Transcriber’s Notes
Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by ♦, ♣
symbols in the text. The change description is shown immediately
below the paragraph or section in which the correction appears.
Details and other notes may be found at the end of this text.
EMIL
AND THE DETECTIVES
_A Story for Children_
BY
ERICH KÄSTNER
Translated by
MAY MASSEE
[Illustration: (Image of Emil)]
ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER TRIER
Doubleday & Company, Inc.
Garden City New York
[Illustration: Doubleday]
COPYRIGHT, 1929, 1930
BY DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
But the Story Does Not Begin Yet 1
I Emil Helps to Shampoo 35
II Policeman Jeschke Keeps Still 45
III The Trip to Berlin Can Start 53
IV A Dream in Which There Is Much Running 63
V Emil Gets Off at the Wrong Station 75
VI Street Car Line 177 85
VII Excitement in Schumann Street 95
VIII The Boy with the Auto Horn Turns up 101
IX The Detectives Assemble 113
X A Taxi Is Trailed 125
XI A Spy Slips into the Hotel 139
XII A Green Elevator Boy Bursts from His Cocoon 147
XIII Herr Grundeis Acquires a Guard of Honor 157
XIV Pins Have Their Good Points Too 167
XV Emil Visits Police Headquarters 177
XVI The Police Commissioner Sends His Regards 195
XVII Frau Tischbein Is All Excited 205
XVIII Can Anything Be Learned from It All? 219
ILLUSTRATIONS
Emil himself 15
Frau Friseuse Tischbein, Emil’s mother 17
A rather important train compartment 19
The man in the stiff hat 21
Pony Hütchen, Emil’s cousin 23
The hotel ♦on Nollendorf Place 25
The boy with the automobile horn 27 The little branch bank 29
Emil’ grandmother 31
The composing room of a great paper 33
Herr Grundeis slept and snored a bit 59
Emil ran away as fast as he could 69
“There, what do you say?” asked Gustav, his face all smiles 109
Little Dienstag noted it all down conscientiously 133
The ♣reporters had many questions to ask 189
Pony Hütchen ran from one to the other pouring chocolate 215
♦ “in” replaced with “on”
♣ “reporter” replaced with “reporters”
THIS EXPLAINS ABOUT SOME OF THE NAMES
There is no need to tell you that we like this story and believe you
will like it too or we would not have translated it for you. But there
is need for a word about the German names.
One of the ways to play with any language is to make up names that
sound like real names when you roll them around on your tongue or
that are real names, but perhaps are used as puns or in some way that
pokes a little fun. You remember Henry Hagglyhoagly in the _Rootabaga
Stories_? That name has a nice amusing sound and makes you know right
away that Mr. Sandburg was enjoying himself when he invented it.
In the story about Emil we think Mr. Kästner has entertained himself in
naming his people. Some of the names have no special meaning, but some
of them have—and they all have a good German sound. So we have left the
names just as they are in the German version. We thought you might like
to pronounce them.
But so that you can know what some of the names stand for, if you
want to, we are giving you the meanings here in the order in which the
names appear in the book. If you read this through, you will understand
the names when you come to them.
First you must know that _Herr_ is Mr., _Frau_ is Mrs., and
_Fräu-lein_ is Miss. Then you must remember that _e_ is often
pronounced like long _a_ and that _i_ is often pronounced like long
_e_ so that _Emil_ is pronounced as if it began with a long _a_.
It’s a good name. _Pe-ter-sil-ie_ means Parsley—a nice silly name
in any language. _Di-a-mant-en Wasch-frau Leh-mann_ means Mrs.
Lehmann who washes the diamonds. _Fie-del-bo-gen_ means Fiddle bow.
_Nie-ten-führ_ means Riveter, and there’s point in that name as you
will see. _Neu-ge-bau-ers_ means New builders. _Tisch-bein_ means
Table leg. _Frau Fri-seu-se Tisch-bein_ is supposed to be rather
elegant because _Friseuse_ is the French word. It means Hairdresser.
_Klemp-ner-mei-ster_ means Master plumber. _Pony Hüt-chen_ means Pony
Little cap, a pet name, of course. She is sort of staunch like a pony
and rather saucy. _Müller_ is Miller. _Bäc-ker-mei-ster Wirth_ is
really two names like a hyphenated name. _Bäckermeister_ means Master
baker and _Wirth_ means Landlord—naturally a very important person.
_Nau-mann_ is Newman. _Fleisch-er-mei-ster_ is Head butcher.
_Grund-eis_ is Ground ice. _Kurz-hals_ is Short neck. _Neu-stadt_
is New city. _Diens-tag_ is Tuesday and means service day or sort
of office day, so you’ll see the little _Dienstag_ was well named.
_Krumm-biegel_ means Bandy legged. _Stuhl-bein_ means Chair leg,
_Fisch-bein_ means Fish leg and _Über-bein_ means Extra leg. These
names would not sound like names if they were translated, but in German
they all sound like ordinary names. Only when you stop to think what
they mean you can’t help smiling a little. They’re a sort of joke on
German names. So we have left them just as they are and hope you will
enjoy them with the story.
It only remains to give heartfelt thanks to Donald Robinson who
corrected the whole translation as if it were a school exercise and to
Rosika Schwimmer and Gretchen Gugler who read the corrected translation
very carefully and gave much help with idioms and slang and to Ernest
Reichl who found this book for us.
MAY MASSEE.
Garden City, New York.
August, 1930.
