A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating.—Do you really think anyone else knows about me selling the photos?’

  ‘Exaggerating! I tell you, Tredup, in a back house on the Kleine Lastadie in Stettin there’s a woman—and if she felt like talking, and knew my name. My God, there . . .’

  Stuff loses his thread, and Tredup manages to get in his question: ‘Do you think the farmers know about my photographs? For the past few days, someone . . .’

  ‘The first time, I went there with Henni. Henni was so dead set against. I didn’t have to marry her, and I wouldn’t have to shell out any money, and she would bring up the kid by herself. Of course I go with her to see the woman. We walk in.—I’d told Henni I’d stop loving her if she didn’t go ahead. “Please let me keep the kid,” she begged me.

  ‘We walk in, it’s just an ordinary kitchen-diner, you know, with the woman’s two grown-up sons. They walk out the minute we come in, you know, not a word. She’s a little wizened woman, used to be a midwife. No need to tell her anything, she gets the picture right away. “Just lie down on the table over there!” And to me: “That’ll be twenty-five marks.”’

  Stuff sighs gustily, and looks straight into space.

  ‘Well, and then it’s over in a jiffy. She does it with water and a syringe, it just has to be done at the right moment. Two days or twenty-four hours later, the kid arrived. No one even noticed with Henni. She lost it overnight, and the next day she was back at work. She was a parlourmaid.

  ‘But when she told me about it, Tredup, I still dream of it at night. “I looked at it before I threw it away,” she says. “It would have been a girl.” I howled when she told me, Tredup, really howled.’

  ‘Well, it was all a long time ago, I’m sure,’ Tredup says blandly.

  ‘Not that long at all,’ boasts Stuff. ‘And I’ve been three times to see her since.—And once I persuaded the girl to perjure herself too . . .

  ‘Yes, men are swine, Tredup, we’re all swine. By day we run around and do exactly the same dumb work as all the others, but at night, if we’ve spent long enough sitting around in bars, and there’s just a little bit of sense left in our brains, then we see what swine we are: me, you, all of us.’

  ‘Stuff,’ says Tredup on a sudden impulse, pale with agitation, ‘Stuff, someone keeps following me.’

  ‘Ooh, I’m sure you’re only imagining it.’

  ‘And I think it’s to do with the pictures . . .’

  ‘What pictures? Oh, those pictures. No, that’s all sorted, nothing will happen to you over that. If I were you, I wouldn’t hang around here on Monday, when the farmers are holding their demonstration, but other than that, I’m sure you’re in the clear.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not what I mean. And there’s the bomb as well, that went off in the president’s house.’

  ‘Where’s the connection with the pictures! You idiot!’ laughs Stuff. ‘The bomb was about taxes, and to frighten the government. And they’ve shat themselves and all, you can bet on it.’

  ‘But someone’s following me,’ Tredup insists. ‘Not back then, but in the last few days.’

  ‘Could it be someone knows something about the money? How much did you get anyway?’

  ‘Three hundred.—No, no one knows anything about that.’

  ‘So that’d be five hundred, then. Did you spend much of it?’

  ‘Just ten marks!’

  ‘And your missus?’

  ‘She doesn’t know either. The money’s not in the house.’

  ‘Then you’d better let someone know where it is. In case something happens to you.’

  ‘You see, you believe it too! See! No, no one’s going to get to hear about that, it’s buried. Even if you beat my brains out, I’m not telling you.’

  ‘Don’t blather. You’re pissed. Who’s going to beat your brains out?’

  ‘Well, the guy from the magazine, for instance, who turned up with you the other night. Or the man who’s following me around.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A short fat guy. With wiry hair. Black hair.’

  Stuff suddenly has an idea. ‘Hey, did you ever meet Perduzke?’

  ‘Perduzke? No. Who’s he?’

  ‘Listen to me, Tredup,’ says Stuff, leaning forward across the table. ‘Have you got in some trouble lately? I mean, something big, not a little piffling thing while you’re alone in the office, selling space.’

  ‘Stuff, you’re a bastard,’ says Tredup. ‘You’re a real bastard. But for your information, I’ve done nothing, whether small or big.’

