Little Man, What Now? (37 page)

In the absence of consensus, they decided to accept Jachmann’s proposal and stroll down Friedrichstrasse.

They went along in a threesome, Lammchen in the middle linking arms with her two men. They were all now in a wonderful mood, and lingered everywhere, not only outside the Variétés where they admired posters of dazzling, strangely identical-looking girls, but at almost every shop. Pinneberg found it rather boring, but for window-shopping Jachmann was the best companion in the world, able to thrill with Lammchen at the beauty of a
Viennese jersey dress, and closely examine twenty-two hats one after the other to see which would suit her best.

‘Let’s move on a bit,’ suggested Pinneberg.

‘That’s husbands for you!’ said Jachmann. ‘At first nothing’s beautiful enough. Then they don’t care what you wear. But I’m beginning to get thirsty. I suggest we cross here.’

They were almost across the street when a car stopped behind them and a high voice squawked: ‘That you, Jachmann!?’

Jachmann turned with a start, and called out in astonishment: ‘Uncle Knilli, haven’t they nabbed you yet?’ then broke off and said to the Pinnebergs: ‘One moment, kids, I’ll be straight back.’

The car had driven close up to the kerb, and Jachmann stood and conversed with the fat, sallow, eunuch-faced man inside, and when they’d had their laugh the conversation got steadily quieter and more serious.

The Pinnebergs stood and waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, they looked in a shop window, and when they’d seen everything in it they waited again.

‘I think he might try to get away now,’ grumbled Pinneberg. ‘He called him Uncle Knilli. Jachmann does know some odd types.’

‘He doesn’t look at all nice,’ confirmed Lammchen. ‘Why’s he got such a squeaky, squawky voice?’

He was about to explain it to her, when Jachmann came up and said, ‘Oh kids, don’t be cross. I can’t make this evening. I’ve got to go with Uncle Knilli.’

‘Must you?’ asked Lammchen doubtfully. ‘Mr Jachmann!’

‘Business, business. But I’ll be with you again tomorrow at noon at the latest. Punctually for lunch. And now just go off together! It will be nicer without me.’

‘Mr Jachmann,’ said Lammchen again. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you stayed with us? I have a feeling …’

‘I must. I must,’ said Jachmann, preparing to get into the car. ‘Go without me! Have you still got money, Pinneberg?’

‘Go on, get off, Jachmann!’ shouted Pinneberg.

And Jachmann murmured: ‘Oh, all right. I only thought … So tomorrow at noon.’

The taxi was off, and Pinneberg told his Lammchen about the hundred marks or so that Jachmann had stuffed in his pocket an hour ago.

‘You’ll give that back to him first thing tomorrow!’ declared Lammchen emphatically. ‘We’re going home. Or d’you want to do something?’

‘I never did,’ said Pinneberg. ‘Tomorrow he’s getting his money back.’

But it never came to that. A long, long time was to go by, and a great many things were to change in Pinneberg’s life, before they were to see Mr Holger Jachmann—who intended to arrive punctually for lunch—again.

THE SHRIMP IS ILL. YOUNG FATHER, WHAT’S THE MATTER?

One night the Pinnebergs were woken by the unaccustomed strains of the baby howling.

‘The Shrimp’s crying,’ whispered Lammchen, quite unnecessarily.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly, looking at the illuminated face of the alarm clock. ‘It’s five past three.’

They listened, then Lammchen whispered again. ‘He never does this. He can’t be hungry.’

‘He’ll stop soon,’ said Pinneberg. ‘Let’s try to get back to sleep.’

But that turned out to be quite impossible, and after a while Lammchen said: ‘Shall I put on the light? He sounds so unhappy.’

But with regard to the Shrimp, Pinneberg was a man of principle. ‘Certainly not! D’you hear? Certainly not. We agreed that we
wouldn’t pay any attention to him if he cried at night, so he knew he had to sleep when it’s dark.’

‘Yes, but …’ began Lammchen.

‘Certainly not,’ declared Pinneberg severely. ‘If we once start doing that we may soon be getting up every night. Why did we stick it out the first few nights? He cried for much longer then.’

‘It’s a different kind of cry. He sounds in pain.’

‘We have to hold out, Lammchen. Be sensible.’

They lay in the darkness listening to the baby crying. It went on and on without a break. Sleep was of course out of the question, but it was bound to stop soon, it must stop soon! It didn’t. Pinneberg wondered whether the howls did indeed signal pain. It wasn’t his angry cry, it wasn’t his hungry cry. Could he be in pain …?

