Heinrich gapes at the notes. Then he seizes one of them, turns it over and examines it to see whether it is genuine. “Luck,” he snaps finally. “Fool’s luck!”
“We can use such luck, Heinrich,” Georg says. “Without this sale we couldn’t have paid the note that’s due tomorrow. You ought to thank him warmly. It’s the first real money we’ve seen. We need it damned badly.”
“Thanks him? I’d rather die!”
Heinrich disappears, slamming the door—a genuine, honest German who owes thanks to no one. “Do we really need the money so badly?” I ask.
“Badly enough,” Georg replies. “But now let’s do some figuring. How much have you?”
“Enough. I was given traveling expenses third class. I’m going fourth class and so will save twelve marks. I sold my piano—I couldn’t take it with me. The old box brought a hundred marks. That is, all told, one hundred and twelve marks. I can live on that till I get my first pay.”
Georg takes thirty Dutch gulden and offers them to me. “You worked as a special agent. That means you have a right to a commission just like Weeping Oskar. For extraordinary services, five per cent additional.”
A short argument ensues; then I take the money, as an anchor to windward in case I am fired during the first month. “Do you know yet what you’re going to have to do in Berlin?” Georg asks.
I nod. “Report fires, describe thefts, review unimportant books, fetch beer for the editors, sharpen pencils, correct proof—and try to get ahead in the world.”
The door is kicked open. Like a ghost Sergeant Major Knopf stands in the doorway. “I demand eight trillion,” he croaks.
“Herr Knopf,” I say. “You have not yet altogether awakened from a long dream: the inflation is over. Two weeks ago you could have got eight trillion for the stone you paid eight million for. Today the price is eight marks.”
“You rat! You did it on purpose!”
“What?”
“Stopped the inflation! To exploit me! But I won’t sell! Ill wait for the next one!”
“What?”
“The next inflation!”
“All right,” Georg says. “We’ll have a drink on that.”
Knopf is the first to reach for the bottle. “Want to bet?” he asks.
“On what?”
“That I can tell by taste where this bottle came from.”
He pulls out the cork and sniffs. “It’s impossible for you to tell,” I say. “With schnaps from a cask, perhaps—we know you’re the greatest expert in the district—but with schnaps in bottles never.”
“How much will you bet? The price of the headstone?”
“We’re suddenly impoverished,” Georg replies. “But we’ll risk three marks. To oblige you.”
“All right. Give me a glass.”
Knopf smells and tastes. Then he demands a second and a third glassful. “Give up,” I say. “It’s impossible. You don’t have to pay.”
“This schnaps is from Brockmann’s Delicatessen Store in Marienstrasse,” Knopf says.
We stare at him. He is right. “Hand over the money!” he croaks.
Georg pays the three marks, and the sergeant major disappears. “How was that possible?” I say. “Has the old schnaps thrush second sight?”
Georg laughs suddenly. “He tricked us!”
“How?”
He lifts the bottle. On the back at the bottom in a tiny labeclass="underline" J. Brockmann, delicatessen, 18 Marienstrasse. “What a sharpie!” he says with amusement. “And what eyes he has!”
Eyes!” I say. “Day after tomorrow he won’t trust them—when he comes home and finds the obelisk gone. His world, too, will collapse.”
“Is yours collapsing?” Georg asks.
“Daily,” I reply. “How else could one live?”
Two hours before train time we hear tramping feet outside and the sound of voices raised in song.
Then at once, a four-part harmony rises from the street: “Holy night, or pour the peace of Heaven upon this heart—”
We go to the window. On the street stands Bodo Ledderhose’s club. “What’s this all about?” I ask. “Turn on the light, Georg!”
In the glow falling from our window, we recognize Bodo. “It’s about you,” Georg says. “A farewell song from your club. Don’t forget you’re a member still.”
“Grant the weary pilgrim peace, soothing ointment for his pain—” they roll on loudly.
Windows fly open. “Quiet!” Widow Konersmann screams. “It’s midnight, you drunken dogs!”
“Brightly shine the stars on high like lamps in the distant blue—”
Lisa appears in her window and bows. She thinks the song is for her.
In short order the police arrive. “Disperse!” an authoritative voice commands.
The police have changed with the deflation. They have grown strict and energetic. The old Prussian spirit is back again. Every civilian is a permanent recruit.
“Disturbance of the peace!” growls the uniformed music hater.
“Arrest them!” howls the widow Konersmann.
Bodo’s club consists of him and twenty steadfast singers. Opposed to them stand two policemen. “Bodo,” I shout in alarm, “don’t lay hands on them! Don’t defend yourselves! Otherwise you’ll be in jail for years!”
Bodo makes a reassuring gesture and goes on singing wide-mouthed: “Might I but depart with thee—on thy way to Heaven.”
“Quiet, we want to sleep!” the widow Konersmann screams.
“Hey there!” Lisa shouts to the policemen. “Just leave the singers alone! Why aren’t you out catching thieves?”
The policemen are perplexed. They order everyone to accompany them to the police station, but no one moves. Bodo begins the second stanza. The policemen finally do the best they can—each arrests one of the singers. “Don’t defend yourselves!” I shout. “It’s resisting the law!
The singers offer no resistance. They let themselves be led away. The rest go on singing as though nothing had happened. The station is not far. The police come back on the run and arrest two more. The others go on singing, but they have become very weak in first tenors. The police are making their arrests from the right; on the third trip. Willy is taken away and with that the first tenors are silenced. We hand bottles of beer out of the window. “Hold out, Bodo!” I say.
“Don’t worry! To the last man!”
The police come back and arrest two second tenors. We have no more beer and begin handing out our schnaps. Ten minutes later only the basses are left. They stand there, disregarding the arrests. I have read somewhere that herds of walruses will remain unconcerned in just this way while hunters bludgeon their neighbors to death—and I have seen whole nations behave the same way in war.
After another fifteen minutes Bodo Ledderhose is standing there alone. The angry, sweating policemen come galloping up for the last time. They take Bodo between them. We follow him to the station. Bodo goes on humming alone. “Beethoven,” he says briefly and starts humming again, a lonely musical bee.
But suddenly it is as though aeolian harps were accompanying him from afar. We prick up our ears. It sounds like a miracle—angel voices are actually accompanying him—angels in first and second tenor and in both basses. They weave their flattering and deceptive strains around Bodo and grow clearer as we advance. When we round the church, we can actually understand the fleeting, disembodied voices. They are singing: “Holy night, oh pour the peace of Heaven—” at the next corner we recognize whence they come—from the police station, where Bodo’s arrested friends are unconcernedly going on with their song. Bodo takes his place as leader, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and continues: “Grant the weary pilgrim peace—”
“Herr Kroll, what’s the meaning of this?” the desk sergeant asks in perplexity.
“It is the power of music,” Georg replies. “A farewell song for a man who is going out into the wide world. It’s harmless and really ought to be encouraged.”