Iron Gustav (79 page)

Unsuspecting Iron Gustav! If he wondered at all about Grundeis's difficulties it was probably to picture him concerned with the passport and the postcards, or the housekeeping money for Mother and the expenses for himself. Of the real extent and nature of Herr Grundeis's difficulties old Hackendahl hadn't the slightest idea.

How can I get the stunt into my own hands? brooded Grundeis day and night, and when he thought of passports and money, he would say, like Father Hackendahl, ‘That will all be all right, as soon as I've got a grip on things.'

In this perplexity he thought of a man who was known in the great newspaper building as ‘The Pullet', the bird who laid the golden eggs, a man highly respected and even more highly paid, who had no other duty than to have ideas. He was the man of brain-waves – and when editors and editors-in-chief were utterly desperate they would run to him and moan: ‘Nothing's happening and we've run dry. For
God's sake let us know what kind of an Easter number to bring out. What Carnival cover can you suggest for our popular weekly? We want something brilliant to arrest the falling sales of our magazines. What would people like best on the first page of the paper? – Have you anything that'll do for the housewife? – For little girls? – The young man? – Through our idiotic serial we've offended the professional honour of the barbers. What can we do to placate them? – Eva Lewa the film star has already been photographed front view, back view, from above, from below, undressed and with her clothes on. What can we do with her now?'

And in reply to all these questions The Pullet laid ideas and inspirations, usually on the spot, although sometimes there was a delay; and since the ideas were good and pleased the public, the eggs he laid were of real gold. If he cost money he also brought money in.

To this fat man lacking in all personal ambition the flaming redhead Grundeis now betook himself. He found him in the corner of a pub sitting dejectedly before a beer.

‘Sit down, whippersnapper,' he said. ‘And don't talk. I think I'm having an idea.'

Young Grundeis sat down, whispered an order for a glass of Pils and gazed respectfully at the great man, who now in any case didn't look like a happy man, for his face became ever more mournful. Gradually, he found ever more to moan about, shifted about in his chair, wiped his brow, groaned, threw what was left of his cigarette into his Pils, tried to fish it out again and then forgot it, because he was busy grabbing a little notepad out of his pocket .

Tall, remote and infinitely lonely, he looked at the young Grundeis, began to scribble, stopped, looked at him again, and put the notepad back in his pocket …

‘I thought it was him,' he said, ‘but it was nothing. I can't think of anything. I can never think of anything on Thursdays, and certainly not in a hole like this!' And he looked disapprovingly at the pub. ‘Why do I always go where I can't think? Man is his own greatest mystery. Did you put the ash in my Pils, whippersnapper? What do you want? Fire away!'

Whereupon Grundeis told him about old Hackendahl's plan, and his own wish to have the story to himself.

‘This
stunt,' said The Pullet, and it sounded as if he had been thinking about it for the last ten years, ‘will have to begin in a small way – just a paragraph. And let your cab start off on April the first or second so that if the public won't fall for it you can say it was only an April joke. But if they do, then you can follow it up and supposing they still like it you can splash it from Paris, front page, banner headlines, your own photo … And that's what you want, isn't it? – to see your own likeness in your own paper, where you feature so many pictures of honest and dishonest people.'

‘So you think I should carry on? There's something in it?'

‘Oaf! Do you think I'd waste my time sitting on addled eggs? Come on, pay my bill, and that'll teach you to ask my advice. I've had seven Pils and four cigars. Now we go to the director for some money.'

They returned to the newspaper building together, to Director Schulz. That was the man who had to endorse all money transactions, and he guarded his treasure like a hell-hound. Director Schulz was he who guarded the newspaper's wealth; the most wonderful ideas couldn't coax a smile out of him. ‘But, gentlemen,' he would groan, ‘that won't go down in the provinces. It'll cost us our circulation there. I wouldn't invest in that!' And if something else were suggested then he would shout: ‘That won't suit my Berliners. I know my Berliners too well. And Hamburg won't want it either. Yes, giving money is easy, and earning it even easier, but keeping money is an art, gentlemen!'

The Pullet and Grundeis, then, went to this confirmed sceptic. By himself Grundeis would never have been admitted but The Pullet commanded great respect and so Grundeis slipped in with him.

