A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘I know a way I can be there,’ Henning said languidly, ‘and not be arrested.’

  ‘Well? But be quick about it, otherwise you’ll be arrested before we’ve heard it.’

  ‘No one will come on to the farm. He’s safe here,’ insists the count.

  ‘If someone . . .’ Henning begins, but then he thinks again. Then slowly, directly addressing Thiel: ‘Let’s say you packed your bags at eight or so, and set off into the twilight. And came close to this Perduzke-Perdeuce-Perdee. And suddenly took off. And allowed yourself to be arrested. And let’s say you confessed in the morning. And said your accomplice was, well, say the picture idiot on the Chronicle, and you stuck to your story till Monday . . .’

  Everyone looks at Thiel, who hesitates: ‘Well, I’m not sure, I’m getting in over my head . . . You know, I’m not sure . . . Do you want me to be the monkey who pulls your chestnuts out of the fire?’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ Henning comes back. ‘I’ve got a friend, fellow by the name of Gruen, who works in the penitentiary in Altholm. He’s nuts, which makes him fireproof. What if he happened to leave a ladder by the prison wall? And then there are the fishermen at Stolpermünde. Depending on the wind, it’s a six- or seven-hour sail to the island of MØn. And MØn is Danish territory. And the bomb is political.’

  And suddenly, very quickly and fervently: ‘Go on, say “yes”!’

  Thiel stands there, sheepish, undecided. ‘I’d really rather not . . . You see, my parents . . . And why should I get Tredup into trouble? He’s just another poor bastard . . .’

  Padberg says: ‘Well, at any rate, there’s two hours till it gets dark. We can think about it till then. Shall we go back inside and talk about the demonstration? I bet a thousand farmers will be there.’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  IV

  In the mornings, at half past nine, after Stuff has completed the politics and the announcements for his newspaper, he goes on the hunt for local news.

  He trots along the Burstah on his hurting flat feet, a small, puffing walrus, notes, blinking through his pince-nez, every single alteration, down to the least new commercial sign, addresses officials, is addressed by them, stops and makes notes.

  Altholm has a population of forty thousand or so, and he needs three columns—at the very least two and a half—of local news, for the competition, if for nothing else. And his lines are long, because the Chronicle has not yet gone over to four columns per page.

  When Stuff has been along the whole of the Burstah he finds himself in the marketplace, a long square at the intersection of two wide avenues, with a war memorial to 1870/1871, the post office, a public convenience and the town hall all situated on it.

  By now it’s ten o’clock, and already damned hot, when he sets foot in the town hall this July morning. Stuff drips. For the umpteenth time he decides he must change his socks twice a week, once isn’t enough. His feet are burning with sweat. And I’m going to start washing them now too.

  Stuff knocks quickly and enters the town hall guardroom through the door marked no entry. This is the room where the town soldiers go to rest up. (Altholm doesn’t have militia, it has town police.) A few men are loafing on their pallets, and greet Stuff with the cry, ‘Are you buying this round, mate?’

  ‘It’s youse’s turn! So what’s new?’

  ‘New? How long have you got? But first . . .’

  ‘Maurer, I bought you a beer and a short only last week. Have you any idea of the short leash Wenk keeps us on? If I put in for twenty marks a month expenses, he has a hissy fit.’

  ‘Then you just go to Schabbelt!’

  ‘Schabbelt? I keep hearing Schabbelt. What’s Schabbelt?’

  ‘Joker! Schabbelt is your proprietor.’

  ‘I haven’t clapped eyes on him in a month.’

  ‘He ought to take better care of his wife. Day before yesterday she was singing on the Burstah in broad daylight. It’s getting hard to ignore.’

  ‘She’s drinking herself to death, is what she is.’

  ‘Shame about her.’

  ‘Well, we all have to die. Maybe it’s better to die of drink than to starve to death.’

  ‘It’s a point of view.—Well, so what’s new?’

  ‘Christ, man, how would we know? Ask Maak in the guardhouse. He’ll look it up in the incident book.’

  ‘Isn’t the Red around?’

  ‘Commander Frerksen is closeted with His Red Excellency. The coast is clear. Perduzke’s up there too. They’re planning something.’

