Ernst Haffner - Blood Brothers

Linienstrasse, the section between Neue König- and Prenzlauer Strasse, is all secondhand dealers, one after another. They all deal in old shoes. Ludwig stumbles down into one basement. Willi waits on the street with the sacks. “Come on down!” calls Ludwig. The sacks are emptied out in front of the counter, and the dealer picks out what he thinks he can use. Eleven pairs meet his standards. Price? Ludwig notes the numbers, consults his list: “Those eleven pairs … come to … eight marks twenty.” The dealer checks each individual shoe and boot, frowns, as the boys had done when they were buying. He offers them seven marks. Ludwig wants seven-fifty, and they finally settle on seven marks and twenty-five pfennigs. Their first transaction is in the bag. They undertake to supply the dealer on a regular basis. Outside, Ludwig is jubilant: “That’s a great price! Thirty pfennigs over our markup!”

The second dealer is a bit stickier, but he still ends up taking five pairs for three marks. “Not bad either,” Ludwig grins, outside. With the next dealer, it’s “Papa’s just out getting a shave,” and a fourth is only willing to pay peanuts. “Nothing doing, sir.” Ludwig shows him the cold shoulder. “Good wares for a good price.” In the Grosse Hamburger Strasse, a woman dealer buys up their remaining stock. Thirteen pairs. Twelve pairs bought, the thirteenth thrown in, for goodwill. She’ll not buy thirteen, thirteen is unlucky. But she pays a good price for twelve. Twelve marks. The boys roll up their empty sacks, and their first thought is to hightail it out of the dangerous area. On the bus they count their takings: twenty-two marks and twenty-five pfennigs! Deduct their investment of eight marks, leaves a profit margin of fourteen marks and twenty-five pfennigs. “All in one day, Willi! And we’ve earned it!” Over a glass of beer they relax and speculate on the future. And then it’s back to work. Today’s harvest, twelve pairs, needs to be put in shape.

Frau Bauerbach asks what happened with registering with the police. Their exhilarated mood is quickly deflated. Did they really forget for the whole of one day that they are borstal youths, wanted by the police? They buy registration forms, fill them in with made-up details, and Frau Bauerbach has them countersigned by the concierge. She is grateful to the boys for offering to take them to the police station for her and saving her the journey. When they come back after a while and say, “All done, Frau Bauerbach, we’re legal,” they feel choked with anxiety. If she demands to see the officially stamped registration forms, they’re toast. They’d have to go back to the gang. But Frau Bauerbach is a credulous soul. “Lovely! Now, what about some coffee?” “No, thank you, not just yet,” replies Ludwig, as his fear turns into quiet glee. That was close. Now, live discreetly and keep a lookout, and everything might still turn out okay.

The twelve pairs of shoes are fixed up and cleaned. For supper they treat themselves to some fresh rolls, butter and boiled ham. They’ve bought a few oranges as well. It’s Christmas in a fortnight. Christmas? Where were we this time last year? Willi was in the institution. Ludwig needs to think about it for a long time. Then it comes to him: how could he have forgotten? Half-starved, and without an abode for a long time. If he managed to pick up two marks in the Tiergarten for sex, he felt rich. So rich that he could afford to eat for a day, and spend a night on a bedbug-infested mattress. “Oh, Willi, if only we could stay here at Mother Bauerbach’s … when I think about going back to the gang now … No, anything but that … anything but that!” They go to bed. The next day it’s the turn of Kaiser-Friedrich-Strasse. “Good morning. We’re paying up to two marks …”

THE BLOOD BROTHERS ARE INCREASINGLY TURNINGinto a gang of professional criminals. Hunger? A thing of the past! Running around in rags and with no home? We’re past that. Fred, the influencer and seducer, has the gang firmly in his grip. Heinz and Georg, who to begin with put up some resistance, are dazzled by the amount of money so effortlessly earned, and all of them have now dismissed their doubts. Ludwig and Willi, the two prize idiots, have apparently got themselves nabbed again by the cops. The profitable pickpocketing excursions to department stores and weekly markets and market halls are continued.

