CHAPTER I

THE KIND FATHER

The dwelling of the caretaker Benedikt Pfaff consisted of a middle-sized dark kitchen and a small white closet which gave on to the entrance hall of the house. Originally the family, which numbered five members, slept in the larger room; there were his wife, his daughter and three times over himself; himself as policeman, himself as husband, himself as father. The twin beds were, to his frequent indignation, the same size. For that reason he forced his daughter and wife to sleep together in one, the other belonged to him alone. Under himself he put a horsehair mattress, not because he was soft —he hated sluggards and women —but on principle. He it was who brought the money home. Washing all the stairs was his wife's duty, opening the street door at nights when anyone rang had since her tenth year been his daughter's, so that she should get over her timidity. Whatever return either of them received for their services he kept, for he was the caretaker. Now and again he permitted them to earn a little something on the side, by cleaning or washing. Thus they learned by their own experience how hard a father has to work when he has a family to support. At meals he proclaimed himself in favour of family life, at night he derided his enfeebled wife. He exercised his rights of discipline as soon as he came home from work. He polished his red-haired fists on his daughter with real pleasure, he made less use of his wife. He left all his money at home; the sum was always perfectly correct, even without his checking it over, for the only time he had found an error his wife and daughter had had to spend the night in the street. Taken for all in all he was a happy man.

In those times the cooking was done in the white closet which was intended to serve for kitchen. Owing to his strenuous profession, which called for continuous muscular practice, a practice which he exercised by day and by night in his dreams, Benedikt Pfaff required a plentiful, nourishing, well cooked and well served diet. In this respect he would stand no nonsense, and if it came to blows with his wife that was her own fault, a thing which he would never have asserted in the case of his daughter. With the years his hunger grew. He found the little closet too small for generous cooking and commanded the transference of the kitchen to the back room. For once he came up against opposition, but his will was unconquerable. Since that time all three lived and slept in the closet, where there was just room for one bed, and the larger room was reserved for cooking and eating, for discipline and for the rare visits of his colleagues who, in spite of the plentiful food, never felt quite at home. Soon after this change his wife died, of overstrain. She could not keep up with the new kitchen; she cooked three times as much as before and grew thinner from day to day. She seemed very old, people thought she was in her sixties. The tenants who hated and feared the caretaker pitied him for one thing: they found it cruel that a man bursting with energy should have to live with such an old woman. In reality she was eight years younger than he, and nobody knew it. Often she had taken on so much to cook that she had not nearly finished when he got home. Sometimes he had to wait a full five minutes for his food. Then his patience would break down and he would beat her even before he had finished eating. She died under his hands. But all the same she would certainly have pegged out of her own accord in the next few days. A murderer he was not. On her death-bed, which he made ready for her in the larger room, she seemed so shrivelled that he didn't know how to look nis condolence callers in the face.

She would attempt to slip by him and busy herself with dexterous haste round the oven. She was thinking of a sickly, lanky salesman at the grocer's who said to her, more softly than to the other women: 'Goodevening, Miss,' and evaded her timid glance. So as to stay longer in the same place as him, she would let women who were behind her in the queue get in front. He had black hair and once when nobody else was left in the shop he had given her a cigarette. Round this she folded a piece of red tissue paper on which she wrote in almost invisible letters the date and hour of the gift, and she carried this shining litde parcel at the one place in her body which her father never cared about, under her left breast, over her heart. She was more afraid of blows than of kicks: for the latter she lay stubbornly on her front and nothing happened to the cigarette; but at other times his fists hit out everywhere and, under the cigarette, her heart quivered. If he destroyed that she would kill herself. In the meantime she had long since loved the cigarette away to dust, because in the day-long hours of her confinement she would take out the little packet, gaze at it, stroke it and kiss it. All that was left was a little heap of tobacco, of which not one grain was lost.

