figure in the maneuvers, with the story of a major who even fell off his horse in front of the assembled general staff and still wasn’t kicked out of the service. And do you remember …”
With that the two friends lost themselves in mutual reminiscences, and their voices became more animated. But that didn’t matter. The café had begun to fill, and the waiters were busy running about with beer glasses amid a hum of voices. The two men’s conversation was just one of many.
After a while, when they had remembered enough and laughed enough, the Rittmeister said: “I would like to ask you something, Studmann. I live so much alone on my bit of land and meet only the same people. But you are here in the capital and in such a swell place at that you must surely hear and know more than any of us.”
“Ah, but who knows anything nowadays?” asked Studmann, and smiled. “Believe me, even Prime Minister Cuno hasn’t the slightest idea what will happen tomorrow.”
But Prackwitz followed up his idea. He sat there, leaning back a little, his long legs crossed, smoking in ease and comfort. “You think, perhaps, I’m free from your worries—Prackwitz has an estate and is a great man. But I’m not very secure. I have to be very cautious. Neulohe doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to my father-in-law, old Herr von Teschow—I married little Eva Teschow long before the war—I beg your pardon, you know my wife, of course. Well, I’ve rented Neulohe from my father-in-law—and the old boy didn’t let me have it for nothing, I can tell you. Sometimes I’ve frightful worries. In any case, I must be very prudent. Neulohe is our only means of existence, and if things went wrong, the old man doesn’t love me and he’d take away my bit of land on the least provocation.”
“And what would happen to you?”
“Well, you know, I’m no hermit, and Eva still less, so we’ve our scrap of social life in the district and, of course, also with the comrades of the Reichswehr. And one hears all sorts of things and all sorts of rumors.”
“And what do you see and hear yourself?”
“That something’s on the boil again, Studmann. I’m not blind. The countryside is full to the brim with people—fatigue parties they call themselves, but you’ve only to look at them. ‘Black Reichswehr’ goes the whisper.”
“That may be because of the Allied Powers and the Control Commission, commission for snoopers.”
“They may be burying arms, of course, digging them up again and fetching them away; that might account for it. But it’s not only that, Studmann; there’s agood deal more than rumor, and there’s more going on than before. No doubt they are enlisting supporters among the civilian population, maybe in my own village—the proprietor is usually the last person to hear that his house is burning. Neulohe borders on Altlohe, where there are many industrial workers; that means, of course, war to the knife between them and us of the manor and the farmers at Neulohe. For one side has the food and the others the appetite, and it’s like a powder barrel. If it goes up in the air, I shall go with it.”
“I can’t see quite how you can prevent it,” said von Studmann.
“Prevent it? … But perhaps I’ll have to decide whether to join with them or not. One doesn’t want to stand out against one’s friends. They’re the old comrades in the Reichswehr, Studmann, and if they’re taking a risk in order to get us out of the mire and I haven’t gone in with them, I should die of shame. Yes, but perhaps it’s only talk, worked up by a few adventurers, a hopeless Putsch— and to risk for that one’s estate, living and family …” The Rittmeister looked questioningly at Studmann.
“Haven’t you got anybody in the Reichswehr whom you could ask in confidence?”
“Good heavens, Studmann. Naturally I could ask, but who knows? In this sort of thing only three or four people are ever really in the know, and they
With that the two friends lost themselves in mutual reminiscences, and their voices became more animated. But that didn’t matter. The café had begun to fill, and the waiters were busy running about with beer glasses amid a hum of voices. The two men’s conversation was just one of many.
After a while, when they had remembered enough and laughed enough, the Rittmeister said: “I would like to ask you something, Studmann. I live so much alone on my bit of land and meet only the same people. But you are here in the capital and in such a swell place at that you must surely hear and know more than any of us.”
“Ah, but who knows anything nowadays?” asked Studmann, and smiled. “Believe me, even Prime Minister Cuno hasn’t the slightest idea what will happen tomorrow.”
But Prackwitz followed up his idea. He sat there, leaning back a little, his long legs crossed, smoking in ease and comfort. “You think, perhaps, I’m free from your worries—Prackwitz has an estate and is a great man. But I’m not very secure. I have to be very cautious. Neulohe doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to my father-in-law, old Herr von Teschow—I married little Eva Teschow long before the war—I beg your pardon, you know my wife, of course. Well, I’ve rented Neulohe from my father-in-law—and the old boy didn’t let me have it for nothing, I can tell you. Sometimes I’ve frightful worries. In any case, I must be very prudent. Neulohe is our only means of existence, and if things went wrong, the old man doesn’t love me and he’d take away my bit of land on the least provocation.”
“And what would happen to you?”
“Well, you know, I’m no hermit, and Eva still less, so we’ve our scrap of social life in the district and, of course, also with the comrades of the Reichswehr. And one hears all sorts of things and all sorts of rumors.”
“And what do you see and hear yourself?”
“That something’s on the boil again, Studmann. I’m not blind. The countryside is full to the brim with people—fatigue parties they call themselves, but you’ve only to look at them. ‘Black Reichswehr’ goes the whisper.”
“That may be because of the Allied Powers and the Control Commission, commission for snoopers.”
“They may be burying arms, of course, digging them up again and fetching them away; that might account for it. But it’s not only that, Studmann; there’s agood deal more than rumor, and there’s more going on than before. No doubt they are enlisting supporters among the civilian population, maybe in my own village—the proprietor is usually the last person to hear that his house is burning. Neulohe borders on Altlohe, where there are many industrial workers; that means, of course, war to the knife between them and us of the manor and the farmers at Neulohe. For one side has the food and the others the appetite, and it’s like a powder barrel. If it goes up in the air, I shall go with it.”
“I can’t see quite how you can prevent it,” said von Studmann.
“Prevent it? … But perhaps I’ll have to decide whether to join with them or not. One doesn’t want to stand out against one’s friends. They’re the old comrades in the Reichswehr, Studmann, and if they’re taking a risk in order to get us out of the mire and I haven’t gone in with them, I should die of shame. Yes, but perhaps it’s only talk, worked up by a few adventurers, a hopeless Putsch— and to risk for that one’s estate, living and family …” The Rittmeister looked questioningly at Studmann.
“Haven’t you got anybody in the Reichswehr whom you could ask in confidence?”
“Good heavens, Studmann. Naturally I could ask, but who knows? In this sort of thing only three or four people are ever really in the know, and they
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