But there are new opportunities too: break-ins, auto thefts! The loot always winds up back at godfather Gotthelf’s, and is then farmed out to fences. Stolen cars are immediately driven by Fred (the only one who can drive) to someplace in the provinces. There, there are various helpers’ helpers, who spray the cars and move them on. A stolen car in good nick can bring in three to five hundred marks. And Fred won’t even look at rotten cars. For instance, take the day before yesterday: the Adler that Fred picked up outside a bar in the West End. It still smelled of factory. Of course Fred filled her up and roared off down to Leipzig.

Jonny is sitting with the rest of the boys at godfather Gotthelf’s on Badstrasse. They are waiting for Fred, he had reckoned to be back by six. Here comes a post cyclist with a wire for Gotthelf. “Who’s sending me love letters by express delivery then!?” Damn, that’s Fred’s writing, thinks Jonny. A scribbled note: Jonny, the police are on my tail, but they’re keeping their distance. Clear Badstrasse right away, and run. Go to Ulli’s. If I can get away this time I’ll see you there at midnight. Watch yourselves, maybe you have a visitor already. Fred. They all stand there, trembling and pale. Only Gotthelf, the old jailbird, remarks casually: “Oh, Gollnow’s not such a bad place …” Jonny tells everyone to wrap the stolen loot, consisting mainly of ladies’ silk stockings, into small parcels. Then he goes out on the street to see if there’s any sign of the coppers yet.

He knows he can be arrested at any moment. Calmly he stands there in the doorway, puffs at a cigarette and looks idly left and right. As usual in the early evening, there’s a lot of people out and about on Badstrasse. But no sign of anything out of the ordinary. After a quarter of an hour, he gives orders for the goods to be shifted to Ulli’s summer house. At intervals of a few minutes, the boys go off, one by one, each with a small parcel, to 80th Street, Section 2 (provisional). As luck would have it, Ulli is home. In return for a share, he agrees to put up the goods and the Blood Brothers both. An hour later, the move is complete. Gotthelf’s apartment is clean. Now let the cops come. “A fence? What, me? You’d need to come up with some sort of evidence for that first, sirs.”

On the last trip to Ulli’s, Jonny stops off and buys a roll of greaseproof paper. All the goods are wrapped up in that. A hole is dug behind the summer house: put all the stuff in there. Stamp it down, pour a couple of pails of gravel over the top. No sign of anything. So as not to betray the dark summer house, Ulli keeps the stove fed with coke, which produces a minimum amount of smoke. Four of the Brothers are sent out to buy two blankets apiece. There’s no shortage of money. To spend a winter’s night in a summer house is a chilly pleasure. Rum and sugar are bought, and food. Before long, they’re all sitting in front of a blazing stove, quietly discussing whether Fred will have managed to give the police the slip. The howling wind whistles, and rain lashes the small, thickly draped window. It’s so warm in the summer house that the damp wooden walls are steaming.

It’s long past midnight, and still no sign of Fred. The Blood Brothers are lying on their blankets, completely dressed. Who knows, they may have to scarper at a moment’s notice. Finally, at almost two, there’s the noise of a dog barking. It’s Fred’s signal! But the boys still don’t make a move. Only when a solid object is scraped against the door, up and down, down and up, are they certain that it’s Fred. Happy, totally wet through, but not in the least out of sorts, Fred flops onto a blanket. “Hey there, boys! Just fix me up a grog first, will you?” He gulps down the hot strong drink and lights a cigarette. “I laughed! I just went by Gotthelf’s in a taxi. Have you any idea how many detectives are hanging around there? I saw three right off, two in the rain on the other side of the street in an entrance, and one in Gotthelf’s passageway. Hunkered down in a corner, pretending to be an alkie! They must have been desperate to meet us …”