  ‘You really sure?’ Stuff persists with big round eyes.

  ‘Positive. Not theft nor false witness nor abortion nor bombs nor anything else.’

  ‘I think he’s telling the truth myself,’ says Stuff. ‘Then Perduzke’s a fool. Let him chase after you, Tredup, he can’t harm you. He’s after the wrong person.’

  ‘But I’m scared, Stuff. Each time I turn round suddenly, I see someone. And worst of all is when I don’t see him, then I’m sort of flinching till I see him again.’

  ‘You’re a coward! You should have been on the Front with us . . .’

  But Tredup carries on: ‘There’s a spot on the back of my skull which I keep feeling. There, just below the crown. I’m not kidding you. I feel a sort of pressure there all the time, and I just know that one day I’m going to get whacked there with a mattock. Right there. I can feel it now. A blow from behind. And then I’ll I’ve had my chips.’

  He looks at Stuff expectantly.

  ‘We had a corporal at the Front,’ says Stuff. ‘With him it began like that too—’

  ‘I don’t want you to talk,’ Tredup interrupts him. ‘Tell me what to do. I think I’m going to go mad.’

  ‘The corporal,’ Stuff persists, ‘wound up in an asylum—’

  Tredup abruptly gets up. ‘G’night, Stuff. You’re good for the bill, aren’t you?’ And he takes his hat and walks out.

  VII

  It’s still a summer night outside, a dark, moonless summer night, with a gentle rustle of leaves. The water over the weir is still burbling, and the shining reflections of the gaslights are lying on the black surface of the pond.

  Tredup leans against a tree and scrutinizes the road into town. The tarmac is still and clear in the light of the lamps, and the pavement is also empty and reasonably well lit.

  But there are rows of trees on either side, and a man could be hiding, or even two, behind the stout linden trunks, who’s to know? And then they leap out, and there’s the spot on the back of his head . . . Once he’s been hit, it won’t be so bad, but the moment of expectation must be gruesome.

  The best thing is to go back to the bar and call for a taxi from the station, he thinks. But no, what about Stuff? I won’t be able to shake him off, and the drinking will begin again, and all the stupid talk about women . . .

  Tredup steps out into the middle of the roadway and slowly starts to walk. Each time he’s on the level of two trees, he looks carefully behind them before going on.

  Five or six pairs of trees are already behind him, ahead of him at the end of the avenue are the lights from the market square, when suddenly from out of the deepest shadow, a small, round, bearded fellow confronts him . . . the one he saw earlier on today . . .

  Tredup sees something like an outstretched hand coming for him . . . He takes a huge leap in the direction of the market square, screams, and starts to run.

  Behind him he hears hurried footfall, there are two of them now. One calls: ‘Stop or I shoot!’

  Tredup runs for all he’s worth.

  A second voice calls: ‘Let him go, Perduzke. We’ll catch him anyway.’

  Perduzke? Tredup thinks. Perduzke? Who’s Perduzke? But he needs to keep running, otherwise they’ll catch him, and smash him on the painful spot on the back of his skull.

  He runs right across the lit-up market square, which, now, after midnight, is completely deserted, and into Probstenstrasse.

 
I can get home this way, he thinks. Oh, how I wish I was already back with Elise! And he runs even faster.

  There seems to be only one of them following him now; Tredup is hopeful he can shake him off, because the fellow is panting rather badly. And right by here is the town park, if he can reach that, it’s dark, and they won’t find him.

  He hangs a bend. His pursuer is at least twenty paces behind him.

  Then there’s the crunch of gravel underfoot. It’s splendidly dark and deep night in here. Tredup hops over a piece of lawn, crashes through a bush, runs silently over some more lawn—and, while he’s turning into the back end of Calvinstrasse, he sees his pursuer a long way back, waving a torch around, looking for him.

  When he opens his front door a quarter of an hour later, he finds the fat man with the black beard sitting on the chair next to the dresser. A tearful Elise, bundled up in her blanket, is perched on the side of the bed. The children pop their heads out, and withdraw them again.

