Little Man, What Now? (33 page)

Then followed silence. The fifty-mark note was of course broken into, but then came pay-day, and a hundred mark note was put back in. The money would surely come any day now.

But the money did not come, nor did the inquiry seem to have led to any conclusions. What did come were the certificates from the health insurance offices in Ducherow and Platz. Pinneberg put everything together: certificates, forms, the birth certificate which Lammchen had long since got from the town hall, and took it all to the post office.

‘I’m keen to see what happens now.’

But in reality he wasn’t that keen, he had been so indignant, he hadn’t been able to sleep for anger, it had all been so useless. You couldn’t change anything, it was like banging your head against a wall: it was never going to change.

And then the money came. Very promptly, in fact: straight after the forms had gone in.

‘You see!’ he said, once again. Lammchen did see, but she
preferred not to say anything, as that only made him lose his temper. ‘Now I’m keen to see how that Supervisory Body’s inquiry turned out. I’ll bet those people at the Insurance Office get torn off a strip.’

‘I don’t think they’ll write to us again,’ said Lammchen. ‘After all, we’ve had the money.’

And it looked as though Lammchen was right. A week went by, then another week, then a third; it was nearly a month. From time to time, Pinneberg said: ‘I don’t understand these people. I told them I needed the money, and yet they’re taking all this time. There’s no sense in it.’

‘They’ll not write again,’ repeated Lammchen. But she was wrong there. In the fourth week they sent a brief, dignified letter to the effect that they regarded the matter as closed since Pinneberg had already received his money from the Insurance.

But was that all? Pinneberg had also queried whether the Insurance were within their rights to demand documents that were so difficult to get hold of.

To the Supervisory Body that was the end of it. They didn’t need to answer his questions now he had his money.

But it wasn’t the end of it for the big bosses of the Health Insurance. One of the lowliest employees at their resplendent headquarters, a young man behind the counter in the public hall, had already seen Pinneberg off very smartly; now they took it upon themselves to see him off in person. They had written a letter about this Pinneberg (job-category: salesman) to the Supervisory Body. And that body now forwarded a copy to him.

What did it say? That his complaint was unfounded. Well, of course they were bound to say that. But why was it unfounded? Because this Pinneberg was a dawdler. Proof: he had received the birth certificate from the town hall on such and such a day, yet he sent it to the Insurance one week later. ‘It is clear from the documents who was responsible for the delay,’ concluded the
Insurance.

‘But they don’t say a thing about wanting the papers from two years back!’ groaned Pinneberg. ‘They asked for all the forms to be sent in together and the others took that time to come!’

‘You see,’ said Lammchen.

‘Yes, I do see!’ cried Pinneberg wildly. ‘They’re swine. They tell lies, they falsify things, and make us look like trouble-makers. But now I’m going to …’ He fell silent, pondering.

‘What?’ asked Lammchen.

‘I am going to write again to the Supervisory Body,’ he said, solemnly. ‘I’m going to tell them that as far as I’m concerned the matter isn’t settled, that it isn’t about money, but about the way they’ve misrepresented the case. That that has to be put right! That we have to be treated decently, like human beings.’

‘What’s the point?’ she asked.

‘But should they be allowed to do what they like?’ he asked, wildly. ‘They sit there in their palaces, warm, rich, safe, and run our lives, don’t they? And on top of that, are they going to be allowed to put us down and make us look like trouble-makers? I’m not going to let them get away with it. I’ll defend myself. I’ll do something!’

‘No, there’s no point,’ repeated Lammchen. ‘It’s not worth it. Just look how worked up you are again. You have to work the whole day. They get to the office feeling perfectly rested, they’ve got plenty of time to sit and phone the Supervisory people. They’re much closer to them than they are to you. In the end you’ll just wear yourself out and they’ll laugh at you.’

‘But you have to do something!’ he cried in despair. ‘I just can’t stand it any more. Do we have to take everything lying down, just let them walk all over us?’

‘The only ones we can get at are the ones we don’t want to get at,’ said Lammchen, taking the baby out of his cot to give him his evening feed. ‘I know all that from listening to father. One person
on their own can’t do anything. All they do is watch him jumping up and down till he’s exhausted and laugh.’

‘But I’d like to …’ continued Pinneberg obstinately.

‘No,’ said Lammchen. ‘No. Just stop.’

