Free Wolf Among Wolves by Hans Fallada

that make? I can’t tie you down. Marriage or no marriage—if you want me everything is all right, and if you don’t …” She broke off, smiled at him. “Now you’ve got to hurry, Wolf. Uncle closes at twelve for lunch, and perhaps there’s really a line.” She handed him the suitcase, she gave him a kiss. “Good luck, Wolf.”
    He would have liked to say something, but could not think what.
    So he took the case and went.

Chapter Three
Hunters and Hunted
    I
    At Neulohe Manor the little bailiff Meier, nicknamed Black Meier, was so tired out by eleven or twelve in the morning that he could have fallen into bed as he was, in coat and leggings, and have slept till next day. He sat, however, and nodded drowsily in the long dry grass at the edge of a rye field, well hidden from view by a group of pine trees.
    He had been up since three o’clock that morning, handing out the fodder in the steaming stables, supervising the feeding, watching the milking, looking to the cleaning of the cattle. At four o’clock he had got in the rapeseed, which must be carted in the morning dew, so that it does not droop. At a quarter to seven, standing, he had swallowed a cup of coffee and some food. And from seven onward the usual routine. Then a message had come from the rye field that both reaping and binding machines had broken down. He had hurried thither with the smith, had tinkered with the machines; now they were rattling again; still rattling—how tired he was! He was tired not only because of yesterday: now he was also tired from today. How he would like to drop asleep, bask in the sun! But before twelve he had to be in the sugar-beet field to see whether the overseer, Kowalewski, and his gang were doing the hoeing properly and not scamping the work.
    Meier’s bicycle lay in the ditch a few yards away. But he was too lazy to get on it; he simply couldn’t. His limbs and especially his throat felt as if they were smothered by a thick layer of fatigue. When he lay quite still this fatigue rested more lightly on him, so to speak, but if he moved only a leg, it irked as if made of bristles.
    He lit a cigarette, puffed at it contentedly and gazed at his dirty and worn-out shoes. He needed new ones, but the Rittmeister was an unapproachable man, and 500,000 marks was an unheard-of salary for a bailiff. If he waited for the dollar rate on the first of the month, perhaps he would not even be able to have the shoes soled. There were many things needed on Neulohe Estate—two more on the staff, for instance—but the Rittmeister was a great man and had discovered that he could do everything himself. The hell he could! Todayhe had gone to Berlin to fetch harvesters; in any case he couldn’t rout a poor bailiff out of his morning nap. One was curious what sort of people he’d bring back with him. That is, if he brought any at all! Oh, damn—!
    Meier lay back, his cigarette slipped into the corner of his mouth, and he pushed his trilby hat over his eyes as protection against the burning sun.… The women in the beet field could pickle themselves with their Kowalewski, for all he cared; they were a cheeky lot. Kowalewski, though, had a smart daughter; one would not have thought it of him. She ought to come from Berlin here for a holiday again; he could manage her all right. How warm it was! As hot as an oven. If only there was no storm! Otherwise all the crops, would get soaked, and he would have to clear up the mess. They ought to have got them in before, of course, but the Rittmeister was a great man and a weather prophet besides. “It won’t rain, don’t bring in the crops, selah!”
    Thank God, the reaping and binding machines were still clattering, and he could go on lying here. But he mustn’t fall asleep or he wouldn’t wake up before evening, and the Rittmeister would hear about it at once and tomorrow he’d be thrown out. That wouldn’t be too dreadful; at least one could sleep one’s fill for once.
    Yes, indeed, that