At meals her father's mouth steamed. His chewing mandibles were as insatiable as his arms. She stood, so as to be able to refill his plate quickly; her own remained empty. All of a sudden she was terrified, he might ask: why don't I eat. His words were more fearful to her even than his actions. What he said she only understood since she was grown up; his actions had affected her from the earliest moments of her ife. I've eaten already father she would say. You eat now. But he never asked her, not once in all the long years of their marriage. While he chewed, he was busy. His eyes were fixed on his plate, glazed and spell-bound. As die heap diminished, their lustre faded. His masticatory muscles grew angry, they had been given too little to do; soon they would let loose a bellow. Woe to the plate when it was empty! His knife would have cut it, his fork transfixed it, his spoon battered it, his voice blown it to pieces. But that was why his daughter was standing by. Tensely she observed the signs on his forehead. As soon as the first trace of a vertical line appeared between his eyebrows, she filled up his plate, regardless of what might already be on it. For, later or sooner, according to his mood, die line appeared. She had learnt to do this; at first, after the death of her mother, she had done as her mother had done before her, and judged by the state of his plate. But this worked out badly; more was expected of a daughter. Soon she knew him in and out and read his moods straight from his forehead. There were days when he ate to a finish without a word. When he had finished, he would chew a little longer. She listened carefully — if he chewed violendy and for a long time, she began to tremble; a bad night lay ahead, and she would tempt him with the softest words to another helping. Usually he only chewed contentedly and said: 

'Man has his offspring. Who is my offspring? The prisoner!' 

At this he pointed at her; instead of his index finger he used his clenched fist. Her lips had to form the word 'prisoner , smiling, at the same time as his. She moved furdier away. His heavy boot came after her.

'A father has a right to ...' '... the love of his child.' Loud and toneless, as though she were at school, she completed his sentences, but she felt very low.

'For getting married my daughter...' — he held out his arm — '... has no time.' 

'She gets her keep from ...''... her good father.' 

'Other men do not want...' '... to have her.' 

'What could a man do with ...' '... the silly child.' 

'Now her father's going to .. ' '... arrest her.' 

'On father's knee sits ...' '... his obedient daughter.' 

'A man gets tired in the ...' '... police.' 

'If my daughter isn't obedient she gets .. ' '... thrashed.' 

'Her father knows why he ...' '... thrashes her.' 

'My daughter isn't ever ..." '... hurt.' 

'She got to learn what she ...' '... owes to her father.'

He had gripped her and pulled her on to his knee; with his right hand he pinched her neck, because she was under arrest, with his left he eased the belchings out of his throat. Both sensations pleased him. She summoned her small intelligence to conclude his sentences rightly and took care not to cry. For hours he fondled her. He instructed her in the special holds he had invented himself, pushed her this way and that, and showed her how every criminal could be overpowered by a juicy blow in the stomach, because who wouldn't feel ill after that?

This honeymoon lasted half a year. One day the father was pensioned and went to work no more. Now he would devote himself to the nuisance of begging in the house. His peep-hole, a foot and a half from the ground, was the outcome of several days' brooding. At rehearsals, his daughter played her part. Countless times she walked from the house door to the stairs and back. 'Slower!' he bellowed, or 'Quick march!' Immediately after he forced her to slip into his old trousers and act the part of a male suspect. The knock-out he had planned for the suspect fell to her share as well. Hardly had he seen his own trousers through the newly drilled peep-hole, than he leaped up in a fury, tore open the door, and with a couple of devilish blows laid her flat on the floor. 'Because,' he excused himself later, as if this were the first time he had ever hit her, 'that's the way it has to be, because ou're a rat. Shave their heads in prison, they do; cut 'em off would >e more like it. A burden on the tax-payer. Eating themselves full in prison. The bleeding State pays. I'll wipe the vermin out. The cat's at home now. The mice can keep in the holes! I'm Ginger the Cat. I'll eat 'em up. A rat, you'll know what crushing means!'

She knew it and rejoiced at her lovely future. He wouldn't lock her up any more, he would be at home himself. He would see her all day, she could stay out longer shopping, forty minutes, fifty, a whole hour, no, not so long; she would go to the grocer, she would choose the emptiest times, she must say thank you for the cigarette, he gave it her three months and four days ago; at the time she was excited, and later there were so many people, she never thanked him, what must he be thinking of her; if he asks, how she liked it, she will say: very good, and father nearly took it away from her; he said it was the best kind, he would like to smoke it himself.

