Iron Gustav Read Online Free Page B

with the drivers … He did neither of these things. He shook the linen bag which Sophie had embroidered with ‘10 marks’ in red cross-stitch, the little bag that contained gold in ten-mark pieces. But he did not check the contents; he went neither to his son nor to the stable. He was lost in memories.
    His life in the army had made a man of him and given him principles; all his experiences in civilian life had their counterpart in the army. He could remember instances of barrack room thieves, incorrigible rogues who repeatedly stole tobacco or home-made sausage from their comrades. In the beginning they would get a good thrashing one night with a belt buckle on their naked backsides, their head muffled in a horse blanket, although even without that precaution no
NCO would have taken any notice of a scream. But if the thrashing was in vain – if the man was really incorrigible, an enemy to his comrades – then came degradation before the entire regiment and transfer to a penal battalion, shame and dishonour. And wasn’t it worse to steal from a father than from a comrade?
    In three hours his son would have to go to school. It was almost impossible to imagine that he would never again go there, he, his pride and hope. And yet it had to be. He remembered a certain soldier with a great big blob of a pale nose facing his comrades on parade. Tears ran down his cheeks as the merciless voice of his officer declared that condemnation of the man and the thief against which there was no appeal …
    That his own flesh and blood had sinned did not affect the issue – a thief is a thief. They had christened him ‘Iron Gustav’, probably half in jest because he was stubborn. But one can turn a nickname into an honour.
    At last Hackendahl counted his money and when he had ascertained the amount missing he stood aghast. So much? Surely not! But it was true – yet more shame and dishonour. Surely all that money couldn’t have been spent in drink, at seventeen! And suddenly the father saw behind his son’s pale, intelligent face the leer and grimace of loose women, abominations to any decent man. At seventeen!
    Shutting the drawer abruptly, he locked it and hurried back to his sons’ bedroom.
§ VI
    At his father’s unexpected return Otto, who was dressed and standing by the window, started violently, trying to conceal the wood and knife in his hands; a dozen times he had been forbidden to pursue his hobby of carving pipe bowls or tiny animals in wood, his father holding it a ridiculous pursuit for one who was some day to manage a stable of thirty horses. Now Hackendahl took no notice of his eldest son’s disobedience but went directly to Erich, clapped his hand on the boy’s shoulder and ordered him to wake up.
    The sleeper moved, trying to release his shoulder; his eyelids fluttered, but he did not wake up.
    ‘Wake up, do you hear?’
    Erich was still trying to escape into sleep, but in vain. His father’s hand hurt, his father’s voice threatened. With an effort he opened his eyes. ‘What’s the matter? Time for school?’
    Without a word the father gazed at him. Then, grasping the long, fair hair, he pulled his son’s reluctant head so close to his own that the two foreheads almost touched, and each saw only the other’s eye. In one was fear, in the other an angry glow …
    ‘What’s the matter?’ repeated Erich. But his voice trembled.
    The father, his heart beating heavily, read a confession in his son’s
gaze. For a long time he said nothing; then, suddenly, despite himself, he quietly asked: ‘Where did you leave the money?’
    The dark, narrow pupils seemed to contract. Was this the son’s answer? The father didn’t know. He pulled his son’s hair and repeatedly hit his brow against his own.
    ‘My money,’ he whispered. ‘You thief! You key-forger!’
    The son’s head shook uncontrollably. He didn’t even try to escape his father’s gruesome hold.
    ‘What are you stinking of?’ asked the father