And she looked so angry that it took Pinneberg by surprise. He couldn’t remember seeing her like that before and he quickly looked away.

But then he went to the window and looked out, muttering to himself: ‘And next time I am going to vote Communist.’

But Lammchen said nothing, while the baby at her breast drank contentedly.

APRIL BRINGS FEAR BUT HEILBUTT HELPS. WHERE IS HEILBUTT? GONE

April came in, a typical, changeable April with sun, clouds, and showers of hail, grass turning greener, daisies blooming, bushes sprouting and trees growing. At Mandels Mr Spannfuss was sprouting and growing as well, and every day stories of further economies went round the Gentlemen’s Outfitting department. This usually meant one salesman doing the work of two, any emergency being covered by the recruitment of a new apprentice.

Heilbutt now regularly inquired of Pinneberg: ‘How are you doing? How much?’

Pinneberg would then look away, and if Heilbutt again asked: ‘Tell me how much. I have plenty in hand,’ he would at last say, in great embarrassment: ‘Sixty.’ Or, on one occasion, ‘A hundred and ten, but you mustn’t. I’ll get there.’

And then they wangled it that Pinneberg would come up at the very moment when Heilbutt had just sold a suit or a coat and enter it on his own sales-pad.

They had to watch out, as Jänecke was sniffing around, and
Kessler was sniffing around too, eager to tell tales. But they were very careful. They waited for the moment when Kessler was at lunch, and when he once turned up they claimed that Pinneberg had saved the sale, and Heilbutt coolly offered to box Mr Kessler’s ears.

But, oh, where were the days when Pinneberg had reckoned himself a good salesman? Nowadays things were different. People had definitely not been so awkward before. A big fat man came in with his wife, demanding an ulster. ‘No more than twenty-five marks, young man, understand! A man who plays cards with me got one for twenty, an authentic English one in wool with a woven lining, understand!’

Pinneberg gave a wan smile. ‘Perhaps the gentleman was exaggerating his bargain a bit. A genuine English ulster for twenty marks …’

‘Listen here, young man, you aren’t calling my friend a liar, are you? He’s a genuine fellow, d’you understand?’ The fat man became more and more worked up. ‘I don’t need you to cast aspersions on one of my card-playing friends, understand!’

Pinneberg tried to apologize.

Kessler gawped. Mr Jänecke lurked behind the clothes-stand to the right. But no one came to his aid. No sale. ‘Why do you rub people up the wrong way?’ asked Mr Jänecke mildly. ‘You used to be quite different, Mr Pinneberg.’ Pinneberg knew only too well that he used to be quite different. But it was Mandels’ fault. Since that despicable quota system had come in, everyone had lost their nerve. At the beginning of the month it was still all right, people had money and bought this and that. Pinneberg fulfilled his quota easily and was in good spirits: ‘This month I’m certainly not going to have to rely on Heilbutt.’

But then there would come the day, or even two, on which not a single buyer showed up. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to have to sell three hundred marks’ worth,’ thought Pinneberg as he left
Mandels in the evening.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to have to sell three hundred marks’ worth,’ was his last thought after he’d given Lammchen her goodnight kiss and was lying in the darkness. It wasn’t easy to go to sleep with such a thought in his mind, and it was by no means his last waking thought.

‘Today I’ve got to sell three hundred marks’ worth,’ was on his mind as he woke up, drank his coffee, walked to work and entered the department. All day long: ‘Three hundred marks.’

Then along would come a customer; oho, he wants a coat, eighty marks, that’s a third of the quota, come along customer, make up your mind! Pinneberg produces masses of coats, tries them on him, says they all look great, and the more excited he gets (make up your mind! make up your mind!), the cooler the customer becomes. He pulls out all the stops, tries crawling: ‘You’ve such splendid taste, sir, everything looks good on you …’ He can tell he’s becoming increasingly disagreeable, that the customer is going off him by the minute, but he can’t help it. And then the customer goes away, saying: ‘I’ll think it over.’

And so Pinneberg would be left standing, in a state of something like collapse. He knew he’d done it all wrong, but he was driven by fear: two to provide for, it’s tight enough already, if the money doesn’t go round now, what would it be like if …?

True, things hadn’t got that far yet. Heilbutt, true friend in need that he was, would come up to him without being asked and say: ‘How much, Pinneberg?’