True, her father had never once seen the cigarette; it doesn't matter, she must thank the dark-haired Mr. Franz and tell him it's the best brand, her father knows what's what. Perhaps he'd give her another cigarette. She'd smoke that one there and then. If anyone came in, she'd turn away and throw the cigarette quickly over the counter. He will know how to put it out before the place gets on fire. He's clever. In the summer he manages the shop himself, the manager goes on holiday. Between two and three there's no one in the shop. He must take care no one sees him. He holds out the match to her and the cigarette burns. I'll burn you, she says, he's frightened, he's so delicate, as a child he was always ill, she knows it. She points it at him, she touches him. Oh, he cries, my hand, that hurts! She calls: 'For love,' and runs away. At night he comes to carry her off, her father sleeps, the bell rings, she goes to open. She takes all the money with her, over her nightdress she slips on her own coat, the one she's never allowed to wear, not the old cast-off of her father's, she looks like a maiden fair; who is this waiting at the door? It is he. A coach with four black steeds is ready. He offers her his hand. With his left hand he holds his sword, he is a nobleman, and bows low. He has tailor-pressed trousers on. 'I have come,' he says, 'you burnt my hand. I am the noble knight Franz.' She had always thought so. He was too beautiful for a grocer's shop, a knight in disguise. He asks her leave to kill her father. It is a question of honour. 'No, no!' she implores him, 'he will kill your Royal Highness!' He pushes her to one side, out of her pockets she ulls all the money and holds it out to him, he gazes piercingly at her, is honour is at stake. At a single blow, in the white closet, he severs her father's head from his body. She cries with joy, if only her poor mother had lived to see it, she would be alive to-day. The noble knight Franz takes father's ginger head away with him. On the threshold he says: 'Gracious lady, to-day you have opened this door for the last time, let me abduct you to the altar.' Then her litde foot mounts into the coach. He helps her up. Inside she may sit, there is heaps of room. 'Are you of age?' he asks. 'Past twenty,' she says, though she doesn't look it, she was her father's little girl until this evening. (Really, she's only sixteen; he mustn't guess.) She must get a husband and leave home. And the beautiful dark-haired knight stands up in the middle of the coach as it bowls along, and throws himself at her feet. He will marry her and her alone, or else his valiant heart will break. She blushes, and strokes his hair, it is very black. He admires her coat. She will wear it every day until she dies, it's still quite new. "Where are we going?' she asks. The steeds champ and toss their heads. What a lot of houses there are in the town. 'To your mother,' he says, 'why shouldn't she be happy.' At the cemetery the four steeds stop, right in front is mother's grave. Here is her tombstone. Sir Franz lays her father's head on it. It is his gift. 'Have you nothing for your mother?' he asks her; ah, how ashamed she is, how ashamed she is, he has brought something for mother, she has nothing. Then she pulls out a little red packet from under her nightdress; inside it there is a love-token, a cigarette, and she lays it down beside the ginger head. Mother rejoices in her happy children. Both kneel at mother's grave and pray for her blessing.

Father kneels at his peep-hole, grabs at her every other minute, drags her down beside him, holds her head to the opening and asks her if she sees anything. She is exhausted with the long rehearsal, the corridor dances before her eyes, on the chance she says 'Yes'. 'Yes what!' bellows the beheaded father, he is still very much alive, to-night he'll get a shock when the coach and four comes to the door. 'Yes, yes!' he apes her and derides her. 'Not blind, are you? My daughter blind! Now I'm asking: What do you see?' She has to kneel until she has seen what he means. He means a mark on the opposite wall.

His invention taught him a new view of the world. She took an enforced part in his discoveries. She has learnt too little and knows nothing. When he dies, in forty years or more (everybody's got to die sometime), she'll fall on the rates. He can't have a crime like that on his conscience. She must learn something about the police. So he explained to her all the peculiarities of the tenants, taught her to observe the different skirts and trousers and their significance in the detection of crime. In his zeal for instruction he sometimes let a beggar go by, and afterwards held her responsible for his sacrifice. The tenants, he told her, were respectable people, but suspects all the same. For what did he get from them for the special protection he afforded their house? They simply put the fruit of his labours into their own pockets. Instead of thanking him they ran him down. As if he'd done someone in. And why should he work for nothing? He's got his pension and could sit around or go after women or drink his money, he's worked all his life, he's a right to be lazy. But he has a conscience. First of all he says to himself, he's got a daughter whom he has to care for. Who'd have the heart to leave her alone in the house ! He stays with her and she'll stay with him. The good father of a family folds his child to his bosom. Half a year she was all alone, since the old woman died, he had to go to work, no shirking in the police force. Secondly the State pays him a pension. The State has to pay. There's no getting out of it, whatever else goes, it has to go on paying the pensions. One man might say: I've worked enough. Another man is grateful for his pension and works for nothing. They are the best sort. They arrest whatever people they can, half kill them, killing them altogether is forbidden, and save the State a lot of work. That's called relief work, because it relieves the State of the burden. The police must stick together, retired ones too, consciences like that oughtn't to be retired ever. They are irreplaceable and when they die they leave a vacuum.

