Iron Gustav by Hans Fallada Page A

of suspense should prove to have been endured in vain.
    Suddenly the crowd became as still as if it were holding its breath … Nothing had happened – nothing yet – but the clocks in the steeples were striking from far and near, quickly, slowly, deep-toned, high. It was five o’clock.
    Nothing had happened yet; the crowd was waiting breathlessly …
    Then the great gate opened, opened slowly, very slowly, and out came … a policeman, a Berlin policeman in blue uniform and spiked helmet.
    They stared …
    Climbing up on a balustrade, he made a signal for silence.
    They were already silent …
    The policeman removed his helmet, held it before his chest. Breathlessly they followed every movement, though he was no more than an ordinary policeman, the kind to be seen any day in any of the Berlin streets … And yet he made an indelible impression. They were to see monstrous and terrible things during the coming years, but they would never forget that Berlin policeman who had taken off his helmet and was holding it in front of him.
    The man on the balustrade opened his mouth; every eye was fixed on those lips. What would come forth? Life or Death, War or Peace?
    The policeman spoke. ‘By order of His Majesty the Kaiser I announce that a state of mobilization has been proclaimed.’
    Closing his mouth, he gazed over the countless heads; with the jerky movements of a puppet, he put on his helmet.
    For a moment the crowd was silent; then a voice here and there started to sing, and hundreds – thousands – of voices joined in:
Now praise we all our God
    With hearts and hands and voices …
    In jerks, like a puppet, the policeman took off his helmet again.
§ II
    Along Unter den Linden motor cars tore along with officers standing up in them waving flags. Through their cupped hands they were shouting: ‘Called up! Called up!’
    People were laughing and cheering and throwing flowers; girls had pulled off their large straw hats to swing them round by the ribbons, and were shouting, enraptured: ‘War! War!’
    It was the officers’ hour – for forty long years there had been nothing but parades and drills, till men had become heartily sick of life; people had hardly turned to look back at them, they had become so ordinary. Now everyone was cheering them, with shining eyes; they were going to fight and perhaps die for the freedom and peace of everyone.
    ‘That I should live to see this day!’ cried old Hackendahl amid the surge of enthusiasm. ‘Everything’ll be all right now.’
    Heinz was clinging to one arm and Eva to the other; they let themselves drift along with the people, laughing. In high spirits Eva was kissing her hands to the officers in the cars.
    ‘Oh, Father!’ cried Heinz pressing his father’s arm.
    ‘What is it, Bubi?’ In the turmoil Hackendahl had to bend down to hear.
    ‘Father!’ Bubi was quite out of breath. ‘Father …’ At last he managed to speak. ‘Couldn’t I go too?’
    ‘Go where?’ Old Hackendahl did not understand him.
    ‘Go to … the war … to the Front. Please, Father!’
    ‘But, Bubi,’ said old Hackendahl teasingly and yet with pride, ‘you’re only thirteen. You’re still a child.’
    ‘It would be possible, Father, if you gave permission. If you sent me to your old regiment. They do have drummer boys, I know that.’
    ‘Drummer boys! And you the son of an old soldier! We Germans never have drummer boys – perhaps the Frenchies do.’
    ‘Father!’
    ‘Hold tight, Evchen, hold tight! We’ve got to get home now, to tell Otto – he won’t know yet. If they’re mobilizing today, he’ll have to present himself tomorrow at the latest. Or even today … I don’t know. Quick, let’s get home, I’ll have to see what it says in his papers.’
    It was a stiff battle to make any progress at all against the human tide and they had to clutch one another so as not to be separated.
    Heinz looked cautiously at old Hackendahl. ‘Father …’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Don’t be