But the Story Does Not Begin Yet
I might as well tell you—this affair of Emil’s was a great surprise
to me. As a matter of fact, I wanted to write an entirely different
book: a book in which tigers would gnash their teeth and date palms
rattle their coconuts in sheer terror! And the little black and white
checked cannibal maid who swam across the Pacific Ocean to get herself
a toothbrush from Drinkwater & Company in San Francisco was to be
called Petersilie. By her first name only, of course.
A real South Sea romance was what I had in mind. Because once a man
with a Santa Claus beard told me that was what you would like best to
read.
And the first three chapters were all finished to the last dot. The
chieftain, Carrion Crow, also called the Fast Mail, was just cocking
his knife, piled high with baked apple, aiming in cold blood and
counting as fast as he could to three hundred and ninety-seven....
All of a sudden, I didn’t know how many legs has a whale! I stretched
myself flat on the floor, because I can always meditate better that
way, and I thought it over. But this time it didn’t help a bit. I
looked through the encyclopedia. I searched all through the “W”
volume—not a word about it. And I had to know for certain if I was
going to write any more. I absolutely had to _know_.
Because unless at this very moment the whale with the twisted leg were
to come walking out of the primeval forest, the chieftain, Carrion
Crow, also called the Fast Mail, could not possibly hit him.
And if he didn’t hit the whale with his baked apples, then the tiny
black and white cannibal maid called Petersilie would never in her life
meet the Diamanten-Waschfrau Lehmann.
And if Petersilie didn’t meet Frau Lehmann she never would receive the
exchange coupon which you had to present to Drinkwater & Company in San
Francisco if you wanted to get a brand-new shiny toothbrush free. Yes,
and then....
My South Sea romance—and I had been so pleased over it—wrecked as it
were on the legs of a whale! I hope you understand. I was frightfully
sorry. And when I told Fräulein Fiedelbogen about it she almost
wept. Only she really didn’t have time just then, because she had to
set the table for supper, so she postponed the weeping till later. And
then she forgot all about it. Just like a woman!
I wanted to call the book _Petersilie in the Jungle_. A swell title,
wasn’t it? But at present the first three chapters are lying at home
under the leg of the table to keep it from wobbling. And I ask you, is
that the right sort of an occupation for a romance that started in the
South Seas?
The head waiter, Nietenführ, with whom I frequently talk over my work,
inquired a few days later whether I really ever had been down there.
“Down where?” I asked him.
“Why, in the South Seas and Australia and Sumatra and Borneo and
around.”
“No,” I said, “but why?”
“Because a man can write only about things he knows and has seen,” he
answered coldly.
“I beg to differ, my dear Nietenführ.”
“But that’s as clear as thick ink,” he went on. “The Neugebauers—they
live right here in our neighborhood—actually had a little servant girl
who had never watched anybody roast a fowl. And last Christmas she was
supposed to be roasting the goose while Frau Neugebauer was doing
her shopping, and when she came home there was a pretty mess! The girl
had put the goose in the oven just as it had been bought in the market.
Not singed, not cut open, not cleaned. There was a horrible stench, I
can tell you.”
“What of it?” I answered, “and from that do I infer that you think
roasting geese and writing books are one and the same thing? Do not be
offended, dear Nietenführ, but I can’t help laughing at that.”
He waited for me to be through with my laughing. It didn’t take
very long either. And then he said, “Your South Seas, and your man
eaters, and your coral reefs—the whole show—that is your goose. And
the story—that is your oven in which the Pacific Ocean and little
Petersilie and the tigers are going to be cooked. And if you don’t know
how to cook such a kittle-kettle, then there will be a glorious smell.
Just as there was for the little servant girl at the Neugebauers’.”
“But that is exactly the way most authors do write!” I shouted.
“I wish them good appetites.” That was all he said.
I brooded over that for a while. Then I opened the conversation again.
“Herr Nietenführ, do you know Schiller?”
“Schiller? Do you mean the Schiller who is foreman at the Castle
Brewery?”
“Not at all,” I said, “but the poet Friedrich von Schiller, who
wrote a lot of plays for the theater, over a hundred years ago.”
“Oh, yes, that Schiller! The one with all those monuments!”
“Right. Once he wrote a piece about what happened in Switzerland. It is
called _William Tell_. School children always had to write exercises
about it.”
“We did too,” said Nietenführ. “I know that Tell. It’s a great play,
all right. You have to hand Schiller that. Give him what’s coming
to him. But the questions they asked us about it were frightful. I
remember one now. It was—‘Why did not Tell tremble when he aimed at the
apple?’ I got a Five in that one. But then tests were never my——”
“Yes, yes, but now let me have the floor,” I said. “And, mark you,
although Schiller never was in Switzerland in his whole life, still,
that play of William Tell is Swiss to the last comma.”
“He’d probably read his cook books beforehand,” commented Nietenführ.
“Cook books?”
“Certainly. Where you find everything: How high the mountains of
Switzerland are. And when the snow melts. And how it is when there’s
a terrible storm on Lake Lucerne. And how it was when the peasants
started a revolt against Governor Gessler.”
“You’re exactly right,” I said, “that’s certainly what Schiller did.”
“You see,” Nietenführ explained to me, as he flicked at a fly with his
napkin, “you see, if you do the same and read your books beforehand,
then of course you can write your kangaroo story of Australia too.”
“But that isn’t what I want to do at all. If I had the money I’d like
to go there and see everything for myself. On the spot! But read
books—bah!”