Day by day the girl learnt more. She had to remember her father's discoveries and support his memory when it failed him, for what's the good of a daughter eating up the best part of one's pension? If a new beggar came, he told her to look quick through the peep-hole, and asked her, not if she knew this one, but 'When was he here before?' Traps are instructive, specially hers, for she was always caught. When the beggar was done with, the regulation punishment for her carelessness was established and immediately executed. Without corporal punishment no one ever got anywhere. The English are a tremendous people.

Little by little Benedikt Pfaff had educated his daughter so well that she could take his place. From then on he called her Polly, which was a title of honour. It expressed her aptitude for his profession. Her real name was Anna but as this name meant nothing to him he never used it; he was an enemy to names. Titles pleased him better: those which he had himself bestowed were an obsession with him. With her mother's death, Anna too had died. For six months the girl was 'you' or 'my daughter'. Since he had nominated her Polly, he was proud of her. Women were good for something after all, men must understand how to make Pollys of them.

Her new dignity carried with it a yet more strenuous duty. All day long she sat or knelt by him on the floor, ready to take his place. It happened that he would have to retire for a moment or two; then she stepped into his post. If a hawker or a beggar came into her line of vision, it was her duty to hold up the person in question, either by force or by cunning until her father should be ready to take over the sh— house. He always hurried back. He preferred to do the job all himself, it was enough for him to have her merely as a spectator. His new way of living occupied more and more of his attention. Meals lost their interest for him, his hunger grew less. After a few months he came to depend for air and exercise on a few newcomers only. The other beggars of the district avoided his house like the plague, they knew why. His fearsome stomach, on which he set so much store, grew more moderate. His daughter's cooking time was fixed at one hour per day. For so long only was she allowed to stay in the inner room. She peeled potatoes at his side, at his side she washed the green vegetables, and while she beat the steak for his dinner, he could thump her to his heart's content. His eye did not know what his hand did; it was fixed, unblinking and unwavering, on in-going and out-going legs.

For her shopping, since he now ate half as much as before, he allowed Polly a quarter of an hour. Cunning as she had grown in her father's school, she often forewent the dark-haired Franz for a day, stayed at home, and on the following day cashed two quarters of an hour together. But she never met the noble knight alone. Secretly she stammered her thanks for the cigarette. Perhaps he understood her, he looked away so delicately. At night she stayed awake long after her father was asleep. But he never rang, the preparations took such a long time, ah, if only she'd burnt him, then he would have had to hurry, there were always so many women in the shop. Once, when he was writing out her bill, she d whisper quickly: 'Thank you, it needn't be a coach, don't forget your sword!'

One day the women were standing outside the grocer's talking altogether. 'That Franz has absconded!' 'Came of a bad family.' 'With the cash-box.' 'Shifty look he had.' 'Sixty-eight schillings!' 'Ought to have capital punishment again!' 'My husband's been saying so for years.' Trembling, she flung herself into the shop; the manager was just saying: 'The police have a clue.' He's the one to suffer, because he left him alone in charge, four years the scoundrel's been in the shop, who would have thought it of him, no one noticed a thing, the cash was always right, four years, the police have just rung up, six o'clock at the latest they'll have him behind bars.

'It's not true!' shouted Polly and suddenly began to cry. 'My father's a policeman himself!'

No one noticed her as there was a money-loss to lament. She ran away and came home with an empty basket. Without a word to her father she locked herself in to the back room. He was engaged and waited a quarter of an hour. Then he stood up and commanded her to come out. She was silent. 'Polly!'he bellowed. 'Polly!' Nothing stirred. He promised her imunity with the firm intention of thrashing her within an inch of her life, even more if she murmured. Instead of her answer he heard a fall. To his fury he saw himself compelled to break open his own door. 'In the name of the law!' he bellowed, out of habit. The girl lay mute and still in front of the stove. Before hitting her, he turned her over once or twice. She was unconscious. He shrank; she was young and he liked her. Several times he ordered her to come back to her senses. Her deafness infuriated him, against his will. All the same, he wanted to start on a less sensitive place. Looking for one, his eye fell on the shopping basket. It was empty. Now he knew. She'd lost the money. He understood her terror. He wouldn't stand for a joke of that kind. She'd left the house with a whole ten schilling note. She couldn't have lost it all? He searched her thoroughly. For the first time he touched her with fingers, not with fists. He found a little red parcel full of tobacco dust. He tore it up and threw it in the dustbin. Last of all he opened her purse. The ten schilling note was inside. Not a corner had gone. Now he was at a loss again. Bewildered, he beat her back into consciousness. When she came to herself, he was sweating, so carefully had he directed his blows, and great tears were running out of his mouth.

