyer. Then these fellows would be more careful.
He sat there outwardly calm, but inwardly uneasy. The feeling of despair, as if everything was in vain, had not left him since he had been in the schnapps bar.
“Now to our questions,” he heard the persevering secretary repeat. It had really begun.
“Your name?”
Pagel gave it.
“Born when?”
Pagel told them.
“Where?”
Pagel said where.
“Occupation?”
He was without an occupation.
“Address?”
Pagel gave them the address.
“Have you your identity papers?”
Pagel had.
“Show them.”
Pagel showed them.
The secretary looked at them, the superintendent looked at them. He indicated something to the secretary and the secretary nodded. He did not hand the papers back, but put them down in front of him. “So,” he said, leaning back and looking at Pagel.
“Now for the questions,” said Pagel.
“What?” demanded the secretary.
“I said ‘Now for the questions,’ ” Pagel replied politely.
“Right,” the secretary said, “Now for the questions.…”
It was not clear whether his irony had made any impression on the two officials.
“Your mother lives in Berlin?”
“As can be seen from the papers.” They want to confuse me, he thought, or they’re stupid. Yes, they’re definitely stupid.
“You don’t live with your mother?”
“No, in Georgenkirchstrasse.”
“Wouldn’t it be pleasanter to live in Tannenstrasse?”
“That’s a matter of taste.”
“Have you perhaps fallen out with your mother?”
“Not quite.” A complete lie was difficult for Pagel, and this case was not sufficiently important for one, anyhow. But to tell the truth was impossible; it would have resulted in an unending chain of questions.
“Possibly your mother doesn’t want you to live with her?”
“I live with my friend.”
“And your mother doesn’t want that?”
“She is
“And so not your mother’s? Your mother disapproves of the intended marriage?”
The secretary looked at the superintendent, the superintendent looked at the secretary.
How clever they must feel to have found this out, Pagel was thinking. But they’re not stupid. No, not at all. I’d like to know how they do it. They find out all there is to know. I must be more careful.
“Your mother has private means?” the secretary began again.
“Who has private means in the inflation?” countered Pagel.
“Then you support your mother?”
“No,” said Pagel angrily.
“So she has enough to live on?”
“Certainly.”
“And possibly supports you?”
“No.”
“You earn your own living?”
“Yes.”
“And that of your friend?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Stop, stop! Pagel thought. They want to catch me. They’ve heard something. But nothing can happen to me; gambling’s not punishable. It’s better not to mention it at all, though. Peter, I’m sure, has given nothing away.
“I sell things.”
“What do you sell?”
“For instance, my friend’s possessions.”
“Whom do you sell them to?”
“For instance, the pawnbroker Feld in Gollnowstrasse.”
“And if there’s nothing left to be sold?”
“There’s always something to be sold.”
The official pondered a moment, looking up at his superior, who nodded slightly.
The secretary took a pencil, stood it on its point, eyed it reflectively and let it fall. “Your friend doesn’t sell anything?” he asked casually.
“Nothing!”
“She sells absolutely nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You know that one can sell things which are not necessarily goods?”
What on earth, thought Pagel, dumbfounded, could Peter have sold for them to ask such foolish questions?
“I, too, didn’t mean only such things as clothes,” he said.
“What, for instance?”
“Pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“Yes, pictures.”
“What do you mean by pictures?”
“Oil paintings.”
“Oil paintings.… Are you an artist, by any chance?”
“No—but I’m the son of an artist.”
“Oh,” said the secretary dissatisfied. “You sell your father’s paintings. Well, we’ll talk about that later. I only