‘Perhaps he’s got a tummy-ache?’ asked Lammchen softly.

‘Why should he? And in any case, what can we do about it? Nothing.’

‘I could make him some fennel tea. That always calms him down.’

Pinneberg didn’t reply. It wasn’t easy to do the best by the Shrimp. He had to be brought up without any mistakes, so that he would turn out a good fellow in all respects. Pinneberg thought hard.

‘All right, get up and make him some fennel tea.’

But he got up almost quicker than Lammchen. He turned on the light and the baby quietened down for a moment when he saw it, but then at once recommenced howling. He was dark red.

‘My little Shrimp,’ said Lammchen, bending over him, then lifted the little parcel out of the cot. ‘My little Shrimp, does it hurt? Show Mummy where it hurts.’

Warmed by her body, rocked in her arms, the baby became quiet. He sobbed, was silent, sobbed again and stopped.

‘There you are!’ cried Pinneberg triumphantly as he
fiddled with the spirit stove. ‘He only wanted to be picked up.’ But Lammchen didn’t react. She walked up and down, singing a lullaby that she had brought with her from Platz, in the dialect of that place:

‘Lullaby, sleep in Mummy’s bed,
Or will you sleep in Dad’s instead?
Lullaby, baby, sleep.’

The baby lay still in her arms, looking up with his bright blue eyes at the ceiling, motionless.

‘There, the water’s hot,’ said Pinneberg ungraciously. ‘You brew the tea; I’d rather not get in your way.’

‘Hold the baby,’ said Lammchen, handing him over. He walked up and down with him, humming, while his wife made the tea and cooled it. The baby grabbed at his father’s face; otherwise he lay as still as a mouse.

‘Have you put sugar in? The tea’s not too hot, is it? Let me try it first. I think you can give it him now.’

The Shrimp had lots of sips from the spoon, and when an occasional drop ran down the side of his mouth, his father wiped it off seriously with the sleeve of his nightshirt. ‘That’s enough, now,’ he said. ‘He’s quite calm.’

The Shrimp was laid back in his cot. Pinneberg cast a glance at the clock. ‘Nearly four. It’s high time we got back to bed if we want to have a bit more sleep.’

The light went out. The Pinnebergs were gently dropping off.

Then they woke up. The Shrimp was crying.

It was five past four.

‘There you are,’ said Pinneberg crossly. ‘If only we hadn’t picked him up. Now he thinks we’re always going to come when he howls.’

Lammchen was Lammchen, she understood that a man who
had to sell all day under the lash of a fixed quota was bound to be touchy and aggressive. She didn’t say a word.

The Shrimp howled.

‘Very nice,’ said Pinneberg, waxing ironic. ‘Just what I needed. How I’m going to be fresh and ready to sell in the morning, I don’t know.’ Then after a moment he burst out in a rage: ‘And I’m so behind! Damned bawling.’

Lammchen said nothing, and the Shrimp howled.

Pinneberg tossed and turned. He listened, and was confirmed in his first impression that it was indeed the crying of a child in pain. And of course he knew that he had been talking nonsense, and that Lammchen knew it too, and he was angry with himself for being so stupid. But now he hoped she would say something; she must know he found it hard to start.

‘Sonny, I thought he seemed very hot, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t notice,’ growled Pinneberg.

‘But he had such red cheeks.’

‘That’s from crying.’

‘No, like definite round red patches. Could he be ill?’

‘What could he possibly have?’ asked Pinneberg. But this was nonetheless a new angle on the matter, and so he said, rather less churlishly: ‘Well, put the light on. You won’t be able to stick it out.’

So they put the light on, the Shrimp went for another stroll in Mummy’s arms, and once again he calmed down immediately. He swallowed once, and was quiet.

‘There you are,’ said Pinneberg, annoyed. ‘There’s no such thing as pains which stop the minute you pick him up.’

‘Feel his little hands, they’re so hot.’

‘That’s nothing!’ said Pinneberg ungraciously. ‘They’re hot because he’s been screaming. Think how I’d sweat if I were bellowing like that. All my clothes would be dripping wet.’

‘But his hands really are very hot. I think the Shrimp is ill.’

Pinneberg felt the baby’s hands and his mood changed.

‘Yes, they really are very hot. Perhaps he’s got a temperature?’

‘It’s too silly that we haven’t got a thermometer.’

‘We’ve always been meaning to buy one but it was the money.’

‘Yes,’ said Lammchen. ‘He has got a fever.’

‘Shall we give him some more tea?’ asked Pinneberg.