“Then I’ll give you an A-1 piece of advice,” he said. “It’s always best
to write about the things you know yourself. For instance, subways and
hotels and such things. And the children that run right before your
nose every day and are just like what we used to be.”
“But the man with the Santa Claus beard who knew children like his own
vest pocket told me emphatically that they didn’t like such stories.”
“Fiddlesticks!” snapped Herr Nietenführ. “You depend on what I tell
you. I have children of my own. Two boys and a little girl. And on my
day off I tell them about everything that happens right here in this
place: If someone skips without paying his check, or once, of a man who
was squiffed and made a grab for the cigarette boy but slapped a fine
lady who happened to be going by, instead. Then my children listen,
let me tell you, as if it was thundering in the cellar.”
“Well, if you think for a moment, Herr Nietenführ——” I said angrily.
“Just so, and you can take poison on that, Herr Kästner,” he called, as
he vanished because a guest was rapping his knife sharply against his
glass, wanting to pay his bill.
And so, simply because Headwaiter Nietenführ wanted it, I have written
a story about things that we, you and I, have known about for a long
time.
* * * * *
First I went back home, hung out of my window awhile, looked up and
down Prager Street, and thought perhaps the tale I wanted would pass
right by. Then I simply would have beckoned to it and said, “Oh,
please, just come up one flight! I would like so much to write you.”
But the story came and came not. And I began to freeze. So I slammed
the window down and ran around the table fifty-three times. And that
didn’t help.
Finally I stretched myself out on the floor again, just as before, and
spent a long time in deep meditation.
When you lie flat on the floor like that, the whole world takes on an
entirely different look. You see chair legs, house slippers, flowers in
the rug, cigarette ashes, rolls of dust, and table legs. And you
even find your left glove under the sofa, the one you were hunting for
in the cupboard three days before.
So I lay there looking curiously around, considering how different my
surroundings were when seen from below than from above and suddenly I
noticed, to my great astonishment, that the chair legs actually had
calves, regular strapping dark-colored calves, as if they belonged to a
family of little black boys, or to schoolboys with brown stockings.
And while I was still counting the chair legs and table legs to see
how many little darkies or schoolboys were really standing around on
my rug—this business about Emil came to me! Perhaps because I was just
thinking of schoolboys with brown stockings? Or perhaps, instead,
because Emil’s family name was Tischbein, too?[1]
At any rate, this affair of his popped into my head at that very
moment. I stayed there absolutely quiet. Because thoughts or memories
coming to you are just like dogs that are used to being whipped. If
you move too suddenly, or if you speak to them, or if you try to pet
them—zip—they are gone. And then you can wait for a month of Sundays
before they will dare come back to you.
So I lay there without moving and just smiled pleasantly to
my sudden inspiration. I wanted to give it courage. And it was so
reassured that it almost began to trust me—took one step and another
step nearer.... I grabbed it by the nape of the neck. And then I had it!
Only by the nape of the neck, though. That was all at the moment. For
it makes a great difference whether it’s a dog you catch by his hair
and hold fast or just a story that you are trying to recall. When you
grab a dog by the neck you have him there, all of him, for better or
for worse: his paws, his muzzle, his little tail, and everything else
that belongs to a live dog.
You catch memories quite differently. You catch memories bit by bit.
First, perhaps, you grab the topknot. Then in flies the left fore leg;
then the right; then the tail end; then a left hind leg—piece by piece,
like that. And when you think the story must be all there, presto! In
floats another bit of an ear. And finally, if you are lucky, you have
the whole thing.
I saw something once in the movies that reminds me of what I have just
been describing. A man was standing in a room with nothing on but his
shirt. Suddenly the door opened and his trousers flew in. He put those
on. Then in whizzed his left shoe. Then his walking stick, then his
bow tie. Then his collar. Then his vest, one sock, his other shoe,
his hat, his coat, his other sock, his spectacles. It was crazy. But
finally the man was all dressed, and everything was in its right place.
That’s just how it went with my story as I lay there in my study and
counted table legs and thought about Emil. Probably the same sort of
thing often has happened to you. I lay there and caught up the memories
that were popping into my head from all sides, as is the way of ideas.
At last I had everything beautifully put together, and the story was
done. Now I only had to sit down and write it all out in good order.
Of course, I did that too. For if I hadn’t you would not be holding
the finished book about Emil in your hand now. But before that I
hastily arranged something quite different. I scribbled down the parts
just as they came running at me from the door, until I had them all
together—the left shoe, the collar, the stick, the bow tie, the right
sock, and so forth.
An adventure story, a romance, a fairy tale—these are all like living
creatures, and perhaps they are of a sort. They have heads and legs,
circulation and clothes, just like people. And if one of them has no
nose on its face or is wearing two shoes that don’t match, you notice
it if you look close.
But before I tell you the story as I have put it together, I want
to show you the little bombarding force that tossed me the ideas and
pieces to make the whole thing clear.
Perhaps you’ll be quick enough to make up the story from the different
parts before I tell it to you? That would be a stunt—just as if you
were given a pile of building blocks and you had to build a station
or a church, and you had no plan, and you weren’t allowed to have one
block left over.
It really is something like a test.
Brrr!
Only there’s no one to mark you.
Thank goodness for that!
First: Emil himself.