‘Dearest Director,' said The Pullet, ‘this little red whippersnapper has had an idea … just the thing for the spring when it's getting warm and people cancel their subscriptions – it'll last the whole summer …'

‘Don't talk,' said the director. ‘I know you. Tell me what his idea costs.'

‘A hundred thousand marks net,' said The Pullet calmly. Grundeis flushed; he had never counted on more than five thousand.

Director Schulz studied their faces suspiciously. ‘A hundred
thousand marks,' he said disapprovingly. ‘Have you ever seen a hundred thousand marks cash down?'

‘No, only on a cheque, dearest Director. Don't you remember the American film rights?'

‘You're always digging up your petty successes. Eighty thousand will do just as well.' He scrutinized their faces again. ‘I'm pretty well convinced that seventy will do the trick.'

‘Say seventy-five, Director dearest, and I'll let you in on the thing.'

‘I promise nothing. First I want to hear what it is and then I must ask the other Directors and then it has to go before the Board and after that to the editors-in-chief. What's the young man to do with it anyhow?'

‘You've got to take him with the story – if it's not assigned to him then there's nothing doing.'

‘Seventy thousand marks and still so young! Have you ever seen seventy thousand all together?'

‘Yes, I have,' said Grundeis, ‘and had it in my pocket too – during the inflation.'

A pale, thin smile appeared on the faces of the hardened pair. It was as if the sun had appeared for a moment in a snowy sky, or when a baby gives a first little smile when it is put on the breast after endless crying.

‘Well, we can discuss it,' said Director Schulz. ‘Sit down, gentlemen. Cigar? All right. Let's hope there's a love interest somewhere – there's a keen demand in that direction again.'

The old year changed into the new and January became February but Gustav Hackendahl drove his cab as usual, sat beside his Blücher and watched him eating, brought his earnings home, sometimes a little, sometimes nothing – all just as usual – and said not a word. Had he wished he could have spoken of great schemes, now that all had been settled with the gentlemen in the newspaper office and he had even signed a contract – but he said nothing. At meals he would sit opposite his wife at the table with the oilcloth cover, chewing
his food and watching – staring at her with his great big round eyes, which were more and more veined with red.

‘Why do you look like that, Father?' she asked. ‘What's on your mind? You're always looking like that now.'

‘Nothin',' said Hackendahl peevishly. ‘Jus' thinkin'.'

‘But what d'you keep thinking about, Father? And at mealtimes, too. At mealtimes you should think about eating, otherwise the food won't agree with you.'

‘I'm not thinkin' about anythin',' declared Hackendahl.

But he was. He was wondering all the time how to break the news to her about his journey to Paris, how to make it seem all right. Not that he was really afraid of being stopped – all his life he had done what he wanted – but he was afraid of never-ending laments and groans. He wouldn't find peace any more even to sleep.

So Hackendahl let things slide; they'd all know when the time came. And it would save him a lot of trouble if that time were as late as possible. Then they would have less time to chatter!

It was thus nearly March when Irma read a notice in the newspaper.

She read it with the greatest astonishment. Then she ran to her mother, read it aloud to her, and both marvelled. Only yesterday old Hackendahl had stopped his cab outside their shop and taken little Otto for a drive. And he hadn't said a word.

‘It must be some mistake.' Irma was still staring at the newspaper. There it was, however, name and everything!

‘Heinz is sure to know about it,' piped Frau Quaas. ‘Men always stick together.'

‘Heinz? He hasn't the slightest idea, I'm sure of that,' exclaimed Irma indignantly.

And now they disagreed over the question whether a man is truer to his father or to his wife, and as a result of this argument they rather lost the thread.

That evening as Heinz, coming home rather tired, sat down on his makeshift bed, Irma enquired somewhat aggressively: ‘Tell me, don't you ever read the newspapers?'

‘Why?' he asked, surprised at her tone.

‘Didn't
you see that?' asked Irma, pointing to a news item. It was merely an eight-line report, a typical Grundeis report – but it read:

OLDEST BERLIN CABBY DRIVES TO PARIS

Gustav Hackendahl, at seventy years of age the oldest cabby in Berlin, will set out for Paris at the beginning of April. He will travel the whole way there and back in his hackney cab No. 7. From Paris we learn that the Cab Drivers' Guild is arranging a gala reception for the courageous Berliner, justifiably called ‘Iron Gustav'.

