Authors: Hans Fallada
Wolfgang stood watching the table, as he always did before he staked for the first time. He would see, for instance, that red turned up, then red again, and so on for the fourth, fifth and sixth times; it might continue to turn up ten times running, in very rare instances even longer. Red, always red. It was against all sense and reason, it contradicted every theory of probabilities, it was the despair of all gamblers with a “system.”
Then all at once black turned up; after six or eight turns of red came black. Came twice, thrice, then red again, and next occurred a tiresome, everlasting alternation between red and black, black and red.
But Wolfgang still waited. No stake could be risked until he felt sure there was a chance of success.
Suddenly he felt something within him tighten; he looked at the little space of table within his view. He felt as if he had been so carried away by his thoughts that he had not been following the game. Nevertheless he knew that black would turn up thrice in succession; he knew that he must stake his money now, that a run of black had started. He staked.
He staked three, four times. Further he did not dare go. Red turning up twelve or fifteen times was an exception, but it was that which meant the big winning chances: allowing the stake to stand and so double the winnings. Letting it stand again and double itself … again and again until it had reached a fabulous figure. But his capital was too small, he couldn’t risk a failure, he had to be content with dull safety. The night would certainly come, however, when he would stake on and on and on and on. He would
know
that red would turn up seventeen times; he would stake seventeen times and no more.
And then never gamble again. With the money they would start something quiet, an antique shop, for instance. He had a flair for such things; he liked to handle them. Life then would flow gently and quietly. There would be no more of this horrible tension, none of this dark despair, no more vulture-like faces scrutinizing him angrily, no more doubtful ladies stealing his stake money …
He had found at the other end of the table a place away from the Valuta Vamp, but it did not help him. Just as he was staking he heard her voice. “Make room. Don’t spread yourself all over the place. Others also want to play!”
Without looking at her he bowed and quit the field, found another place and started again. He was thinking that tonight he must be particularly cautious—he must take home more than usual; tomorrow at half-past twelve they intended to marry.
All right. She was an excellent girl; no one would ever love him so unselfishly, just as he was, and without comparing him with some tiresome ideal. So they would marry tomorrow; though why, he didn’t really know at the moment. It didn’t matter, it would turn out all right. But he wished he could pay more attention to the game. Just now he shouldn’t have staked on black at all. Lost! Lost! Well …
Suddenly he heard the malignant voice again. She was quarreling now with another man, speaking in high-pitched and indignant tones. Yes, of course, her nose was quite white, she sniffed snow, the bitch. No use starting a row with her; even when she was sober she didn’t know what she wanted or was doing. And now she knew less than ever.
He looked for another place.
This time everything went well. Staking cautiously, he made up what he had lost. Indeed, he could now pocket his original capital and operate with the winnings. Beside him stood a young fellow with unsteady eyes and fidgety movements, unmistakably playing his maiden game. Such people brought luck, and he succeeded in passing a hand, his left hand, across the young fellow’s shoulder without his noticing—which increased the chances of winning. In consequence
he let the stake stay on one game longer than he would otherwise have dared. Again he won and the vultures cast evil glances on him. Good.
He now had enough for tomorrow, even for a couple of days longer, if the dollar didn’t mount too high—he could go home. But it was still very early. He would only lie awake for hours, analyzing the game, and be filled with remorse at not having exploited this chain of good luck.
He stood quietly there, holding the counters he had won, listening to the ball, the voice of the croupier, the gentle scratching and scraping of the rakes on the green table. He felt as if he were in a dream. The clacking of the ball reminded him of a water wheel. Yes, it made him drowsy. Life, when one felt it, reminded one of water, of flowing water;
πávia q∑î
, everything flows, as he had learned at grammar school before he went to the military college. Flows past, too.
He felt very tired. Besides, his mouth was as dry as leather. Damned nonsense that there was nothing to drink here; he’d have to go to the water tap in the lavatory. But then he wouldn’t know how the game went. Red—black—black—red—red—red—black … Of course, there was nothing but Red Life and Black Death. Nothing else was being handed out or invented. They might invent as much as they liked—beyond Life and Death there was nought.…
Nought.