[Illustration: First of all, here is Emil himself. In his dark blue
Sunday suit. He doesn’t care much about wearing it and only puts it on
when he has to. Blue clothes do get spotted so easily—and then Emil’s
mother dampens the clothesbrush, holds the boy between her knees, and
scrubs and brushes while she says, “Tut, tut, you know I can’t buy you
another suit.” And then Emil remembers when it’s too late that his
mother works all day long so that they can have enough to eat and Emil
can go to school.]
Second: Frau Friseuse Tischbein, Emil’s mother.
[Illustration: When Emil was five years old his father died. He was
Herr Klempnermeister Tischbein. Since then Emil’s mother has dressed
people’s hair. And waved it. And shampooed the shop girls and the
married women of the neighborhood. Besides that she has to cook and
keep her house in order and do all her own big washing. She is very
fond of Emil and is glad that she can work and earn money. Sometimes
she sings gay little songs. Sometimes she is ill, and Emil cooks fried
eggs for her and for himself. He can do that. He can fry steak, too,
with breadcrumbs and onions.]
Third: A rather important train compartment.
[Illustration: The train this coach belongs to travels to Berlin. And
probably in this compartment, in the next chapters, strange things
will happen. A compartment like this is a curious contrivance. Perfect
strangers sit here, and in a couple of hours they are as friendly as
if they had known each other for years. Sometimes that’s very nice and
pleasant. But sometimes it isn’t. For who knows what sort of people
they all are?]
Fourth: The man in the stiff hat.
[Illustration: No one knows him. Of course, as a rule, you should think
the best of anyone until you know something to prove the contrary. But
in this connection I must beg of you to be a little cautious. Because,
as they say, “Foresight is better than hindsight.” Man is good, they
say. Well, that is true. But you’d better not take him too much for
granted, this good man. Because he might suddenly become bad.]
Fifth: Pony Hütchen, Emil’s cousin.
[Illustration: The little one on the little bicycle is Emil’s cousin
from Berlin. In the main Pony Hütchen is a charming child, and of
course her real name is something quite different. Her mother and Frau
Tischbein are sisters. And Pony Hütchen is only a nickname.]
Sixth: The hotel on Nollendorf Place.
[Illustration: Nollendorf Place is in Berlin. And if I am not mistaken,
on Nollendorf Place is the hotel where several people of this story
meet each other without shaking hands at all. The hotel might be on
Wittenberg Place, as far as that goes. Perhaps even on Fehrbelliner
Place. In other words, I know just exactly where it is! But the manager
came to me, when he heard that I was going to write a book about what
happened there, and said that I must not tell you the name of the
Place. Because, he said, obviously it wouldn’t be a recommendation
for his hotel if it were known that “such people” had spent the night
there. I saw right away what he meant. And then he went off again.]
Seventh: The boy with the automobile horn.
[Illustration: Gustav is his name. And in gym work he has a straight
A. What else has he? A good kind heart and an automobile horn. All the
boys in the fourth grade know him and treat him as if he were their
president. When he runs through the neighborhood honking his horn the
children drop everything and tear downstairs to see what’s up. Usually
he just wants to get enough boys for two football teams, and they all
go off to the playground. But sometimes the horn serves quite different
purposes. As, for instance, in the affair with Emil.]
Eighth: The little branch bank.
[Illustration: In all parts of the city the big banks have their branch
offices. There, if you have money, you can buy shares, and if you have
an account, you can cash checks. Sometimes, too, the apprentices and
messenger girls come to change ten marks into a hundred tenpenny pieces
so their cashiers can have small change. And whoever wants to can have
dollars or French francs or Italian lire changed into German money
here. Even at night people sometimes come to the bank although there is
no one there to wait on them. So they have to help themselves.]
Ninth: Emil’s grandmother.
[Illustration: She is the jolliest old grandmother I know. Yet she
has had nothing but worries all her life long. Some people don’t have
any trouble at all to keep cheerful. For others it’s a strenuous and
serious business. She used to live with Emil’s parents. But when Herr
Tischbein died she went to her other daughter’s, in Berlin. Because
Emil’s mother did not earn enough for three people to live on. Now the
old woman lives in Berlin. And every letter she writes ends with this:
“I am well and hope you are the same.”]
Tenth: The composing room of a great paper.
[Illustration: Everything that happens gets into the paper. Only it
must be just a bit out of the ordinary. If a calf has four legs,
naturally no one is interested. But if she has five or six—and that
does happen—then the grown-ups want to read about it for breakfast.
If Herr Müller is an exemplary citizen, no one wants to know anything
about him. But if Herr Müller puts water in the milk and sells the
stuff for sweet cream, then he gets into the paper no matter what he
may do to prevent it.
Have you ever passed a newspaper building at night? It rattles and
rings and rumbles and the walls shake.
There! Now, at last, we will begin!]
First Chapter
Emil Helps to Shampoo
“There!” said Frau Tischbein. “Now, just follow me with that
pitcher of hot water.” She herself took another pitcher and the little
blue jug with the liquid camomile soap and walked out of the kitchen
into the living room. Emil took up his pitcher and followed his mother.
In the living room sat a woman with her head bent over the white
washbowl. Her hair was undone and hung down like three pounds of wool.
Emil’s mother poured the liquid camomile soap over the woman’s blonde
hair and rubbed the strange head until it foamed.
“Is it too hot?” she said.
“Well, it will do,” replied the head.
“Oh, that’s Frau Bäckermeister Wirth. How do you do?” said Emil and
shoved his pitcher under the washstand.
“You’re lucky, Emil. I hear you are going to Berlin,” remarked the
head. And it sounded as if whoever was speaking was buried in whipped
cream.