  ‘Well, off I go! I’ll see you later. We must have a drink one of these days.’

  ‘Yes, don’t you forget, man.’

  ‘New?’ growls Maak. ‘Dunno. I’ll go and look in the book. Oh yes, man, before I forget, they’ve got this training course up in Stettin. You might ask under the rubric ‘Readers’ Letters’ why they only sent Party members. The rest of us are just about good enough to do the job, with no training and no perks, and that’s it.’

  ‘Will do. It won’t change anything, but it’ll cause some irritation. Come on now, before the big Red man gets back.’

  ‘Also, there was a car crash. The usual bad corner. Soldin can fill you in on the details, he’s been to look. Last night there was another punch-up in the Banana Cellar, we were called out with six men. Talk to the landlord, he’ll buy space to make sure you don’t write anything unfavourable about his place. And someone found a pram with a baby in it. That’s about the size of it—’

  The door swings open. Both spin round. Commander Frerksen is standing in the doorway.

  ‘Stuff! Stuff! I must have told you a dozen times to get your news from me, and not from the rank and file!’

  ‘Yes, and when I come to you, you’re always busy.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter to your readers whether they get their information one day or the next.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand newspapers.’

  ‘Anyway, please leave the guardroom right away, and don’t come here again.—I’m going to report you, Maak, to the mayor.’

  ‘I didn’t tell Herr Stuff anything!’

  ‘He said I should ask you.’

  ‘Of course, the Chronicle won’t disclose its sources. Your employees should try and make themselves a little more presentable—’

  ‘Frerksen, how dare you!’

  ‘All right! Now you’re getting out of here right away.’ And the commander pulls the door shut behind him.

  Stuff goes into a rant: ‘The swine! The conceited ass! I taught him how to play football! That stringy pen-pusher, I’d like to break his glasses for him.’

  And Maak: ‘There! You see. And I’ve lost my rubber.’

  ‘But I’m going to get you, chum, you see if I don’t. Your turn will come. No one likes you, you stuck-up piece of shit. You fell upstairs all the way to commander, and you won’t let anyone forget it.’

  ‘Mate, it’s best you leave now. I’ll get the comeuppance later.’

  ‘OK, Maak, I’m going. But mark my words, we’ll have him.’

  Up a flight of stairs, outside the door of the Criminal Investigation Department: If he caught me hanging around here, that would really set the cat among the pigeons.—Well, who cares, I need news.—‘Morning, Messrs Detectives! What have you got to be so pleased about, Perduzke?’

  Perduzke takes the beam off his face, and his ‘Good Morning’ sounds as tepid as his colleagues’.

  Stuff pulls up a chair and reaches for a file.

  A hand holds it fast.

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter with you today? You must have caught something from your boss!’

  ‘What boss? What do you know about our boss? And which of them do you mean anyway, Gareis or Frerksen?’

  ‘Frerksen, of course. What do I care about Gareis?’

  ‘And what about Frerksen?’

  ‘Well . . .’ And Stuff relates.

  ‘Typical, the big-headed idiot!’

  ‘He shou
ld just do his job, instead of bullying people.’

  ‘He licks the arses of the high-ups, and kicks us in ours. But I gave it to him,’ says Perduzke. ‘Did I tell you what happened recently, when the commission turned up, with all the big shots?’

  ‘Yes, but you can tell it to me again. I always like to hear it.’

  ‘Well, you remember the visiting commission from Stettin, all the big shots. The Oberbürgermeister is giving them a tour. They come in here too. I’m sitting here, writing something up. I get up, and say, “Good morning,” and go back to work. The Ober is rabbiting on about something or other. I’m writing. Then the Red bandit comes over to me, and says, “Herr Perduzke, will you kindly wait outside until we’re done?”

  ‘“Commander,” I say. “I’m doing my work, and I’m not bothering anyone.”

  ‘“Herr Perduzke, I hereby order you as your superior to go out on to the corridor.”

  ‘“I’m busy. My report has to go to the prosecution authorities.”

  ‘Well, Frerksen flushes purple. “Herr Oberbürgermeister! Herr Oberbürgermeister! Herr Perduzke is refusing to obey my orders!”