Of course! he had forgotten zero; that existed, too. The even-odd gamblers always forgot zero, and their money vanished. But if zero existed, then it was Death—a reasonable assumption. Red then was Love, a somewhat exaggerated emotion. Certainly Petra was a good girl. I’m feverish, he thought. But I suppose I’m feverish every evening. I really ought to drink some water. I’ll go at once.
Instead of that he shook the counters in his hand, hastily added those from his pocket and, just as the croupier called: “That’s all,” put everything on zero. On Nought.
His heart stopped. What am I doing? he asked himself. In his mouth the sensation of dryness increased unbearably. His eyes burned, the skin tightened like parchment over his temples. For an inconceivable time the ball hummed around; he felt as if everybody were looking at him.
They all look at me. I have staked on zero. Everything we possess I have staked on zero—and that means Death. And tomorrow is the marriage.
The ball went on spinning; he could not hold his breath any longer. He breathed deeply—the tension relaxed.
“Twenty-six!” called the croupier. “Black, odd, passe.” Pagel ejected the air through his nose, almost relieved. He had been right—the gaming room had kept his money. The Valuta Vamp had not disturbed him for nothing. She was saying in a loud whisper: “Those poor fish, they want to play but
they ought to play with marbles.” The vulture-like croupier shot him a sharp, triumphant glance.
For a moment, Wolfgang stood still, waiting. The feeling of relief from agonizing tension passed. If I had just one more chip, he thought. Well, it’s all the same. The day will come.
The ball whirled round once more. Slowly he went out, past the mournful sergeant major, down the dark stairs. He stood for a long time in the entrance hall until a tout opened the door.
VIII
What could he tell his good little Peter? Almost nothing. It could be compressed into one sentence. At first I won, then I had bad luck. So there was nothing special to report; of late it had been like that frequently. Of course, she could hardly gather anything from that. She thought, perhaps, it was somewhat similar to losing at cards or drawing a blank in a lottery. Nothing of the ups and downs, good fortune and despair, could be made comprehensible to her; she could be informed of the result only—an empty pocket. And that was all. But she understood much more than he thought. Too often she had seen his face when he came home of a night, still heated with excitement. And his exhausted face while he slept. And the evil changes in it when he was dreaming of gambling. (Didn’t he really know that most nights he dreamed of it, he who wanted to persuade both her and himself that he was not a gambler?) And his thin, remote face when he had not listened to her, absent-mindedly asking: “What did you say?” and still not hearing—that face which expressed so clearly what he was thinking that it seemed one could touch it, as if it had become something tangible. And his face when he combed his hair in the mirror and suddenly saw what sort of a face he had.
No, she knew enough. He did not need to say anything, nor to torment himself with explanations and apologies.
“It doesn’t matter, Wolf,” she said quickly. “Money never meant anything to us.”
He looked at her, grateful that she could have spared him this explanation. “Of course,” he said, “I shall make up for it. Perhaps this evening.”
“But,” she replied, for the first time insistent, “we have to go at half-past twelve to the Registry Office.”
“And I,” he said quickly, “have to take your clothes to Uncle. Can’t the registrar marry you as someone seriously ill in bed?”
“You may have to pay for invalids as well,” she laughed. “Surely you know that not even death is free.”
“But perhaps invalids can pay afterward,” he said, half smiling, half reflectively. “And then if he doesn’t get his money, well, a marriage is a marriage.”
For a while both remained silent. The vitiated air in the room, ever hotter with the climbing of the sun, felt unpleasantly dry to the skin. The noise of the tin-stamper seemed louder. They heard the tearful voice of Frau Thumann gossiping with a neighbor in front of their door. The over-crowded human hive of the house buzzed, shouted, sang, chattered, screamed and sobbed with multifarious voices.
“You know, you needn’t marry me,” said the girl with sudden resolution. And after a pause: “No human being has done so much for me as you.”
He looked away, a little embarrassed. The window glistened in the sun. What have I really done for her? he thought, bewildered. Taught her how to handle a knife and fork—and speak correct German.