“At first he hardly wanted to go,” said his mother, rubbing busily
at Frau Wirth’s head. “But why should a boy kill all his time here?
He has never seen Berlin. And my sister Martha has invited us for a
visit again and again. Her husband earns good money. He is in the
post office. Inside work. Of course, I can’t go with him. Before the
holidays there is so much to do. But he is big enough, and he must
learn to look out for himself. And besides, my mother is meeting him
at the Friedrich Strasse Station. They will pick him up at the flower
stand.”
“He’s bound to like Berlin. It’s just made for children. We were there
a year and half ago with the bowling club. Such a din! There are
actually streets there that are just as bright at night as they are in
the daytime. And the automobiles!” informed Frau Wirth from the depths
of the washbowl.
“A good many foreign cars?” asked Emil.
“How should I know about that?” answered Frau Wirth, and had to sneeze.
She’d got some soapsuds up her nose.
“There, run along and get yourself ready,” urged his mother. “I’ve laid
out your good suit in the bedroom. Put it on so that we can eat as
soon as I’ve done up Frau Wirth’s hair.”
“What shirt shall I wear?” Emil wanted to know.
“Everything is lying on the bed. And pull your stockings up carefully.
And first wash yourself thoroughly. And put new laces in your shoes.
Trot along, now!”
“Oh, heck!” remarked Emil, and strolled off.
When Frau Wirth had left, all beautifully waved and pleased with her
looks in the mirror, Emil’s mother went into the bedroom and found her
son wandering about dejectedly.
“Who invented best suits, anyway, can you tell me that?”
“No, I’m sorry. But why do you want to know?”
“Give me his address, and I’ll shoot the bird!”
“It’s too bad about you. Other children are unhappy because they
haven’t any good suit. We all have our troubles.... Before I forget
it—to-night be sure to ask Aunt Martha for a coat hanger and hang up
your suit carefully. First it must be brushed, though. Don’t forget
that. And in the morning you can wear your sweater again and this old
robber’s jacket. Now, what else? The suitcase is packed. The flowers
for Aunt Martha are done up. The money for Grandmother I’ll give you
later. And now we’ll eat. Come, young man!”
Frau Tischbein put her arm around Emil’s shoulder and steered him
toward the kitchen. There was macaroni with ham and grated Parmesan
cheese. Emil ate like a farmhand. Only once in a while he sat back and
looked over at his mother as if he feared she might think he had too
good an appetite when he was going away so soon.
“And send me a card right away. I put one where you can find it in the
suitcase, on top.”
“Sure thing,” said Emil, and scraped a bit of macaroni off his knee as
quietly as possible. Fortunately his mother didn’t notice anything.
“Give them all my love. And keep your eyes open. In Berlin things are
very different from Neustadt. On Sunday you will go with Uncle Robert
to the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. And remember your manners, so that
people won’t think that we don’t know how to behave.”
“You can trust me,” said Emil.
Dinner over, they went into the sitting room. His mother took a tin box
from the cupboard and counted out some money. Then she shook her head
and counted it again. Then she asked, “Who was here yesterday afternoon
anyway, hm?”
“Fräulein Thomas,” answered Emil, “and Frau Homburg.”
“Yes, but still it doesn’t come out right.” She thought a minute,
looked over the piece of paper where she had jotted down her receipts,
did some arithmetic, and finally announced, “It’s eight marks short.”
“The gas man was here this morning.”
“Sure enough. Now it comes out right, worse luck.” She gave a little
whistle, probably of vexation over her worries, and took three bank
notes out of the tin box. “There, Emil! There are a hundred and forty
marks. A hundred and twenty for you to give to Grandmother, and twenty
for you. Tell Grandmother not to blame me for not sending it before,
but I would have run too short. That’s why you are bringing more than
usual this time. And give her a kiss. Understand? The twenty marks over
is for you. You can buy your return ticket out of that when you’re
coming home. That will leave you about ten marks. I’m not just sure.
Out of the rest you can pay for what you eat or drink when you go
out. Besides, it’s always a good thing to have a few extra marks in
your pocket that you don’t need at the moment. Then you’re all right,
whatever happens. There! And here is the envelope from Aunt Martha’s
letter. I’ll put the notes in here. And be careful not to lose it. What
will you do with it?”
She placed the three notes in the neatly opened envelope, folded it in
the middle, and gave it to Emil.
Emil thought hard for a minute. Then he put it in his right inside
pocket way down, patted himself on the outside of his blue coat to make
sure and announced with conviction, “There, that won’t climb out.”
“And don’t tell anybody on the train that you have so much money with
you.”
“But, Mummy!” Emil was hurt. To accuse him of such stupidity!
Frau Tischbein put some more money into her pocketbook. Then she took
the tin box back to the cupboard and hastily read over the letter from
her sister in Berlin giving the exact time of the departure and arrival
of Emil’s train....
Probably many of you will think that no one need make such a fuss over
a hundred and forty marks as Frau Tischbein was making for Emil’s
benefit. And if a person earned two thousand or twenty thousand or
maybe a hundred thousand marks a month, of course he wouldn’t have to.
But in case you don’t know it—most people earn far less than that. And
whether you like it or not, anyone who earns thirty-five marks a week
must think that a hundred and forty marks he has saved is a great deal
of money. For lots of people a hundred marks is almost as much as a
million. You might say that they write “100” with six ciphers and how
much a million really is they cannot imagine even in their dreams.
