Ruth hurried home. Every Sunday afternoon her father was accustomed to
spend a few hours with her. She was surprised not to find him in the
flat. A letter lay on the table addressed: “To my children.”
The letter read: “Dear daughter and dear son: I must leave you, and
only Almighty God knows when I shall see you again. I have hesitated,
and I have fought against my decision, but it is made at last. I am
no longer equal to the struggle of existence under the circumstances
which obtain. To get ahead in Berlin a man needs iron fists and an iron
forehead. I am no longer young enough to push all obstacles brutally
out of the way, so utter destitution threatens us. Instead of being
your protector and provider, I am faced by the terrible possibility
of becoming a burden to you, Ruth, and your exertions are even now
superhuman. I have often been attracted by the thought of putting an
end to my life; but my religion as well as my concern for my children’s
memory of me has kept me alive. I have found a friend, a fellow Jew,
who has persuaded me to emigrate to America. He is advancing the money
for the voyage, and is hopeful of our success. Perhaps fate will relent
to me at last. Perhaps my terrible sacrifice in leaving you two in
uncertainty and want will move it to pity. I see no other way of saving
myself from certain destruction. Only because I know your strength of
soul, dear Ruth, only because I have the firm faith that some kind
angel watches over you, do I venture upon this difficult and bitter
step. I must not and dare not think. You are so young, both of you, and
without protection or friends or kinsmen. Perhaps God will forgive me
and protect you. I could bear no farewell but this. If I have anything
good to report I shall write. Then you, too, must let me hear. I am
inclosing fifty marks for your immediate needs; I cannot spare more.
The rent for November is paid. Six marks and fifty pfennigs are due
to the shoemaker Rösicke. With all my heart I embrace you both. Your
unhappy Father.”
Ruth wept.
She had been sitting still for a whole hour, when she heard a knocking
at the door. She thought it was Michael. She was a little afraid of his
coming, and in her need of a confidant she hoped deeply that it was
Christian Wahnschaffe.
It was neither. She opened the door, and saw a ragged girl accompanied
by a dog, a butcher’s dog, big as a calf, with a horribly smooth,
gleaming, black and white skin.
Ruth kept her hand on the door-knob while she asked the girl, who might
have been anything from twelve to twenty, what she wanted. The dog had
an evil glare.
The girl quietly handed her a piece of paper. It was greasy and covered
with the writing of some illiterate. Ruth was frightened, and thought:
“All bad news comes in writing to-day.” She had not yet read the
writing on the paper, but she felt that it boded some evil.
For a moment she looked out through the hall window that framed a group
of black chimneys. The uncanny dog growled.
The writing on the paper was difficult to decipher. She read: “You must
plese come rite away to somebody what is terrible bad of. He has took
poisen it is killing him and he has got to tel you something before he
dis. He is in the back room of Adeles Rest a wine room Prenzlaur Alley
112 in the yard to the left. Plese come rite away with the girl and god
wil reward you. Plese for gods sake do come.”
“What is the matter? What can I do?” Ruth whispered.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. As though she were dumb, she pointed
to the piece of paper.
She was full of foreboding and of an inner warning, full of pain over
the letter and the flight of her father, and full of horror of the
butcher’s dog. She was undecided, looked at the paper, and stammered:
“I don’t know.... I ought to wait for Michael.... Who is it.... He
should have given his name.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
It seemed to Ruth that it would be wrong to disregard this cry for
help. The bloodshot eyes of the dog were fixed upon her. Never had she
seen an animal that seemed so naked. She put her hand over her forehead
and tried to gather her troubled thoughts. She went back into the room
and looked about. It seemed very lonely and bare. She slipped into her
little coat and put on her hat. A faint smile gleamed for a moment on
her face, as though she were glad to have come to a decision. She ran
her eyes over the writing once more. “Plese for gods sake do come.”
One’s duty seemed quite clear.
For a little she held her father’s letter uncertainly in her hand.
Then she folded it again, and laid it on the table beside her slightly
disordered books and writing utensils. She closed the books that were
open, and made a little pile of them. The dog had noiselessly followed
her into the room. It followed her as she left. On the door there hung
by a string a little slate and a slate pencil. Ruth wrote: “I’ll be
back soon. Have gone to Prenzlauer Alley. Wait for me. I must talk to
you about something important.” She locked the door and hid the key
under the door-mat of straw.
The strange girl preserved her sleepy indifference.
On the stairs Ruth bethought herself, and knocked at Karen’s door.
If Christian were there, she could say a few words to him; but no
one opened. She thought that Karen was asleep, and did not ring. As
she descended the stairs behind the girl and the naked dog the new
responsibilities and problems of her life came into her mind. But in
Ruth’s young and intrepid heart, confusions grew clear and difficult
things lost their terror.
In the lower hall she hesitated for a last time. She wanted to stop
at Gisevius’s to see if Christian were there. But two old women were
reviling each other loudly and filthily in the yard, and she went on.
It was raining. It was Sunday afternoon, a time of ghastly dreariness
in Stolpische Street. There was quiet under the grey November sky, save
for a hum from the public houses. The pale street-lamps flickered in
the twilight.
“Let us go, then,” Ruth said to the girl.
The naked dog trotted between them on the wet pavement.