He’s a student, I forget his name. He swallowed poison on the spot but spewed it up again.’

‘A student, eh? And people stay up all night on account of him? He wants his behind thrashing till it bleeds, that’s what he deserves. Hanging’s too quick, he ought to suffer a bit first … But there’s no discipline left in the world.’

The old driver looked up from the blue cushion he was brushing. ‘D’you think so, Herr Hackendahl? I think there’s too much discipline, too much spit an’ polish. A man’s not a machine, he’s a living creature with feelings …’

But old Willem had chosen the wrong moment, for just then his colleague Piepgras drove into the yard. Though it was a mild summer morning he had the hood up and the apron across, just as if it were raining cats and dogs. And it seemed that there was a reason.

‘Yes, Herr Hackendahl,’ said Piepgras, as he climbed down from his box, puffing and blowing and pushing from his wrinkled brow the top hat bearing his number. ‘Will you stand still, Ottilie? The stupid beast won’t ever wait for its fodder. Well, Herr Hackendahl, you tell me what was I to do! One o’clock at night they both got in my cab at Alten Kuhstall and he said go past the Lehrter into the Tiergarten and then on and on till I knock. I didn’t notice he’d had one over the eight. Well, knock he didn’t, so on I went, on and on, and every now and then I’d ask is it far enough now? But no reply, nothing, and when I do stop I see they’re both dossing. Talk about sleep! Shaking’s no good and shouting’s no good, just boozy drivel from the chap. Not a word about his address or suchlike.’

‘You’re always doing this,’ said Hackendahl, annoyed. ‘Wake them up! Get the money and see that they clear out of my yard.’

‘But, Herr Hackendahl,’ said the driver reproachfully, ‘they’re mere children and it’s true love straight from the songbook.’ Slowly Piepgras removed the hood of his cab and undid the apron. Quite a lot of people were looking on – drivers tired from the night shift and others arriving fresh for the day’s work. Nor were Otto and Rabause inclined to miss anything – old Piepgras was always up to something. Even the women in the house had smelled a joke and were again looking out of the window, thirteen-year-old Heinz between them.

It was no unpleasant sight. Even if they had got into the cab drunk, the pair now slept as sweetly as children and, as was fitting, her head lay on his breast and they were holding hands as though they wished to be together even in sleep …

‘Well, Herr Hackendahl, did I lead you up the garden path? Does you good, doesn’t it? To see this in the Imperial city of Berlin, where the tarts can’t help treading on each other’s heels. But there’s something of everything in Berlin …’

Who can say what passed through old Hackendahl’s mind at the sight of those two lovers? He too had been young once and saw that this was still puppy love, something light, something happy …

But Piepgras had mentioned tarts and Hackendahl may well have recollected how his daughter would sometimes sneak into a café with a very bad name, or thought of his son who had stunk of cheap perfume that very morning. With a bound he was on the cab, shaking the sleepers and yelling: ‘Wake up! Clear out of my yard, you!’

It was the young girl who woke first. Starting up, she gazed at the unfamiliar place and the unknown faces looking at them with surprised and sullen expressions; naturally she could not know that this had nothing to do with her but was a result of Iron Gustav’s outburst. Seizing her friend’s hand she pulled him out of his seat, crying: ‘Erich, do wake up. What has happened?’ And she was off, picking up her long skirts and running across the yard to the gate, her Erich behind her.

Old Hackendahl, however, quite enraged by the name of Erich, ran beside them, storming, while Piepgras, who had never expected his little joke to end thus, ran imploringly on the other side: ‘Herr Hackendahl, what are you doing? The gentleman hasn’t paid me yet. Stop, sir! Stop and pay me my fare.’

But the young girl and the young man ran quicker than ever, away from the sullen faces into the fresh, blue June morning.

At first old Hackendahl remained standing. He stood beneath the stone gatepost with the golden ball, wiped his face and looked, wide awake, into all the faces. However, the faces all turned away, embarrassed. Each got on with, or pretended to get on with, his work. Iron Gustav went silently into the yard, shouting at only half-strength as he went, ‘Finish up, Otto!’ and disappeared into the house.

The yard immediately became a turmoil of secrets and rumours, at their thickest around the now heavily breathing Piepgras, who had just returned. He had not been able to catch the young people. Love that night had got off scot-free.

§ XI

In the Hackendahl household the breakfast coffee always appeared on the stroke of seven, and whatever his feelings may have been this morning, Iron Gustav stood erect at the head of the table at seven o’clock precisely, listening to Heinz saying grace.