Emil had no father. So his mother had to dress hair in her sitting
room, wash blonde heads and brown heads, and work endlessly to have
enough to eat and to pay for gas and coal and the rent and clothes and
books and school. Only once in a while she was ill and stayed in bed.
Then the doctor would come and prescribe medicine. And then Emil would
make hot compresses for his mother and cook for them both. And when she
was asleep Emil would mop up the floor with wet flannel rags so that
she wouldn’t say, “I must get up. The house is going to rack and ruin.”
I hope you’ll understand and not laugh when I tell you that Emil was a
model boy. You see he loved his mother. And he would have been ashamed
to death if he had been lazy while she worked and reckoned and worked
again. So how could he loaf on his school work or crib from Richard
Naumann? How could he skip school even if he had a chance? He saw her
tire herself out so that he would not have to do without anything the
other school children had. How could he cheat her and give her trouble?
Emil was a model boy. There it is. But he wasn’t one of the sort that
can’t be anything else because they’re cowards and stingy and not
real boys. He was a model boy because he wanted to be. He had made a
resolution, the way people make resolutions not to go to the movies
any more, or not to eat any more candy. He had made the resolution,
and sometimes it was very hard for him to keep it.
But when he went home at Easter and could say, “Mother, here are my
marks, and I am the highest again,” then he was very happy. He liked
the praise he got in school and everywhere, not for himself, but
because it made his mother happy. He was proud that in his own way he
could pay back a little of what she had been doing for him his whole
life long....
“Gracious!” said his mother, “we must get to the station. It’s
quarter-past one. And the train leaves a little before two.”
“All right, let’s go, Frau Tischbein,” said Emil to his mother, “but I
want you to notice that I’m carrying my suitcase myself.”
Second Chapter
Policeman Jeschke Keeps Still
In front of the house Emil’s mother said, “If the horse car comes
we’ll ride to the station.”
Which one of you knows how a horse car looks? As it is coming round the
corner and stopping because Emil waves to it, I will describe it for
you quickly before it waddles on again.
Well—first of all, the horse car is a crazy thing. Furthermore, it runs
on rails like a real grown-up street car, and the car is very much like
one, but there is just an old cab horse hitched to the front of it.
For Emil and his friends the old cab horse was simply a disgrace, and
they dreamed of electric cars with wires overhead and underneath, and
five spotlights in the front, and three in the rear. Only the Mayor
of Neustadt thought that the four-mile run could be made well enough
with one living horse power. Up to now there had been no talk of
electricity, and the driver had nothing to do with steering wheels and
levers. Instead he held the reins in his left hand and the whip in his
right. Giddap!
And if a man lived at 12 Town Hall Street and he sat in the horse car
and wished to get out, he simply knocked on the glass. Then Mr. Driver
went, “Whoa!” and the traveler was home. The real stop was perhaps in
front of Number 30 or 46. But that didn’t matter to the Neustadt Street
Car Company. It had time. The horse had time. The driver had time. The
Neustadt citizens had time. And if anyone happened to be in a special
hurry he went on foot....
At the railway station Frau Tischbein and her son got out. And while
Emil was fishing his bag off the platform a deep voice boomed behind
them, “Well, you must be going to Switzerland.”
That was the chief of police, Jeschke. Emil’s mother answered, “No,
my boy is going to relatives in Berlin for a week.” Everything turned
suddenly dark blue, almost black, before Emil’s eyes. Because he had
a very guilty conscience. Recently a dozen of the schoolboys on the
way home from gymnastics on the river meadow had jammed an old felt
hat down on the cool head of the monument to the Grand Duke, the one
called Karl Crooked Face. And then Emil, because he could draw well,
had been boosted up by the others and had to paint a red nose and
a pitch-black mustache with colored crayons on the face of the Grand
Duke! And while he was painting Officer Jeschke had turned up on the
other end of the Square.
The boys had torn off like lightning. But there was the danger that he
had recognized them.
However, he said nothing, but wished Emil a pleasant journey and then
inquired of his mother about the state of her health and her business.
In spite of that Emil was not quite at ease. As he was carrying his bag
across the Square to the station he was weak in the knees. And every
minute he feared that Officer Jeschke would growl out suddenly behind
him, “Emil Tischbein, you are arrested. Hands up!” But nothing at all
happened. Perhaps the officer was just going to wait until Emil came
back?
Then his mother bought a ticket at the window, a third-class ticket,
naturally, and a platform ticket for herself. And they went to Track
Number 1—Neustadt Station has four tracks, if you please—and waited for
the train to Berlin. There were only a few minutes left.
“Don’t leave anything, dear! And don’t sit on the flowers. You can ask
someone to lift your suitcase up into the baggage rack. But be polite
about it and say, ‘Please.’”
“I’ll get my suitcase up myself. I’m no baby.”
“All right, then. Don’t forget to get out. You’ll be in Berlin at
six-seventeen. At the Friedrich Strasse Station. Don’t get off before
that, at the Zoo Station or some other.”
“Have no fear, young woman.”
“And above all, don’t be as fresh with other people as you are with
your mother. Don’t throw the paper on the floor when you eat your
sandwiches—and—don’t lose your money!”
Emil clutched his coat and dived into his right-hand breast pocket.
Then he breathed a sigh of relief and murmured, “All safe.”
He took his mother’s arm and walked with her up and down the platform.
“And don’t overwork, Mummy! And don’t get sick! You would have nobody
to take care of you. I’d take a flying machine on the spot and come
home. And write me once in a while. And I’ll stay a week at the most,
you know that.” Emil hugged his mother close, and she gave him a kiss
on his nose.