He looked at her again. She wanted to say something more, but her lips trembled as if she were struggling with tears. Her dark glance was so intense that he would have preferred to look away.
But she had already spoken. “If I thought that you only felt you ought to marry me, I wouldn’t wish it.”
He shook his head slowly.
“Or to spite your mother,” she continued. “Or because you think it would please me.”
He shook his head again. (Does
she
know, then, why we are marrying? he wondered, amazed and lost.)
“But I always feel that you would like it, too, because you feel we belong to each other,” she said suddenly, forcing the words out with tears in her eyes. Now she spoke more freely, as if the most difficult part had been said. “Oh, Wolf, my dear, if it isn’t so, if you marry me for some other reason, don’t do it—please don’t do it. You won’t hurt me. Not so much,” she corrected hurriedly, “as if you married me and we didn’t belong to each other after all.”
“Oh, Petra, Peter, Peter Ledig!” he cried in his den of selfish solitude, overwhelmed by her humility and her loveliness. “What are you talking about?” He took her, embracing and rocking her like a child, and said laughingly: “We haven’t got the money for registrar’s fees, and you talk about one’s deepest feelings.”
“And am I not to talk about them?” she murmured, lowering her voice, nestling her head on his breast. “Am I not to talk about such things because you don’t talk about them? Always, every moment, every day, I think, even when you hold me in your arms and kiss me, as you are doing now, that you’re very far away from me—from everything.”
“Now you’re talking about gambling,” he said, and his embrace relaxed.
“No, I’m not talking about gambling,” she denied hurriedly, and leaned closer to him. “Or perhaps I am. You must know that I don’t know where you are or what you are thinking about. Gamble as much as you like—but when you don’t, couldn’t you be with me a little? Oh, Wolf,” she cried, and now she had moved away, holding him above the elbows and looking firmly at him, “you always think you ought to apologize about the money or explain something. There’s nothing to explain and there’s nothing to be sorry for. If we belong to each other, everything’s all right; and if we don’t, then everything is wrong—with or without money, marriage or no marriage.”
She looked hopefully toward him, she yearned for a word; if only he had held her in his arms in the right way, she would have understood him.
What does she really want of me? he had been thinking. But he knew. She had given herself to him entirely, right from the start, from that first morning when she had asked whether she could come with him. Now she begged him to open for once his dark, remote heart. But how can I do that? he asked himself. How am I to do it? He felt a sudden relief. That I don’t know how shows she is right: I don’t love her, he thought. I merely want to marry her. If I hadn’t staked on zero there would have been money for the registry office; there wouldn’t have been this discussion. Of course, now I know it, it would be better if we didn’t marry. But how am I to tell her? I can’t retreat. She’s still looking at me. What am I to tell her?
The silence had become heavy and oppressive. She still held his arms, but loosely, as if she had forgotten she was holding them. “Peter!” He cleared his throat.
The outer door creaked, and the shuffling of Frau Thumann was heard.
“Quick, Wolf, shut the door,” said Peter hurriedly. “Frau Thumann’s coming and we don’t want her now.”
She had let go of him. But before he could reach the door of their room the landlady came in sight.
“Are you still waiting?” she asked. “I’ve told you: no money, no coffee.”
“Listen, Frau Thumann,” said Wolfgang hurriedly. “I don’t want any coffee. I’m going immediately with our things to Uncle’s. In the meantime give Petra rolls and coffee. She’s half dead with hunger.” Not a sound from Petra. “And with the money I’ll come at once and pay you everything, keeping only what I need for my fare to Grunewald. I’ve an old army friend there, Zecke is his name, von Zecke, who’ll certainly lend me some money.”
He risked a glance into the room. Petra had sat down quietly on the bed, sat there with bent head; he couldn’t see her face.
“Is that so?” the Thumann woman replied, half a question, half a threat. “The girl shan’t lack for breakfast, not today nor tomorrow—what about the
wedding, though?” She stood, an overflowing form in shapeless garments, the chamber pot in her hand—the sight of her was enough to destroy anybody’s desire for weddings and respectability forever.