‘Well, if that isn't the limit,' said Heinz Hackendahl, staring at the newspaper as if he could not trust his eyes. ‘It's impossible,' he muttered.

Irma looked at him critically, but however she looked at him, he definitely had no idea, so she had been right with regard to her mother. ‘I thought you should know about it, Heinz!' she said cautiously.

Then lightning struck. ‘You knew about it!' he shouted. ‘Father had talked about it with you. Of course you knew – behind my back!' He was furious: ‘And you call this a marriage!'

‘If you please,' cried Irma, shocked. ‘I had no idea. I thought that Father had … I mean, Mother thought …' But she preferred not to say what Mother thought. ‘I wondered if it was an April fool's joke.'

‘April fool!' he exclaimed. ‘In these times! And in February. What are you thinking about?' He looked again at the paper. ‘Perhaps,' he said more calmly, ‘Father's fallen into the hands of one of those newspaper reporters. But it does sound a bit as if there's something in it. What shall we do, Irma?'

‘Speak to your father,' she suggested.

‘Yes, but suppose Father's made up his mind and these people are encouraging him? All they want is to make money,' he sighed. ‘I don't grudge Father anything but it isn't the time for stunts like this.' And he cast a disapproving glance at the newspaper.

Irma was silent. An intelligent wife, where she is not of the same opinion as her husband and cannot persuade, keeps silent.

‘Do have a word with your father,' she said once again.

‘Yes, I'll do that,' said he, getting up.

He hurried and found his father in the stables.

Old Hackendahl glanced at his son, bent down again and diligently greased Blücher's hoofs. ‘Well, Bubi,' he said finally, ‘I c'n see all right what you've come about. Better hold yer tongue, though … Blücher's gettin' the sack – they said he couldn't last the journey. I'm havin' a new horse. It's a pity about Blücher, he was a good little beast. Quite diff'rent from the grey. You remember the grey, Bubi?'

Heinz was silent. So it was true! It wasn't just an April fool. His father really intended to drive to Paris.

Hackendahl, busy with Blücher's hooves, gave a sly look. ‘Well, go on,' he said at last. ‘An old man wants his fun – to be old's a melancholy business, Bubi – take it from me.'

‘Those newspaper chaps'll diddle you, Father. They're not doing it for your sake.'

‘No, no, Heinz, you needn't worry about that. I've a real contrac' with 'em.'

‘A contract? What sort of contract?'

‘Oh nothin'. On'y that I undertake ter make the journey ter Paris an' back in the cab, an' they defray all expenses an' gimme a new horse. I get five hundred marks for Mother, an' what I make on the sale o' picture postcards an' so on belongs ter me, an' no one but them's permitted ter write about me an' take photos. That ain't a bad contrac', is it?'

It was obvious to Heinz that his father was very satisfied with his contract. ‘Father,' he pleaded, ‘don't do it. Withdraw, say you're ill, say you don't feel equal to …'

‘But why? Mother an' me'll be free o' trouble fer a bit. An' we c'n keep what I get for Blücher too …'

‘But, Father, you won't be able to stand it. Think, at your age! Out in all kinds of weather!'

‘Well I never,' grinned the old man. ‘What thoughtful children I've got suddenly! Out in all kinds of weather. Funny you never tell me that when I do me rounds in Berlin.'

Heinz bit his lip. ‘Don't go on with it, Father,' he begged again. ‘You won't be able to stand it and you'll make a fool of yourself and the whole family …'

He stopped. The old man flung up his head so suddenly that even the black horse started.

‘Whoa!' said Hackendahl. ‘Steady now, Blücher, you needn't shy at every sort o' foolishness.' And to his son: ‘What d'you mean by makin' a fool of meself? Can't I do as I like? Have I ever prevented you from makin' a fool o' yerself? I remember a time when you was always hauntin' a certain villa an' stayin' out whole nights. Did I stop you behavin' like a fool? So you leave me alone.'