Then the train for Berlin came thundering in and stopped. Emil gave his
mother just another little squeeze and climbed up into a compartment
with his suitcase in his hand. His mother handed him his bouquet and
his package of sandwiches and asked if he’d found a seat. He nodded.
“Good, get off at Friedrich Strasse!”
He nodded.
“And your grandmother will be waiting at the flower stand.”
He nodded.
“And take care, you young rascal.”
He nodded.
“And be nice to Pony Hütchen. You probably won’t know each other at
all!”
He nodded.
“And write me.”
“You me, too.”
And so probably it would have gone on for hours if there hadn’t been
any time-table. The conductor with the red leather bag shouted, “All
aboard! All aboard!” The doors clanged shut. The engine pulled out. And
off they went.
The mother waved her handkerchief for a long time. Then she turned
around slowly and went home. And because she had her handkerchief ready
in her hand, as it were, she wept a few tears into it.
But not for long. Because at home Frau Fleischermeister Augustin, was
waiting, and she wanted a good thorough shampoo.
Third Chapter
The Trip to Berlin Can Start
Emil took off his cap and said, “How do you do? Maybe there’s
an empty seat here?” Of course there was an empty seat. And a fat
woman who had taken off her left shoe because it pinched said to her
neighbor, a man who puffed frightfully at every breath, “Such polite
children are rare nowadays. When I think back on my childhood, my
goodness, what a different spirit there was then.” And she wiggled her
pinched toes in her left stocking in time with her talking. Emil looked
on with interest. And the man could hardly nod for his puffing.
Emil had known for a long time that there are always people who say,
“Ah, well, things used to be much better.” So he paid no attention when
anyone announced that formerly the air was much more healthful or that
the oxen had bigger heads. Because usually what they said wasn’t
true, and they belonged to the sort who refuse to be satisfied with
things as they are for fear of becoming contented.
Emil felt of his right breast pocket and was relieved when he heard the
envelope crackle. His traveling companions all looked like trustworthy
people and not like robbers or murderers. Next to the man who puffed so
sat a woman who was crocheting a shawl. And by the window near Emil a
man in a stiff hat was reading the newspaper.
Suddenly he laid the paper aside, took from his pocket a bar of
chocolate, held it out to the boy, and said, “Well, young man, want
some?”
“Thank you very much,” answered Emil and took the chocolate. Then he
hastily took off his cap, as an afterthought, made a little bow, and
said, “Emil Tischbein is my name.”
The passengers laughed. The man, for his part, solemnly lifted his hat
and said, “Very pleased, my name’s Grundeis!”
Then the fat woman who had taken off her left shoe asked him, “Does the
shopkeeper Kurzhals still live in Neustadt?”
“Yes indeed, Herr Kurzhals still lives there,” Emil informed her. “Do
you know him? He has bought the lot where his store is.”
“Well, well, tell him Frau Jakob from Gross-Grünau wanted to be
remembered to him.”
“But I’m going to Berlin.”
“It will be time enough when you get back,” said Frau Jakob. She
wiggled her toes again and laughed until her hat fell over her face.
“So you’re going to Berlin?” asked Herr Grundeis.
“Yes, and my grandmother is waiting at the flower stand in the
Friedrich Strasse Station,” answered Emil, and felt of his breast
pocket. Thank goodness, the envelope crackled again as before.
“Have you ever been to Berlin?”
“No.”
“Well, it will astonish you! In Berlin nowadays there are houses a
hundred stories high, and they have to fasten the roofs to the sky so
they won’t blow away. And if a man is in a great hurry to go to another
part of the city they clap him into a chest at the post office, pop it
into a tube, and shoot it like a pneumatic letter to the post office of
the section where he wants to go.
“And if you haven’t any money you go to a bank and leave your brains as
a pledge, and you get a thousand marks. Naturally, you can’t buy them
back from the bank unless you pay them twelve hundred marks. And now
some wonderful medical appliances have been invented and——”
“It’s plain to see that you have left your brains at the bank,”
said the man who puffed so horribly to the man with the stiff hat.
“Quit your nonsense.”
The toes of the fat woman stood still in awe, and the woman who was
crocheting held her breath.
Emil laughed uncertainly. And a long argument started between the men.
Emil thought, “I should worry,” and got out his sandwiches, even though
he had just eaten his dinner. As he was eating his third sandwich the
train stopped at a station. Emil could not see the sign, and he didn’t
understand what the guard shouted at the window. Most of the passengers
got out—the puffing man, the crocheting woman, and also Frau Jakob. She
was almost too late because she couldn’t get her shoe on.
“Well, remember me to Herr Kurzhals,” she said again, and Emil nodded.
And then he and the man with the stiff hat were left alone. Emil was
not very well pleased at that. A man who divides his chocolate with you
and tells you crazy stories is pretty queer. Emil wanted to feel of
his envelope again for a change. But he didn’t dare. Instead he went
into the toilet as the train started on, took the envelope out of his
pocket, and counted the money. It was all there, and then he did not
know what to do. Finally he had an idea. He took a pin that he found in
his lapel, stuck it first through the three notes, next through the
envelope, and finally through the lining of his jacket. You might say
that he nailed the money tight. “There,” he thought, “now nothing can
happen.” And then he went back into the compartment.