  ‘“Well, Herr Frerksen, what is it he’s not doing?”

  ‘“He’s supposed to go out in the corridor.”

  ‘“Leave him be, why don’t you. He’s not bothering anyone.”’

  Loud laughter: ‘You give it to him!’

  ‘He must get quite a bit of grief like that!’

  ‘Well, Stuff, do you know why he’s in a filthy mood with you today—?’ Inspector Bering begins.

  ‘Don’t, Karl, you know he can’t keep his mouth shut.’

  And Stuff, looking through his pince-nez in astonishment: ‘What’s going on here? Something’s the matter. There’s something in the air.’

  And Perduzke: ‘Really, it’s better that you don’t know.’

  ‘He can find out tomorrow, can’t he?’ says Commander Reinbrecht.

  ‘Great, so the competition is on to it first!’ protests Stuff.

  ‘I give you my word of honour that neither Pinkus at the Volkszeitung nor Blöcker at the News will hear about it before you.’

  ‘Well, all right. But can you really not tell me now?’

  ‘Out of the question!’ declares Perduzke.

  And from the other side of the table, Hebel says: ‘Another matter! You’ve got someone at the Chronicle—what was his name again? Treadle—Trepan—Tredup. What kind of character is he?’

  The question is followed by silence, rather a deep silence, thinks Stuff. He reflects, blinking his eyes. Suddenly he starts laughing: ‘Oh, you fools! You idiots! Now I get it. You’re upset about the pictures. That it wasn’t you that made the big discovery about the straw fires and the oxen, but our advertising manager. I could have told you that long ago.’

  The others exchange looks. ‘Well, if you know, mate—what’s he like, Tredup?’

  ‘Well,’ begins Stuff willingly enough, ‘so long as he’s got money, he’s a perfectly OK guy . . .’

  V

  In another hour, Stuff starts to think that his idea that it was all about the photographs was off-beam. And after two hours, over lunch, he says: ‘The brothers made a monkey of me, that’s for sure. Frerksen’s known for weeks that the pictures are from Tredup. So why do they say he’s got a bone to pick with us today?’

  He starts to ponder. And concludes that Tredup must have done something that the police know about. I’ll buy him tonight. I’ll take him out on the town.

  But Tredup’s not in the mood, he has to work.

  ‘What, writing out addresses? But you’ve got the money for the photographs. That’s a lot of moolie.’

  ‘The pictures? Leave it out, Stuff! And not a word about them tonight.’

  ‘So, it’s nine o’clock at Tucher’s?’

  ‘Nine’s too late for me. It’s already dark then. Let’s make it eight.’

  ‘OK, eight. Eight suits me fine. Then we can take a stroll across the red light district and look at the girls.’

  Stuff forms the following plan of action: I’ll get Tredup so juiced up that he starts talking, and I’ll listen.

  But in the afternoon Stuff gets together with Agricultural Councillor Feinbube from the Union of Jersey Cattle-Breeders, and Plosch, the syndic for the local Craftsmen’s Association, and they start drinking. Stuff can’t get away. He sends a boy to Tucher’s with the message to Tredup to come and join them.

  But Tredup doesn’t come, and Stuff carries on drinking.

  After a while he remembers the rendezvous, and he calls the waiter from the bar. ‘What did Tredup say?’

  ‘He refuses to come in. He’s standing outside on the pavement.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me all this time?—All right, gentlemen, we’ll meet again on Monday. You’ll be going to see the farmers’ demonstration, I take it?’

  Tredup is pacing back and forth outside, back and forth.

  The Burstah and the station square are full of people at this early and mild hour of the evening. Lots of light dresses, and couples in every doorway, including, naturally, the Chronicle.

  ‘There now, Tredup,’ says Stuff, awkwardly taking his arm. ‘There in the entrance to the Chronicle is the youngest of our cleaning girls, Grete Schade, and it seems she’s got a new swain.’

  ‘Whatever a man needs . . .’

  ‘Yes, she’s a good-looking girl, but she’s not even fifteen . . .’

  ‘She won’t tell swain that, surely . . .’

  ‘He knows she only left school this Easter. There’s no excuse, if the trap snaps shut, he’s in it.’

  ‘That’s your worry.’