  ‘Welcome home, Herr Tredup,’ says the fat man. ‘My colleague is still making his way here. My name is Perduzke, from the CID. Unless I’m mistaken, Herr Stuff will have mentioned my name to you in the course of today.’

  ‘It was you who followed me from the Grotto, was it?’ asks Tredup nervously.

  ‘A colleague and I,’ confirms Perduzke. ‘Admittedly, you seem to have shaken him off.’

  ‘And it’s you who’s been tailing me these past few days?’

  ‘For almost forty-eight hours, since the evening of the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Well, if I’d only known that,’ says Tredup, with a deep sigh. ‘Then I could have spared myself the trouble.’

  ‘That’s what you say now,’ says Perduzke sounding unconvinced, ‘Anyway, I’m arresting you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What for? You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know of any reason.’

  Perduzke says grandly: ‘They all like to sound as stupid as they can. But we’ll talk about it in the morning. It will all look very different once you’ve spent the night in a cell.’

  ‘Max,’ whispers Frau Tredup. ‘Max, if you’ve got anything on your conscience, it might be best to own up to it right away, and then the gentleman might let you stay here.’

  ‘Think about it,’ says Perduzke. ‘Your wife is a sensible woman.’

  ‘There isn’t anything, Elise, don’t worry. It’s all nonsense. But go along to the town hall first thing tomorrow morning, and see Mayor Gareis, and tell him I’ve been arrested and need to talk to him.’

  ‘Gareis? What have you got to do with our mayor?’

  ‘All right, Elise, don’t forget, and don’t do it any later, and then I’ll be back home tomorrow evening.’

  ‘That’s the sort of miracle not even a Red mayor can perform. Come along, Herr Tredup.’

  ‘And tell Stuff what happened. Not Wenk. Stuff. Goodnight, Elise.’

  ‘Goodnight, Max. Oh, Max, how will I be able to sleep . . . and the children . . . oh, Max.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Elise, nothing at all. It’s even for the best, my being arrested now. I’ll be able to get a proper night’s kip.’

  ‘Oh, Max . . .’

  VIII

  In Mayor Gareis’s office the following afternoon—a bright and sunny July afternoon—four gentlemen are sitting together. Floods of joyful light come in through the large windows and illumine the amiable, sweet face of the heaviest man of Altholm, the mobile, now somewhat downcast, features of Chief Adviser Meier, representative of the government in Stolpe, the pinched, unhappy face of Militia Colonel Senkpiel, and the alert expression of Commander Frerksen.

  Gareis looks even more amiable, smiles even more sweetly. ‘But, my dear friends from Stolpe, why in all the world would I want to ban the farmers’ demonstration?’

  And Chief Adviser Meier, a little irritably: ‘I’ve already told you several times: for fear of incidents.’

  ‘With our farmers? It wouldn’t occur to them to offer violence.’

  Chief Adviser Meier says with heavy emphasis: ‘The farmers’ movement is more dangerous than the KPD and NSDAP combined. I quote verbatim something said by our president, isn’t that so, Colonel?’

  Colonel Senkpiel growls assent: ‘We must have the militia here on Monday.’

  Gareis smiles even more brilliantly. ‘Surely not against my own wishes, Colonel?’

  And Chief Adviser Meier, hurriedly: ‘What I relayed to you are the wishes of the president. I need hardly say that you would be making yourself solely responsible, if you were to disregard them.’

  Meier pokes in his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘With all de–—’ he begins, and peers short-sightedly through his pince-nez. The mayor folds his hands over his belly and leans back submissively. ‘With all demonstrations, two factors are to be kept in view at all times: the mood of the demonstrators, and the mood of the rest of the population.

  ‘In the present case, feeling in the farming community is running dangerously high. I call to mind the ox confiscation in Gramzow, the bomb in the president’s villa . . .

  ‘The danger is all the greater, as the farmers are no settled community, but something fluid and volatile. They have no written membership or leaders.

  ‘In the case of other demonstrations, Herr Mayor, you speak to the leaders. You discuss the parameters with them, you agree an itinerary and a time and a place. You are dealing with people who take responsibility. Not here. Everyone is authorized, and no one is.