Herr Grundeis had made himself snug in a corner and slept. Emil was
glad he didn’t have to talk and looked out of the window. Trees,
windmills, fields, factories, herds of cows, and waving peasants all
went by. And it was nice to see how they all whirled around just as if
they were on a phonograph record. But you can’t stare out of a window
forever.
Herr Grundeis slept on and on and snored a bit. Emil wanted to walk
up and down, but if he did he might wake the man, and he didn’t care
to do that at all. So he leaned back in the opposite corner of the
compartment and watched the sleeping man. Why did he always keep his
hat on? And he had a rather long face, and a tiny black mustache, and
a hundred wrinkles around his mouth, and his ears were very thin and
stuck out from his head.
[Illustration: Herr Grundeis slept and snored a bit.]
Whoop! Emil shook himself and was terrified. He had almost fallen
asleep. He didn’t dare do that under any circumstances. If only even
one other person would get on. The train stopped several times, but no
one came. It was only four o’clock, and Emil still had more than
two hours to ride. He pinched his legs. That always helped in school
when Herr Bremser gave the history lesson.
It worked for a while. Emil wondered how Pony Hütchen looked now. But
he couldn’t remember her face. He only knew that on her last visit,
when she and Grandmother and Aunt Martha were in Neustadt, Pony had
wanted to box with him. Naturally, he had refused, because she was a
lightweight and he was at least a welterweight. It would have been
unfair, he said. And if he were to give her an uppercut they would have
to peel her down from the wall. But she wouldn’t let him alone until
Aunt Martha interfered.
Zowie! He almost fell off the seat. Asleep again? He pinched and
pinched his legs. He must have black and blue spots all over already.
And still it didn’t do any good.
He tried counting buttons. He counted down and then up again. Counting
down there were twenty-three buttons, and counting up there were
twenty-four. Emil leaned back and pondered over how that could be.
And he fell sound asleep.
Fourth Chapter
A Dream in Which There Is Much Running
Suddenly it seemed to Emil that the train was going around in a
circle, just as the toy trains do that children play with. He looked
out of the window and found it most curious. The circle was getting
smaller and smaller. The engine was coming nearer and nearer to the
last car. And it seemed as if it were doing that on purpose. The
train turned around on itself just like a dog that tries to bite his
own tail. And inside that black racing circle were trees and a glass
windmill and a great house with two hundred stories.
Emil wanted to know what time it was and started to pull his watch
out of his pocket. He pulled and pulled, and finally it was the big
grandfather’s clock out of his mother’s room. He looked at the face,
and there it said, “185 miles an hour. It is forbidden on penalty of
your life to spit on the floor!” He looked out of the window again.
The engine was coming nearer and nearer to the last car. And he was
terribly worried. Because if the engine struck the last car naturally
there would be a train wreck. That was clear. Emil did not want to wait
for that on any account. He opened the door and ran along the outside
steps. Perhaps the engineer had gone to sleep? Emil looked through the
windows of the compartments as he worked his way along. There was no
one sitting anywhere. The train was empty. Emil saw only one man, who
had on a stiff hat made of chocolate. The man broke off a big piece
from his hat brim and gulped it down. Emil rapped on the windowpane and
pointed at the engine. But the man only laughed, broke himself another
big piece of chocolate, and patted himself on the stomach because it
tasted so good.
Finally Emil got to the coal car. Then he clambered up to the
engineer’s cabin. The engineer was hunched up on a coachman’s seat,
whirling his whip and holding the reins as if there were horses hitched
in front of the train. And that’s just what there were! Six pair of
horses dragged the train. They had silver roller skates on their hoofs,
and they flew along over the rails singing, “Must I go, must I go to
that city so far?”
Emil shook the coachman and shouted, “Pull up your horses or you’ll
have an accident.” Then he saw that the coachman was none other than
Officer Jeschke.
He gave Emil a piercing glance and shouted, “Who were the other
youngsters? Who painted up the Grand Duke Karl?”
“Me,” said Emil.
“Who else?”
“That I won’t tell!”
“Then we’ll keep right on going in a circle!”
And Officer Jeschke whipped up his steeds so that they reared up and
flew faster than ever toward the last car. And in the last car sat
Frau Jakob, brandishing the shoes in her hand and frightened to death
because the horses were already snapping at her toes.
“I’ll give you twenty marks, Officer,” shouted Emil.
“Please stop such nonsense!” shrieked Jeschke and plied his whip on the
horses as if he were possessed.
Emil couldn’t bear it any longer, he jumped off the train. He turned
twenty somersaults on the way down, but it didn’t hurt him. He stood
up and looked back at the train. It was standing still, and the twelve
horses turned their heads toward Emil. Officer Jeschke had sprung up
and was whipping his horses and bellowing, “Up there and after him!”
And then the twelve horses sprang off the tracks and sprinted after
Emil, and the cars hopped about like rubber balls.
Emil wasted no time but ran away as fast as he could. Over a meadow,
past many trees, through a brook, toward the skyscraper. Every now
and then he looked behind him. The train thundered on with no let-up.
It knocked the trees right and left and split them to pieces. Only
one old oak was left standing, and on its topmost branch sat fat Frau
Jakob, swaying in the wind and weeping because she couldn’t get her
shoe on. Emil ran on.
In the house that was two hundred stories high there was a great black
door. He ran in, through the house and out the other side. The train
followed after. Emil would much rather have sat himself down in a
corner to sleep, for he was fearfully tired and trembling in every
limb. But he dared not go to sleep. The train was already rattling
through the house.