The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Read Online Free
Author: John Henry Mackay
Tags: Fiction, General
the bell, when the door was thrown open and a shabby, untidy woman holding an infant at her half-naked breast appeared.
“Who do you want? Max Friedrichsen?”—and a flood of verbal abuse poured over the disconcerted boy, from which he gathered only that Max had lived there, that he had skipped out without paying, and finally that he had “hauled those guys up here,” and that if he, yes he, didn’t get out right away, then she would have the police called to arrest him, for he too was certainly one of the “queer boys” and looked just like one.
Then the crying of other children sounded in the background, the door was slammed, and the boy was glad to be able to steal down the stairs again. That was really a frightful woman. Compared with her, the farmer women who shopped in the store in his village, raising beastly outcries when they thought they were being cheated of a penny, were the purest angels!
He was actually trembling. Then with the thought that he did not know where to look to find Max, he became entirely discouraged. He was on the verge of tears. What was he to do here—without him!
The best thing was to go right back home and take whatever he got. To do that, he had to go back to the train station where he had arrived yesterday. With tired feet he set out to retrace his path. He now had some experience in asking his way and he now also looked at the people first. That he could ride there still did not occur to him.
Dead tired, he finally arrived in late afternoon—down street after street and always new ones—at the Stettin Train Station. He was about to go up the stairs when the thought came to him to eat his fill first. He still had enough money for that.
This time he found a decent pub and a seat in a corner, where no one paid attention to him. After several sandwiches and a glass of beer his situation no longer seemed quite so desperate. While paying, he saw that he still had a good deal of money, more than twenty marks. He immediately ordered another glass of beer and remained seated.
He thought the situation over. He had enough for another couple of days. If forced to return home after all, then he at least wanted first to see more of Berlin. And maybe he would find Max yet. Berlin was big, but not so big that you might not find someone you were looking for in two days.
For today, however, he had to sleep again, tired as he was from the long walk and even more from the unaccustomed beer.
So he walked up to the train station, fetched his box, and then searched the side streets for a hotel. One stood beside another. He only had to choose.
He then also found a room, a small and narrow one in which there was not much more than a bed, but it cost only one mark fifty for the night, which an old waiter in a black, greasy tailcoat immediately took.
Again the boy sank at once into the deep and dreamless sleep of his healthy youth.
*
Why had he come to Berlin from his village? For he had come into the world in a village: as the child of a mother who had made off soon after his birth and was roaming the world (if she was still alive) and of a father, who—one of many guests on the estate where his mother was employed—had taken her, then thrown her aside (but otherwise was supposed to have been a distinguished gentleman).
Grandparents had to rear him as well as they could. He grew, attended the village school, and became apprenticed to a merchant. The whole day he emptied sacks, filled bags, weighed, and sold them—presumably for four years as an apprentice and then also for the rest of his life.
He never left the village, and so his life had passed uneventfully up to the day of Max Friedrichsen’s return. Max was another village boy with whom he sat on the same school bench, with whom he was later confirmed. One day, all of a sudden, Max vanished from the village. Then, just as unexpectedly, Max reappeared around Christmas and by his appearance set the village boys into a state of
“Who do you want? Max Friedrichsen?”—and a flood of verbal abuse poured over the disconcerted boy, from which he gathered only that Max had lived there, that he had skipped out without paying, and finally that he had “hauled those guys up here,” and that if he, yes he, didn’t get out right away, then she would have the police called to arrest him, for he too was certainly one of the “queer boys” and looked just like one.
Then the crying of other children sounded in the background, the door was slammed, and the boy was glad to be able to steal down the stairs again. That was really a frightful woman. Compared with her, the farmer women who shopped in the store in his village, raising beastly outcries when they thought they were being cheated of a penny, were the purest angels!
He was actually trembling. Then with the thought that he did not know where to look to find Max, he became entirely discouraged. He was on the verge of tears. What was he to do here—without him!
The best thing was to go right back home and take whatever he got. To do that, he had to go back to the train station where he had arrived yesterday. With tired feet he set out to retrace his path. He now had some experience in asking his way and he now also looked at the people first. That he could ride there still did not occur to him.
Dead tired, he finally arrived in late afternoon—down street after street and always new ones—at the Stettin Train Station. He was about to go up the stairs when the thought came to him to eat his fill first. He still had enough money for that.
This time he found a decent pub and a seat in a corner, where no one paid attention to him. After several sandwiches and a glass of beer his situation no longer seemed quite so desperate. While paying, he saw that he still had a good deal of money, more than twenty marks. He immediately ordered another glass of beer and remained seated.
He thought the situation over. He had enough for another couple of days. If forced to return home after all, then he at least wanted first to see more of Berlin. And maybe he would find Max yet. Berlin was big, but not so big that you might not find someone you were looking for in two days.
For today, however, he had to sleep again, tired as he was from the long walk and even more from the unaccustomed beer.
So he walked up to the train station, fetched his box, and then searched the side streets for a hotel. One stood beside another. He only had to choose.
He then also found a room, a small and narrow one in which there was not much more than a bed, but it cost only one mark fifty for the night, which an old waiter in a black, greasy tailcoat immediately took.
Again the boy sank at once into the deep and dreamless sleep of his healthy youth.
*
Why had he come to Berlin from his village? For he had come into the world in a village: as the child of a mother who had made off soon after his birth and was roaming the world (if she was still alive) and of a father, who—one of many guests on the estate where his mother was employed—had taken her, then thrown her aside (but otherwise was supposed to have been a distinguished gentleman).
Grandparents had to rear him as well as they could. He grew, attended the village school, and became apprenticed to a merchant. The whole day he emptied sacks, filled bags, weighed, and sold them—presumably for four years as an apprentice and then also for the rest of his life.
He never left the village, and so his life had passed uneventfully up to the day of Max Friedrichsen’s return. Max was another village boy with whom he sat on the same school bench, with whom he was later confirmed. One day, all of a sudden, Max vanished from the village. Then, just as unexpectedly, Max reappeared around Christmas and by his appearance set the village boys into a state of