Wolf Among Wolves by Hans Fallada

hour. If nothing happens.” He smiled at Prackwitz. “But actually something always does.”
    “You have a great deal to do?” Prackwitz asked, a little confused.
    “Good heavens,” Studmann laughed abruptly. “If you ask the others, the elevator boys or the waiters or the porters, they’ll tell you that I’ve nothing to do, that I only stand about. And yet in the evening I’m as dog-tired as when we had squadron drill or the Old Man put us through our paces.”
    “I suppose there’s an Old Man here, too?”
    “One? Ten, twelve. Managing director, three directors, four assistant directors, three head clerks, two confidential clerks …”
    “Stop, please.”
    “But on the whole it isn’t so bad. It has much in common with the army. Orders. Obedience. A perfect organization.…”
    “But civilians only,” murmured Prackwitz disparagingly, and thought of Neulohe, where obedience did not always follow upon orders by a long way.
    “Naturally,” acknowledged Studmann. “It’s somewhat freer than at that time, easier. Therefore, more difficult for the individual, I would add. Someone gives an order, and you don’t know exactly whether he has a right to give it. No clearly defined authority, you know.”
    “But it was sometimes like that with us,” argued Prackwitz. “An officer with special instructions, you know.”
    “Certainly. But on the whole you can say it’s an amazing organization, a model large-scale undertaking. You should see our linen presses. Or the kitchen. Or the checking-in department. Amazing, I can tell you.”
    “So you get some fun out of it?” the Rittmeister asked cautiously.
    Studmann’s animation died away. “Dear, dear, fun? Well, perhaps. But that doesn’t matter. We have to live somehow, go on living after all that’s happened. We must go on living. In spite of the fact that at one time one had other ideas.”
    Prackwitz cast a searching look at the clouded face of his friend. Why “must,” he thought, a little annoyed. Then he found the only possible explanation. “You’re married? Got children?” he asked.
    “I?” Studmann was surprised. “No, no. What an idea!”
    “No, no, of course not,” said the Rittmeister rather guiltily.
    “After all, why not? But it didn’t turn out like that,” said von Studmann, pondering. “And nowadays? No, when the mark becomes worth less daily, when one has one’s work cut out to scrape together a little money for oneself—”
    “Money? Muck!” said the Rittmeister sharply.
    “Yes, of course,” replied Studmann in a low voice. “Muck—I quite understand. I also understood your question of a moment ago—or rather your thoughts. Why I’m doing this against my will, as you think, for such muck.” Prackwitz wanted to protest, in some confusion. “Oh, don’t talk, Prackwitz,” said von Studmann, for the first time with feeling. “I know you. Money—muck! That’s no mere inflation wisdom of yours; you used to think like that before. You? We all did. Money was something that went without saying. We had our allowances from home and a few pence from the regiment. One didn’t talk about it. And if now and then one couldn’t pay immediately for some article, the man just had to wait. Wasn’t it like that? Money wasn’t worth thinking about.” Prackwitz shook his head and wanted to make an objection, but Studmann went on hurriedly. “Please, Prackwitz, roughly speaking, it was like that. But nowadays I’m quite sure we took up a wrong attitude, not having the faintest idea of the world. Money, I’ve discovered meanwhile, is something very important, something which is worth thinking about.”
    “Money!” exclaimed von Prackwitz indignantly. “If it were real money. But this paper stuff …”
    “Prackwitz,” said Studmann reproachfully, “what do you mean by real money? Such a thing doesn’t exist at all, just as there exists no unreal money. Money is simply the basis of existence, the bread we must eat