'Polly!' he bellowed, 'Polly, the money's still there!'

'Anna is my name,' said she, cold and hard.

He repeated: 'Polly!' Her voice moved him deeply, his outspread hands rolled themselves into fists; the tenderest emotions overcame him. "What's a good father to have for his dinner to-day?' he complained.

'Nothing.'

'Polly must cook him something.'

'Anna! Anna!' screamed the girl.

Suddenly she darted up, gave him a push, enough to knock over any other father — even he noticed it — ran into the closet (the communicating door was in splinters, otherwise she would have locked him in), jumped on the bed, shoes and all, so as to be taller than him, and screamed: 'It'll cost you your head! Polly's short for police! My mother'll have your head!'

He understood. She was threatening to inform against him. His offspring wanted to slander him. For whom did he live then? For whom had he kept himself respectable? He'd nourished a viper in his bosom. She belonged on the gallows. He had made a special invention for her so that she should learn something; now, when the world and women were open to him, he stayed with her, out of kindness and because he had a heart of gold. And she pretended he'd done something wrong. She was no daughter of his! The old woman had tricked him. He was no fool to discipline her like he had. He'd had a fishy smell in his nose. Sixteen years he'd thrown money away on someone else's daughter. He could have bought a house for less. From year to year humanity deteriorated. Soon they'd abolish the police and criminals would have it all their own way. The State will say: No more pensions: and the whole world goes under! Human nature! Criminals spreading day by day, what'll happen to God Almighty!

Rarely did he rise to the height of God Almighty. He had respect for the all-highest position which belonged to him. God Almighty was greater even than the head of the police. All the more was he struck by the danger in which God found himself to-day. It was all very well to lift his step-daughter off the bed and beat her bloody. He took no real pleasure in it. He worked mechanically and what he said was full of grief and deep regret. His blows belied his voice. He had lost all desire to bellow. By mistake he referred once to a certain Polly. But his muscles made up for the mistake immediately. The name of the female he was disciplining was Anna. She claimed to be identical with a daughter of his. He did not believe her. Her hair came out in handfuls and when she defended herself two of her fingers got broken. She mouthed something about his head, like a common butcher. She abused the police. It was plain that the best education could not prevail against a corrupt nature. Her mother was no good. She was ill and work-shy. He could send the daughter to join her mother, where she belonged. But he wasn't that kind. He stayed his hand, and went out to eat at a cafe.

From this day they were no more to each other than bodies. Anna cooked and shopped. She avoided the grocer's. She knew the black-haired Franz was in prison. He had stolen for her, but he had been clumsy. A noble knight succeeds in everything. Since she had lost her cigarette she didn t love him any more. Her father's head was as firmly fixed as ever; his eyes begged through the peep-hole for beggars. She showed him her contempt by taking no further notice of his invention. She played truant from his school. Every other day at least his mouth overflowed with new discoveries. She did her work, crouched next to him, listened in silence and said not a word. The peep-hole interested her no more. When, with a conciliatory gesture, he offered her a peep, she shook her head, indifferent. There were no more open-hearted talks at the dinner-table. She filled her own plate as well as his, sat down, ate, if only a little, and served him again when she herself had had enough. He treated her just as he had done before. But he missed her fear. Between blows, he said to himself she had no more heart for him. After some months he bought four beautiful Canaries. Three were males; opposite to them, he hung up the smaller cage for the little female. All three sang as if possessed. He praised them ostentatiously. As soon as they began their singing, he let down the covering over his peep-hole, got up and listened to them, standing. His awe did not permit him to clap at the end of their wooing. But he said: 'Bravo!' and turned his marvelling eyes from the little creatures to the girl. He hoped everything from the passionate wooing of the canary birds. But even their song stirred not a ripple on Anna's calm. 

She lived for several more years as her father's servant and woman. He flourished: his muscular strength increased rather than decreased. But it was not true happiness. He told himself so daily. Even at meals he thought of it. She died of consumption, to the great despair of the canaries, who would only take food from her. They survived the disaster. Benedikt Pfaff sold the kitchen furniture and had the back room walled up. In front of the new white distemper he placed a chest. He ate no more in his own home. In the closet, he stayed at his post. He avoided every remembrance of the empty room next door. In there, in front of the stove, he had lost his daughter's heart; to this day he did not know why.