Iron Gustav by Hans Fallada Read Free Book Online

said, his adolescent voice breaking into bass: ‘
Plenus venter non studet libenter
– a full belly
doesn’t agree with study. In the interests of my Latin examination restraint is necessary in the consumption of foodstuffs.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ sighed the mother. ‘That’s what one gets for letting one’s children study. You don’t understand a word they say.’ She spoke no further. Her eyes had filled with tears. Everyone could see that she was thinking of her son in the cellar – his studies had come to an end.
    ‘Shut up!’ growled Hackendahl at Heinz.
    ‘Certainly,
pater patriae
.’ And, not at all crushed: ‘Shall I take a note about Erich to school?’
    The father flashed an angry look at his son, the others bowed their heads, but the storm passed without breaking. Hackendahl only pushed back his chair and went to his room.
    Half an hour later, Heinz had gone to school and Sophie to the hospital. Eva cleared up with the little maid. Frau Hackendahl was washing vegetables in the kitchen, and in the stables Otto and old Rabause were discussing whether or not to remind Father about his private tours.
    The cash book was open before him and the morning’s takings on the desk, but he did not check or enter them up; he sat there and brooded, telling himself a hundred times that the world wouldn’t come to an end because of a thief in the family or because an employer had lost his self-control in front of his men.
    No, the world hadn’t ended, but his own private world had. He brooded about why his children never wanted what he did, why they were always contrary. He had always obeyed all authority with pleasure, but if his children ever did still obey him, they did so unwillingly, with sulks and objections. But perhaps what had happened today was really not so bad and would be forgotten and buried in a few months or half a year. But it really was bad! Because it was not only house theft, but led to decline, collapse, and completely ignored everything he had achieved.
    Frowning, he stared at the money. The amount, large as it was, didn’t please him; he had no desire to enter it up – there was another entry to be made first. Yes, he must make it. And, taking up the pen, he hesitated, then laid it down again. Despairingly he stared at
the ledger. What he had to do was an offence against order and rectitude.
    A thought struck him – perhaps only an excuse for delay: wasn’t there a chance that all the stolen money hadn’t been spent? He hurried to the boys’ room, where Eva was making the beds. He could send her away … but … was a father to be ashamed before his own children? Almost defiantly he took Erich’s jacket and waistcoat, which were hanging over the chair, and hunted through the pockets, finding nothing however but the proof of fresh disobedience – some cigarettes. This did not reawaken his wrath, though; he merely crushed them so that the tobacco was reduced to shreds on the floor. ‘Sweep up that filth,’ he said, and went into the kitchen. The kitchen was empty.
    He cut off a chunk of bread, about the quantity allowed to delinquents in the army, but looked in vain for the kind of glazed jug used for a prisoner’s water and, after some hesitation, took an enamel measure and filled it, letting the tap run for some time so that the water should be fresh. Even a prisoner has his rights.
    As he turned into the corridor leading to the cellar he heard whispering, listened, coughed and went on. His wife slipped past him. ‘No one has any business here,’ he said severely, and unlocked the cellar.
    The son stood at a window so small that it could be hidden by two hands. He did not turn round. Putting the bread on a box and placing the water beside it, the father said: ‘Here’s your food, Erich.’
    The son did not move.
    ‘Say “Thank you”.’
    No reply.
    Hackendahl waited another moment, then he said more sternly: ‘Turn out your pockets, Erich. I want to see if you’ve any money