A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘We can all drive on a flat, straight road. Wait till things get a little bumpy. If the farmers’ demonstration today goes off badly—’

  ‘There’s not going to be a farmers’ demonstration today. Reimers is no longer being held in the Central Prison, I can tell you in confidence. I am on holiday as of this afternoon.’

  ‘And who will stand in for you?’

  ‘Frerksen!’

  ‘Well. In confidence or not, I can tell you, Mayor, that there will be a demonstration here, even if you’ve taken care to have the leader shipped off somewhere else.’

  ‘It was Katzenstein who managed the transport. Just by the by. And will the Chronicle be carrying the story this lunchtime that Reimers is no longer here, and that the demonstration has lost its raison d’être?’

  ‘At any rate, Reimers is in prison. It doesn’t really matter where, Altholm or Stolpe—but that people can demonstrate against it, that matters. That’s a defensible position too.’

  ‘What use to you are the farmers? They don’t read you. While I’m on the point, how can you sympathize with bombers?’

  ‘Everything’s possible. But for now it’s not been proven that the farmers were the bombers.’

  The mayor says quickly and intently: ‘Herr Stuff, why are you my enemy?’

  And Stuff, caught out: ‘I’m not your enemy.’

  ‘You are. You always have been. I’ve always respected you as a human being, even though our political views diverged. Don’t be unjust. Tell me what you have against me.’

  ‘Newspapermen aren’t concerned with justice. I have nothing against you.’

  ‘Then I’m relieved.’

  The mayor leans back.

  ‘You have to see clearly. I had the sense you were convinced from the start that I was opposed to the farmers’ demonstration. I am in favour of it, not because it’s a farmers’ demonstration, but because it’s a demonstration, and I believe in equal rights for all.’

  ‘It’s possible to be for something officially, and unofficially against it. The removal of Reimers . . .’

  ‘Happened on the orders of the Justice Department, and was done by Katzenstein. If I stopped to talk to Reimers, that was purely to spare him the use of force.’

  ‘And the letter in the Volkszeitung?’

  ‘What do I know about the Volkszeitung? Incidentally, that letter should give you pause too. For the leaders of the Bauernschaft, everything comes down to money, apparently.’

  ‘The letter’s a fake.’

  ‘Hardly. The declaration in the Bauernschaft newspaper was just to cover their embarrassment.’

  ‘It seems we see everything differently,’ says Stuff. ‘There’s not one detail we agree on.’

  And the mayor: ‘We can differ on matters of fact, if we agree on the human side. Do I have your assurance that you have no personal animus against me?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘All right! And what will the position of the Chronicle be this lunchtime?’

  ‘I can’t say as yet. I’ll have to talk to Herr Schabbelt first.’

  To Schabbelt?! But you are the Chronicle, Herr Stuff!’

  ‘You’re wrong about that, Mayor. But irrespective of that, I’m still surprised you seem to attach so much importance to us. A paper that the town administration will no longer use to make its announcements in, because it’s too unimportant!’

  ‘That’s not the reason! Good God, that’s not the reason! We have to make economies. The city fathers, well, you know . . . Save. Save. Save. It’s a few thousand marks, after all. And the Chronicle just happens to be the smallest of the town’s newspapers. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘Our print run is seven thousand one hundred and sixty. The Volkszeitung only distributes five thousand copies in Altholm.’

  ‘That can’t be right, Herr Stuff. That can’t be right. Five thousand? Nine thousand!’

  ‘I would suggest you stand out on the Burstah one day at half past eleven, Mayor, and count the number of bales that the Stettin car drops off at the Volkszeitung offices for distribution. I say: five thousand, including propaganda flyers.’

  ‘You must be mistaken, Herr Stuff, I have dependable information. Whereas how can I check up on the seven thousand you claim for the Chronicle?’

  ‘By allowing me to show you an audited confirmation from Notary Pepper that agrees that number on the basis of our books and subscribers’ list.’

  ‘That confirmation exists, Herr Stuff?’

  ‘I can let you see it.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Your word is good enough for me. So the Chronicle has a distribution of seven thousand plus?’

  ‘Seven thousand one hundred and sixty.’