‘No, it’ll only fill up his little tummy.’

‘I still can’t believe he’s got pains,’ said Pinneberg, reverting. ‘He’s just putting it on, to be carried.’

‘But Sonny, we never carry him.’

‘Well, let’s try it out. You put him in the cot, and you’ll see: he’ll cry.’

‘But …’

‘Lammchen, put him in the cot. Please, do me a favour, put him in. You’ll see.’

Lammchen looked at her husband, then laid the baby in the cot. There was no time to turn the light out. He began crying immediately.

‘There you are!’ Pinneberg was jubilant. ‘Now take him out, and you’ll see he’ll be quiet immediately.’

Lammchen took the Shrimp out of the cot again, her husband looked on expectantly; the Shrimp continued to cry.

Pinneberg stood frozen as the Shrimp continued to cry. ‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘You’ve completely spoiled him by carrying him! Now what does his majesty want?’

‘He’s in pain,’ said Lammchen softly. She rocked him, he grew quieter, then started up again. ‘Sonny, do me a favour; go back to bed, perhaps you could get a bit of sleep.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’

‘Please, Sonny, do it! I’d be much calmer myself if you would. I can lie down for an hour in the morning, but you have to be fresh.’

Pinneberg looked at her. Then he patted her on the back.

‘Well, Lammchen, I will lie down. But call me at once if anything happens.’

But nothing came of that idea. They lay down by turns, they carried him, they sang, they rocked him, all to no avail.

Sometimes the crying died down to a quiet whimpering, then it welled up again. The parents looked at each other across the baby.

‘This is awful,’ said Pinneberg.

‘What pain he must be in!’

‘There’s no sense to it, a little thing like that in such pain!’

‘And I can’t help him at all!’ And Lammchen suddenly called out very clear and loud, pressing the child to her: ‘Oh Shrimp, my little Shrimp, can’t I do anything for you?’ The baby continued to cry.

‘Whatever can be wrong?’ murmured Pinneberg.

‘It’s so awful that he can’t tell us! That he can’t show us where it is! Little Shrimp, show Mummy where the pain is! Where is it?’

‘We’re stupid,’ raged Pinneberg. ‘We don’t know anything. If we did, we might be able to help him.’

‘And we don’t know anyone to ask.’

‘I’m going for a doctor,’ said Pinneberg, beginning to dress.

‘You haven’t got a medical certificate.’

‘He’ll come without one. I’ll send it in afterwards.’

‘No doctor will come out at five in the morning. When they hear it’s a medical-card patient, they say it can wait till tomorrow.’

‘He’s
got
to come!’

‘Sonny love, if you bring him here to the flat, up the ladder, there’ll be trouble. He might tell the police we were living here. Actually he wouldn’t even come up the ladder, he’d think you were going to do something to him.’

Pinneberg sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked gloomily at Lammchen.

‘Oh yes, you’re right.’ He nodded. ‘We’ve got ourselves into a pretty mess, Mrs Pinneberg. A pretty mess. We never thought about this.’

‘Oh come on,’ said Lammchen. ‘Don’t be like that Sonny. It looks bleak at the moment, but it’ll get better.’

‘It’s because we’re nobody,’ said Pinneberg. ‘We’re on our own. There are other people just like us all on their own too, everybody thinking he’s someone special. If only we were workers at least! They call each other comrade and help each other …’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Lammchen. ‘When I think of the kind of things father talked about, and what he’s been through.’

‘Well, of course,’ said Pinneberg. ‘I know they’re not perfect either. But at least they’re ready for the worst. But people like us, white-collar, we always imagine we’re superior …’

And the Shrimp cried. And they saw through the panes that the sun was rising. It was growing quite light, and they looked at each other and saw how pale and washed-out and weary they looked.

‘Oh love!’ said Lammchen. ‘My love!’ responded Pinneberg, and they held hands.

‘Things aren’t all bad,’ said Lammchen.

‘Not so long as we have each other,’ he confirmed.

And then they started walking up and down again.

‘Now I don’t know whether I should feed him or not,’ said Lammchen. ‘What if there’s something wrong with his tummy?’

‘Yes, what should you do?’ he asked, despairingly. ‘It’s nearly six.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Lammchen, with a sudden burst of energy. ‘At seven o’clock you go round to the Infant Welfare. They’re only ten minutes away, and you beg them and plead with them until a nurse agrees to come back with you.’

‘Yes,’ said he. ‘That’s possible. I’ll still get to work in time.’

‘And we’ll let him go hungry till then. A bit of hunger can’t hurt him.’