Free Nightmare in Berlin by Hans Fallada

began to shake his head with a weirdly mechanical persistence, like some nodding Buddha.
    â€˜Pssst! Pssst!’ said the landlord, as if he was shooing some hens away. ‘Don’t do it, Willem!’
    For a moment Doll had stared fixedly at this Buddha-like figure shaking his head, but now he raised his hand and slapped the slanderer lightly in the face with his open palm.
    At this, the witnesses to this scene vented their collective relief with a long-suppressed ‘Ah!’
    â€˜That’s it!’ said the landlord, plainly relieved that the slap had not been harder — and that Wilhelm had not hit back.
    For a moment Doll had gazed into the face of his enemy, with a look that was both menacing and relieved. The violent urges that fought within him had calmed down; he was finally free again, free from hatred and free from anger. But then something awful happened, something utterly unexpected: two large, clear tears welled up from the expressionless eyes of the old man. For a moment, they hung on the edge of his eyelids, then rolled slowly down his cheeks. More tears followed, more and more, until they were streaming down his leathery nutcracker face, making it all shiny. His throat began to heave and sob: ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ sobbed the old vet. ‘Oh, my God, he hit me, he hit me in the face with his hand! What am I to do?! Oh! Oh! Oh! I can’t look anyone in the face any more, I shall have to kill myself! Oh! Oh! Oh!’
    When Doll struck him, the sympathies of everyone in the room were undoubtedly on his side, as attested by the deep sigh of relief that came from their throats. But the old vet’s tears changed all that. Doll was convinced from the outset that they were only crocodile tears, carefully calculated to negate the effect of his chastisement and get the townsfolk on the victim’s side.
    â€˜Oh! Oh! Oh!’ sobbed Dr. Wilhelm, as the tears continued to flow. ‘He hit me — today of all days, on my sixty-third birthday! And I’ve never done anything to him. I’ve always stood up for him when other people were speaking ill of him. I was so grateful to him for all the wine he gave me!’
    At these last words, Doll felt all his anger and hatred flare up again. He vividly recalled the whole episode where he had forced the vet to leave the table because he was helping himself too freely to the wine. The slanderous rumours had begun, not because he had given him so much wine on so many occasions, but because he had once refused him wine. ‘That’s enough!’ he cried angrily. ‘You’re just an old scandalmonger and gossip, and that’s why I slapped you. And if you carry on with your lies here, I’ll slap you again — never mind your fake tears!’ And he raised his hand as if to strike.
    But Doll had reckoned without the other people in the room. They should have known what kind of a man old Piglet Willem was, and indeed they knew him of old, and thought very little of him. But in the face of these tears and laments, they promptly cast experience aside and abandoned their reason. The sight of an old man breaking down in sobs always touches the emotions, and so they all now ganged up on Doll, led by the landlord of the station bar: ‘Look here, that’s enough now! Surely you’re not going to hit the old man again! I think it’s best if you leave now — you can take your open bottle of wine with you!’
    And in an instant, Doll was hustled away from his enemy, he was handed his hat, the landlord quickly put a stopper in the wine bottle and placed it in his briefcase, and the next moment Doll found himself standing outside on the station forecourt. Looking troubled as he gazed at him through bloodshot eyes, the landlord said: ‘You never should have done that, Mr. Doll. You’ll turn the whole town against you now! A gentleman doesn’t do that kind of thing — hitting people! Well, maybe