  ‘Good. Give me that in writing and you’ll continue to receive public announcements from the municipality.’ And, with emphasis: ‘Of course, that’s always assuming that the municipal government is not directly attacked by the Chronicle. Our mouthpiece may not simultaneously be our enemy.’

  ‘We can’t possibly give you a blank cheque for your policies in advance.’

  ‘My dear Herr Stuff! We understand each other. Objective criticism is always valuable.’ Smiling: ‘And what’s your take on today’s farmers’ demonstration?’

  And Stuff, also smiling: ‘I’ve already told Feinbube that I think it’ll fail.’

  The mayor, purring: ‘You see, there are points of agreement between us. Here’s to a fruitful collaboration, Herr Stuff!’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Morning to you, Herr Mayor.’

  VII

  Herr Gebhardt, the little newspaper magnate of Pomerania, as his friends—he has none—call him, is in his office at nine, as he is every day. His business manager, Trautmann, is standing by, because the most important thing every day is to report on the amount of space taken out, and the sum realized from its sale.

  ‘You know,’ Gebhardt likes to say, ‘I read my newspapers from back to front. I don’t really care what the headlines are. It’s the advertisements that matter.’

  Today is Monday, a bad day, barely two pages of advertising, they will have to pad it out. ‘Let’s put in the half-page of Persil too. If we have to fill . . .’

  Trautmann disagrees: ‘No, if we’re reduced to padding, then take something that the advertiser won’t see. Otherwise we’ll wreck our price structure. Let’s take Ford, they don’t have a representative in town.’

  The boss agrees. ‘By the way, Herr Trautmann, the Chronicle is in the bag. The sale is done. Schabbelt signed on the dotted line last night.’

  ‘What conditions?’

  ‘We made absolutely no concessions. Why should we, when he’s in such trouble? He’s lucky we let him hang on to his flat.’

  ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t have been possible to put him out on the street, the Housing Department would have got involved.’

  ‘Quite. So what will we do now? Send for Stuff?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Let him come and see us if he wants.’

  ‘But we are keeping him, aren’t we?’ asks the boss.

  ‘Of course we’re keeping him. No one has so many connections here. And the man can write.’

  ‘What sort of wage should we pay him?’ asks the boss anxiously.

  ‘When I last heard he was on five hundred.’

  ‘Five hundred! Are you crazy! The Chronicle would never bear five hundred!’

  ‘No. Or rather, it might be able to bear it, but we wouldn’t be interested in paying it. Three hundred and fifty, plus twenty in expenses, to sweeten the pill.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t agree?’

  ‘What else will he do? He’s pushing fifty, and he’ll never leave Altholm.’

  ‘At any rate, it’ll have to be done in such a way that people don’t notice that we now own the Chronicle. Otherwise circulation will suffer.’

  ‘Quite. But we’ll have to let Heinsius and Blöcker into the secret.’

  ‘Do you think? Will you do it, or shall I?’<
br />
  ‘You, of course! Funny question. You’re the owner.’

  ‘All right then, Herr Trautmann, will you give them a call.—Please.’

  ‘OK. I’ll send them along.’

  Heinsius, the editor of the biggest paper in Altholm, a big bald man in a rayon jacket, comes running in first, with a sheaf of proofs still in his hand.

  ‘Morning, Herr Gebhardt! Sleep well? Sleep well? We’re going with a local lead on the 25th anniversary of the Glaziers’ Guild . . . I’ve come up with a few well-chosen words myself, for the community’s interest . . . If you’d like to hear them, if you have a moment . . .’

  ‘Not just now. What’s happening with the farmers’ demonstration?’

  ‘The farmers!’ Heinsius is contempt itself. ‘The farmers won’t demonstrate. Now that Reimers is in Stolpe. You do know that Reimers is in Stolpe?’

  ‘Yes. But the mayor went away on holiday this morning, for three days, so I hear . . .’

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘Could it be there’s something in the offing? Is he trying to keep his head below the parapet?’

  ‘Do you think so, Herr Gebhardt? I’ll make some inquiries. And if he is—why, then I’ll write something with some satirical bite. We here won’t let Oberbürgermeister Niederdahl forget that he didn’t invite you to the celebration dinner for the opening of the orphanage . . .’

  ‘Couldn’t he just have forgotten?’

