well.
She has written a couple of sentences when the man leans across the table and asks, “Who’s that you’re writing to, Evie?”
In spite of herself, she gives him an answer, even though she’d intended not to speak to him. “It’s to Karlemann…”
“I see,” he says, and puts his sports papers away. “I see. So you write to him, and for all I know you send him food parcels, but for his father you don’t even have a potato and a scrap of meat to spare, hungry as he is!”
His voice has lost a little of its indifference; it sounds as though the man is seriously offended because she has something for the son that she refuses to the father.
“Forget it, Enno,” she says calmly. “It’s my business. Karlemann’s not a bad lad…”
“I see!” he says. “I see! Then you’ve obviously forgotten the way he was to his parents when he became a pack leader. How everything you did was wrong in his eyes, and he laughed at us as a stupid old bourgeois couple—you’ve forgotten all that, have you, Evie? A good lad is he, Karlemann!”
“He never laughed at me!” she feebly protests.
“No, no, of course not!” he jeers. “And you’ve forgotten the time he didn’t recognize his own mother as she was lugging her heavy mailbag down Prenzlauer Allee. Him and his girlfriend just looked the other way, what a charming piece of work!”
“You can’t hold something like that against a boy,” she says. “They all want to look good in front of their girls, that’s the way they are. In time, he’ll change, and he’ll be back for his mother who nursed him from a baby.”
For an instant he looks at her hesitantly, as if he had something he wasn’t sure whether to tell her or not. He’s not a vindictive manusually, but this time she’s offended him too badly, first by not giving him anything to eat, and secondly by carting all the valuables into the other room. Finally he says, “Well, if it was me that was his mother, I wouldn’t ever want to take my son in my arms again, not after he’s turned into such a thoroughgoing bastard!” He sees her eyes grow wide with fear, and he says pitilessly right into her waxen face, “On his last furlough he showed me a photograph that a comrade took of him. He was proud of it. There’s your Karlemann, and he’s holding a little Jewish boy of about three, holding him by the leg, and he’s about to smash his head against the bumper of a car.”
“No!” she screams, “No! You’re lying, you’re making it up! It’s your revenge because you didn’t get anything to eat. Karlemann wouldn’t do anything like that!”
“How could I have made it up?” he asks, calm again after dropping his bombshell. “I don’t have the imagination to make up something like that. And if you don’t believe me, you can go to Senftenberg’s pub, which is where he showed the photo round to anyone who cared to see it. Senftenberg and his old woman, they saw the picture themselves…”
He stops talking. He’s wasting his breath talking to this woman. She sits there with her head slumped on the table, crying. That’s what she gets, and her a postwoman and therefore a member of the Party, who’s taken an oath to support the Führer and his deeds. She can’t be too surprised at the way Karlemann’s turned out.
For a moment, Enno Kluge stands eyeing the sofa doubtfully—no cushions, no blanket. This isn’t going to be a comfortable night! But perhaps it’s the moment to take a chance? He hesitates, looks at the locked bedroom door, and then he acts. He reaches into the woman’s apron pocket as she sits there crying hysterically, and pulls out the key. He unlocks the door and starts rummaging about in the room, not even quietly…
And Eva Kluge, the exhausted, downtrodden postwoman, hears it all too; she knows he’s robbing her, but she doesn’t care. What’s the point of her life, why has she had children, taken pleasure in their smiling and playing, when in the
She has written a couple of sentences when the man leans across the table and asks, “Who’s that you’re writing to, Evie?”
In spite of herself, she gives him an answer, even though she’d intended not to speak to him. “It’s to Karlemann…”
“I see,” he says, and puts his sports papers away. “I see. So you write to him, and for all I know you send him food parcels, but for his father you don’t even have a potato and a scrap of meat to spare, hungry as he is!”
His voice has lost a little of its indifference; it sounds as though the man is seriously offended because she has something for the son that she refuses to the father.
“Forget it, Enno,” she says calmly. “It’s my business. Karlemann’s not a bad lad…”
“I see!” he says. “I see! Then you’ve obviously forgotten the way he was to his parents when he became a pack leader. How everything you did was wrong in his eyes, and he laughed at us as a stupid old bourgeois couple—you’ve forgotten all that, have you, Evie? A good lad is he, Karlemann!”
“He never laughed at me!” she feebly protests.
“No, no, of course not!” he jeers. “And you’ve forgotten the time he didn’t recognize his own mother as she was lugging her heavy mailbag down Prenzlauer Allee. Him and his girlfriend just looked the other way, what a charming piece of work!”
“You can’t hold something like that against a boy,” she says. “They all want to look good in front of their girls, that’s the way they are. In time, he’ll change, and he’ll be back for his mother who nursed him from a baby.”
For an instant he looks at her hesitantly, as if he had something he wasn’t sure whether to tell her or not. He’s not a vindictive manusually, but this time she’s offended him too badly, first by not giving him anything to eat, and secondly by carting all the valuables into the other room. Finally he says, “Well, if it was me that was his mother, I wouldn’t ever want to take my son in my arms again, not after he’s turned into such a thoroughgoing bastard!” He sees her eyes grow wide with fear, and he says pitilessly right into her waxen face, “On his last furlough he showed me a photograph that a comrade took of him. He was proud of it. There’s your Karlemann, and he’s holding a little Jewish boy of about three, holding him by the leg, and he’s about to smash his head against the bumper of a car.”
“No!” she screams, “No! You’re lying, you’re making it up! It’s your revenge because you didn’t get anything to eat. Karlemann wouldn’t do anything like that!”
“How could I have made it up?” he asks, calm again after dropping his bombshell. “I don’t have the imagination to make up something like that. And if you don’t believe me, you can go to Senftenberg’s pub, which is where he showed the photo round to anyone who cared to see it. Senftenberg and his old woman, they saw the picture themselves…”
He stops talking. He’s wasting his breath talking to this woman. She sits there with her head slumped on the table, crying. That’s what she gets, and her a postwoman and therefore a member of the Party, who’s taken an oath to support the Führer and his deeds. She can’t be too surprised at the way Karlemann’s turned out.
For a moment, Enno Kluge stands eyeing the sofa doubtfully—no cushions, no blanket. This isn’t going to be a comfortable night! But perhaps it’s the moment to take a chance? He hesitates, looks at the locked bedroom door, and then he acts. He reaches into the woman’s apron pocket as she sits there crying hysterically, and pulls out the key. He unlocks the door and starts rummaging about in the room, not even quietly…
And Eva Kluge, the exhausted, downtrodden postwoman, hears it all too; she knows he’s robbing her, but she doesn’t care. What’s the point of her life, why has she had children, taken pleasure in their smiling and playing, when in the
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