  ‘Second factor: the mood of the population. The strongest parties locally are the SPD and KPD. Self-evidently, neither is sympathetic to the farmers. There are a thousand potential spark-points, all unpredictable. A shout can set off a punch-up, a punch-up can be the prelude to a pitched battle.

  ‘You have some eighty officers—’

  ‘Seventy-eight,’ Commander Frerksen chips in.

  ‘Quite. Seventy-eight. Twenty at any given time will be on leave.’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘All right, Herr Frerksen. Shall we say the odd one, give or take, doesn’t matter.’

  Frerksen crumples.

  ‘All right . . . I take away . . . How does it go? Commander, can you help me out . . . twenty-one from . . .’

  ‘There would be fifty-seven men available.’

  ‘That’s it. Fifty-seven. In practical terms, fifty, because some would have to remain on traffic duty, et cetera.’

  ‘Really only forty,’ says the mayor.

  ‘Very good, forty. Forty! Mayor, Herr Gareis, please! There are three or four or even five thousand farmers, demonstrating, in a hostile environment, in a Red town—forgive me, I’m a Party member myself!—and you want to control them with forty men from an unspecialized local force . . . It looks like insanity to me! But Herr Gareis, what do you say!’

  ‘The short answer is I’m not about to ban the demonstration!

  ‘First, I don’t have any legal right to. Every day I sanction marches and demonstrations from every party. I can’t suddenly make an exception . . .

  ‘Second, I see no grounds for a ban. The farmers’ movement may be everything you claim it is, but its members are not aggressive. Gramzow is a case in point. Passive resistance occurred there, and oxen were beaten, but no one had a hair of their head harmed.

  ‘Now, I understand that the bombing in Stolpe has made people there nervous, but—’

  ‘Nervous, Mayor . . . ?’

  ‘Well, then, not nervous. There is no evidence that that incident is connected to the farmers in any way. The first arrest made was of an employee of the Revenue Department, who claimed he wanted to get his own back on the district president, whom for some stupid reason he holds responsible for his losing his job. And the second is even less of a Bauernschaft man, as you of all people should know, Chief Adviser.’

  ‘In my view that arrest is a mistake.’

  ‘Then we’re agreed on that count. To conclude. The Bauernschaft is not a
ggressive. There remains the question of the mood among our working population. The demonstration will probably take place at a time when our workers will be in their factories.

  ‘Finally, a matter of principle. Demonstrations should be allowed to run their course. The more fuss, the more resources, the more possibilities of friction. If you bring in a couple of platoons, the instant effect is that the farmers will be made aware of their power. Forty men isn’t a lot, but they’re quite enough. I say: Nothing will happen.

  ‘And I say: I’m not going to do anything either.’

  The mayor makes a brisk movement. ‘As I say, let them run their course. That’s it. I’m done. I’m sorry it took so long. But I think it’s all clear now.’

  And Gareis beams round at the little circle of visitors. While he does, his hand gropes behind him. There, dangling from his desk, is the bulb of a bell-push. He presses it once, twice, three times.

  Chief Adviser Meier bestirs himself: ‘No, Mayor, let me say again: nothing has been made clear. Your decision is impossible. I refuse to take such a decision with me back to Stolpe. The district president has instructed me—’

  The door opens, and Secretary Piekbusch appears in some agitation. ‘Mayor! The Oberbürgermeister asks if you have a moment. It’s very urgent.’

  The mayor gets up. ‘I am called away. Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Perhaps you could discuss things further with Frerksen. Herr Frerksen can furnish you with more information.’

  And Gareis disappears.

  IX

  Gareis stands panting in his outer office. ‘Leave them to chatter on in there, Comrade Piekbusch, it was high time I brought proceedings to a halt. Those Stolpers—a firecracker goes off, and because their little lives were briefly at risk, they want to impose a state of emergency on the whole world.’

  ‘Political Adviser Stein has Farmer Benthin with him. I thought it as well that your visitors didn’t catch sight of him.’

  ‘Very good. You’ve done well.’

  And Gareis crosses the corridor, swaying and puffing, to his political adviser’s office.