  ‘He didn’t forget! I’ve heard it said . . . No, I’d better not say, it’s too upsetting . . .’

  ‘Oh, what is it now! No, please, tell me right now. I can’t stomach these insinuations. Spit it out.’

  ‘He is supposed to have said, and I know this from an excellent source, that even if Gebhardt buys a hundred newspapers, he will remain a little man trying to look big.’

  ‘That . . . why! Who did he say that to?’

  ‘Of course I gave my word never to divulge the name, but for you I’ll make an exception.’

  And the newspaper magnate, tormented: ‘Well, say it!’

  ‘Councillor Meisel.’

  ‘Right. I’ll make a note of that. The arrogance of those academics!—Herr Heinsius, we’re getting into a more and more difficult situation. After all the snubs I’ve received at the hands of Niederdahl, we can’t possibly support his political platform. We can’t go with the Socialist Gareis, otherwise we stand to lose our advertisers, the entrepreneurial classes, and we can’t represent business, because most of our subscribers are workers. What on earth can we do?’

  His editor comforts him: ‘We’ll pick our way through. On a case-by-case basis. Just leave it to me. I’ve got good instincts. I don’t offend people. And as for the little dig at Niederdahl today—I’ll see why he’s gone away. If it’s to duck his responsibilities, then he’ll be in for a shock!’

  ‘Check with Stuff. He always knows everything.’

  ‘With Stuff . . . ? Anyway, he doesn’t at all know everything.’

  ‘Oh yes he does. Stuff.’

  ‘You mean Stuff on the Chronicle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But, Herr Gebhardt!’

  ‘Herr Stuff is my employee, as of today.’

  ‘Your . . . ? So that means you own . . . ?’

  ‘The Chronicle passed into my ownership last night.’

  The proofs flutter gently to the ground. Heinsius raises his arms and his permanently red-rimmed eyes to the heavens. ‘Herr Gebhardt! Herr Gebhardt! That it should be vouchsafed to me to experience this moment! The rivalry is over! Stuff—our stablemate! Herr Gebhardt! Oh, thank you! Thank you! Our employee Stuff . . .’

  He shakes his boss’s hand again and again.

  ‘But it’s to remain a secret, Herr Heinsius. I don’t want the public to hear about it. It might harm the sales of the Chronicle, which of course is to stay strongly Right-wing.’

  ‘A secret? That’s a shame. Still, I’ll be able to give instructions to Stuff. We’ll have the use of his material and research. He comes out two hours ahead of us. I’ll cut and paste him religiously from now on. And we can send him on ahead. Our pit canary . . .’

  Heinsius is in a whirl of delight. He is in the world of dreams. ‘I’ll make Stuff pay for flogging off two hundred copies of my novel German Blood and German Need for fifty pfennigs apiece at the last Michaelmas market.’

  Gebhardt clears his throat. ‘Let’s not get emotional here. You’re colleagues now, and your sole interest is the flourishing of the business.’

  ‘Your business, of course, Herr Gebhardt. I am being entirely unemotional here. You will see what a renaissance the News will experience.’

  ‘Will you give Blöcker the information too, confidentially. Why hasn’t he come, by the way? He doesn’t come as often as he ought. I like to see my editors on a daily basis.’

  ‘I don’t know. He had someone with him. Anyway. You know he shouldn’t go out so much at night, Herr Gebhardt, to his glee club. An editor shouldn’t have a private life.’

  ‘Blöcker’s bound to be seeing Stuff some time today. I want him to have him come here at eight o’clock. Stuff will know why. He’s to use the back entrance, so that no one sees him.’

  ‘Very good, Herr Gebhardt.’

  ‘And I want you to hold over the dig at the Ober. We’ll wait for confirmation of the renewal of the municipal contracts first.’

  ‘I’ll find out about that.’

  ‘Good. And bring Trautmann back.’

  Trautmann comes in. The boss, to him coming in: ‘Listen, Trautmann, you got me into the newspaper business. You’ve advised me from day one. That gabby old woman Heinsius just told me that the Ober said I would remain a little man, never mind how big I wanted to be. How can we fix the Ober?’

  ‘We’ll get him. But who is he supposed to have said it to? You can’t believe everything Heinsius says.’