  ‘Mine? Hmm, maybe. If she’s lying. You can never tell. I’ll tell you the story, but you have to promise to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Word of honour?’

  ‘Word of honour!’

  ‘Well, about three months ago—we still had the heating on—I come into the office straight from the bar. I couldn’t see out of my eyes. Grete is just cleaning the place, and blow me if the little minx doesn’t suddenly plonk herself on my lap. My Lord, the warmth! I felt, let’s say, a changed man. All she had on over her chemise was a little wool dress. And the warmth of her. The bosom on her!’

  ‘You’re not about to—are you, Stuff? Or are you?’

  ‘Well, what if I do? Who could blame me? And is it right that I get hauled off for seducing a minor, when . . . ? Pissed like I was, and the curves on her. No, anyway . . .’ And Stuff suddenly goes into a different mode: ‘So you have to be a man, and keep yourself under control. Nothing happened, as I say. I pushed her off.—There, and now let’s go into the Grotto.’

  ‘The Grotto? I’m not sure I want to go to the Grotto. My wife wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Does she wear the trousers, then?’

  ‘What if she does? Any sensible man is happy to find someone to share the responsibilities with him.’

  ‘The man always has to be in charge, though,’ lectures Stuff.

  ‘Rubbish! You try being married for ten years! You try being married for one! Always in charge! You should look around and see how you and a wife of yours get on!’

  ‘Do you know what you are!’ yells Stuff. ‘You’re decadent!’

  ‘Ach, give over,’ says Tredup contemptuously. ‘You’re like a blind man talking about colour! If you were married, you’d talk differently. Just, no one wanted you.’

  ‘No one wanted me,’ Stuff growls back crossly. ‘Do you want to go out together now or not?’

  ‘Do I want to? It was you who asked me in the first place!’ They stop where they are, in the middle of the bridge, and look at each other challengingly.

  On the left is the pond where the River Blosse flows, on the right the water flows quietly and clearly over the weir. It’s dark here under the trees. A few gaslights drop their reflections on the tarmac road, daub trembly, glittery forms on the black surface of the pond. In the background a
re the bright lights over the entrance to the Grotto.

  ‘Me ask you!’ says Stuff incredulously. ‘As if!’ And, in a sudden fury: ‘How would you like to be thrown in the water?! You rat! You traitor!’

  Tredup looks at Stuff, and the empty street losing itself under the darkness of the trees. He links arms with Stuff. ‘Come on, Stuff, what are you fussing about? There’s the Grotto right there.’

  And suddenly Stuff remembers what he wanted from the man. It was something to do with the police, or those wretched photographs. Or anything but the photographs, whatever. He can’t quite recall. It’ll come to him when he’s sitting over a beer.

  And then the door to the Grotto opens. Jazz breathes into the summer night. The sound of the water is toned down.

  Stuff clings on to Tredup’s arm a little tighter. ‘Come on, son. It’s time to down a few. I’m thirsty, aren’t you?’

  VI

  Two hours later, the pair of them are still in the Grotto. They have both drunk valiantly, and Stuff’s face is purple and puffy. Tredup looks pale, and has to be excused at frequent intervals.

  Stuff, fat, hard-boiled Stuff, is still bothered by something Tredup said that pierced him to the heart, that there wasn’t a woman that wanted him. That’s why he’s now started filling Tredup in about some of the triumphs of his past life.

  ‘I promise you, Tredup, there’s no park bench and no shrubbery where I haven’t been with a girl. And the dark passage outside the town hall . . . Oh, I should tell you how I was once surprised there . . .’

  And he tells the story, lingers on the details, and finally: ‘Back then women were women, you know, Tredup, not half-starved sparrows the way they are today! And the white bloomers, the way they used to glow in the dark! When I think of those mauve and beige ham bags nowadays, I tell you the charm is gone.’

  ‘What I wanted to ask you,’ Tredup starts somewhere else. ‘You said something about “traitor” back then. “Little traitor” is what you said. Was that about the photographs?’

  ‘Don’t get into it, Tredup, leave it out!’ says Stuff, moved. ‘None of us is an angel. If all the wicked things I’ve done were known, then I’d be in prison for years and years.’