He never told him he ought to have done this or that, never told him to pull himself together, never gave him any know-all advice like Jänecke or Mr Spannfuss. He knew Pinneberg could do it, but that he just couldn’t do it at the moment. Pinneberg wasn’t hard. He was soft. When they squeezed him he went to pieces, turned to porridge.

It wasn’t as though he had lost all courage. He pulled himself
together again and again and there were good days when he was as on top of the job as he used to be, when every sale succeeded and he began to think he had overcome his fear.

But then the bosses would come along, and say something in passing like: ‘Can’t you put a bit more zip into your sales, Mr Pinneberg.’ Or: ‘Why aren’t you selling any dark blue suits? Would you prefer us to keep them in the store-room?’

And then they would pass on by and say something, probably the same thing, to the next salesman. Heilbutt was quite right, you ought to pay no attention to it, it was just part of the slave-driving routine they felt obliged to keep up.

No, there was no sense in minding what they said, but could one help it? Pinneberg had sold two hundred and forty marks’ worth one day, and this Mr Organizer came along and said ‘You look so weary, Mr Pinneberg. You should follow the example of your counterparts over there in the States, they look as cheerful in the evening as they do in the morning. “Keep smiling” is what they say.’ (He said it in English, adding a translation forthwith.) ‘You can’t look tired. A tired-looking salesman is no recommendation for a store.’

He strode off, leaving Pinneberg thinking how much he’d like to punch the swine in the nose. But he made his little bow and kept smiling, and his feeling of confidence was gone.

Yet he was doing comparatively well. He knew of a couple of salesmen who had been summoned to the Personnel Office and either warned, or told to do better, according to their offence.

‘He’s had the first injection,’ the saying went. ‘He’ll soon be dead.’ Then the fear grew, the salesman knew there would be only two more injections, then the end. Unemployed, broke, on welfare, the end.

They hadn’t summoned him yet. But without Heilbutt he would long have been ripe for it. Heilbutt was a tower of strength; Heilbutt was impregnable. Heilbutt was able to say to Mr Jänecke:
‘Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate the perfect sale to me one day.’

Whereupon Mr Jänecke said to him: ‘Don’t speak to me in that tone, Mr Heilbutt!’ and went away.

And then one day Heilbutt was missing. One minute he was there, he’d sold something, then, in the middle of that April day, he was gone. No one knew where.

Jänecke did perhaps, as he didn’t ask after him. And Kessler too, as he did ask after him, so emphatically and so spitefully, as to make it obvious that something out of the ordinary had occurred.

‘Do you know where your friend Heilbutt has got to?’ he asked Pinneberg.

‘Sick,’ growled Pinneberg.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t like to have what he’s got!’ smirked Kessler.

‘What do you know about it then?’ asked Pinneberg.

‘I don’t know anything. Why should I?’

‘Come on, man, you tell me …’

Kessler was wounded. ‘I don’t know anything. All I heard was that he’d been called to the Personnel Office. Sacked. Get it?’

‘Rubbish!’ said Pinneberg, muttering ‘Idiot’, quite loudly after him.

Why should Heilbutt have got the sack? Why should they have got rid of their best salesman? It made no sense. Anyone rather than Heilbutt.

But next day he was still missing.

‘If he isn’t there tomorrow, I’ll go straight from work to his place,’ he told Lammchen.

‘Do that,’ she said.

But next day came the explanation. It was Mr Jänecke who condescended to enlighten him. ‘You were friendly with that man Heilbutt?’

‘Still am,’ said Pinneberg combatively.

‘Ah. Did you know that he had rather strange views?’

‘Strange?’

‘About nudism.’

‘Yes,’ said Pinneberg hesitantly. ‘He told me about it once. Some naturist club.’

‘Do you belong to it?’

‘Me? no.’

‘No, of course, you’re married.’ Mr Jänecke paused. ‘We had to dismiss your friend Heilbutt. A nasty business he got into there.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Pinneberg hotly. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Mr Jänecke only smiled. ‘My dear Mr Pinneberg. You don’t have a very great understanding of human nature. I’ve often noticed that from the way you sell.’ And, as a parting shot: ‘Very nasty. He was having nude photos of himself sold on the street.’

‘What?’ shouted Pinneberg. He was, after all, a Berliner born and bred, but he’d never come across anyone having nude photos of himself sold on the street.