  VIII

  When Stuff emerges from the town hall on to the marketplace at half past eleven, there isn’t the usual meagre morning presence of isolated pedestrians and one or two cars cutting through Altholm on their way from Stettin to Stolpe, or Stolpe to Stettin.

  Everywhere there are groups of people, and their clothes, their thoughtful, somehow rather ponderous gestures—as though their bones were unusually heavy—their way of talking loudly and slowly, identified them as farmers, even if Stuff couldn’t have named many of them.

  But he doesn’t feel like addressing any of them, he’s tired and fed up, all the vows of eternal friendship with that fat schmoozer Gareis disgust him. He’s longing for a dark nook at Auntie Lieschen’s, for beer and schnapps, for oblivion.

  As he trots along, Stuff thinks: I will show up when the farmers have their demonstration. You never can tell. It’s due to go off at three, that’s another four hours. There’s time for a couple of drinks, maybe. And now I’ll just take in the stills at the Baltic Cinema so that I can cobble together my eighteeen lines on the new feature.

  In front of the stills vitrine there’s a back that looks familiar. ‘Blöcker, what are you doing here, you old bugger? Didn’t you make it to the flicker either last night?’

  The friendly foes crewing the News and the Chronicle shake hands.

  Newspapers may be enemies, newspaper owners may want to spit at one another, editors may hate each other: the friendship between local reporters is indestructible. They swap titbits, they steal from each other, they give each other a leg-up: ‘Will you go to the assizes for me?’—‘Give me your arson in Juliusruh.’

  ‘Have you been to the police yet, mate? What’s new?’

  ‘A break-in in an allotment hut. A punch-up at Krüger’s. A drunk found wandering round the back of the general store with a bloody head. Ach, I’ll give it to you later. How’s about you?’

  ‘Two-car collision on the Stolpe Road.’

  ‘Any dead?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Damn. Injured?’

  ‘Two, badly.’

  ‘Local?’

&nb
sp; ‘Nah, from Stettin.’

  ‘Well, it’s no good to me, then. But you can let me have it anyway.’

  ‘It’ll make ten lines, I would think.’

  ‘Five is the most I can have.—What are you going to do about the farmers today?’

  The man from the News blinks. ‘Farmers? Not interested. That’s a damp squib.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree. There’s five hundred of them here, at the most.’

  ‘I’d say three.’

  ‘Could be. I’m not going to be there at three,’ announces Stuff.

  ‘At three? You’re crazy. Three is when I have my nap.’

  ‘See! Me too.’

  And Blöcker: ‘So what about it? Shall we have a jar? I’m buying.’

  ‘You’re buying? In the morning? Are you unwell?’

  ‘Listen, it’s warm, and I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Funny. But then today’s a funny day. Well, you’ll tell me whatever it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to go in there. It’s all full of farmers now. We’ll go to Krüger’s wine bar. It’s cool and quiet, and he can fill us in about the punch-up.’

  They walk on in silence, Blöcker is wondering how to break it to Stuff that Gebhardt wants to see him.

  ‘Well, Cousin Benthin, who’re you looking for?’ Stuff calls out to the moth-eaten farmer.

  ‘G’day, Stuff. You wouldn’t have seen Rohwer from Nippmerow, would you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. The whole place is full of farmers. Do you have a message for him if I see him?’

  ‘I promised the mayor that me and some of the leaders would go round and talk to him. But now I can’t find him anywhere.’

  ‘The mayor? Why would you farmers go and talk to a Red?’

  ‘Gareis isn’t so bad, even if he is a Red. Now I must go and find Rohwer.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him, Cousin Benthin.’

  ‘Thanks, Stuff. You should catch the speeches this afternoon. There’s some bad news in them for Revenue and State.’

  ‘I’ll save the front page!’ mocks Stuff. ‘Gah, you farmers! Now come along, Blöcker.’

  They step into Krüger’s.

  IX

  There is a farm called Stolpermünde-Abbau, five miles from the fishing village of Stolpermünde. The road, which is a rough, sandy track, winds across the dunes and over brackish meadows that are more reeds and horse-tails than grass. Gulls live there, and wild rabbits. There’s nothing exists more remote and abandoned than Stolpermünde-Abbau.