by Hans Fallada
The old woman turns round. Out of the grey face with its thousand wrinkles, the grey eyes shine forth.
‘Go away, you nasty snot-nosed boy,’ she says. ‘Your father cheated the farmers, and as long as you live you’ll only be another cheat like him!’
From the Stolpe Gate cheerful marching music rings out. The band has at last managed to reach the head of the procession, which has re-formed and is just setting out once more.
‘Off! March! To the auction hall!’ yells Padberg. ‘Everything else will be sorted out later. Let’s leave this spot!’
The bearers with the injured go through the door of the pharmacy.
7
The Government Clamps Down
I
The band at the head of the procession plays ‘Fridericus Rex’, then the ‘Deutschlandlied’ and then the song of the Jewish Republic we don’t want.
The farmers trot along silently behind, first along the Burstah, past the railway station, and on down the leafy suburban streets, where among gardens and villas the big factories are located.
Police escort the procession left and right, ahead and behind. It’s as though these thirty or forty policemen are leading these three or four thousand farmers to their cells.
Padberg, back at the head of the column, next to Count Bandekow, Rehder and Cousin Benthin, feels bitter. How ignominious it all is! he thinks. If we farmers had raised our hands, those few town soldiers would be lying in the Blosse by now. How the whole country will laugh at us! If the police had tried those tactics on the Red Front, or Hitler’s people, or even the Reichsbanner, they’d have been swatted away! But we farmers aren’t taken seriously!
‘My God,’ he says out loud. ‘I wish I knew what I’m going to write about this in the paper tomorrow.’
‘You should talk to your colleagues here,’ says Bandekow cautiously.
‘My colleagues . . . ? If you write for the Bauernschaft, you don’t have any colleagues. It’s my personal headache, the others don’t care, to them it’s just material! Am I supposed to describe how we let three little policemen make off with our flag?! The ignominy of it.’
‘People,’ wails Cousin Benthin. ‘How am I going to show my face in Altholm after this?’
‘Couldn’t you have tried to get the flag through?’ asks Count Bandekow. ‘Or take it back to the bar? Why did you want a fight over it?’
‘Wasn’t I against the flag from the very start?’ asks Padberg angrily. ‘And now it’s all my fault. By the way, I wasn’t even there when it happened.’
‘Where were you?’ asks Rehder. ‘I thought the agreement was you should be Henning’s minder.’
‘His minder! Who would have thought those pigs would mount such a wild assault! I was at the back, I was trying to find out what happened to Rohwer.’
‘Of course,’ says the count ironically. ‘Conducting a few inquiries. At the critical moment. So as not to get in the way, hah?’
‘I want to tell you something,’ says Padberg agitated. ‘Am I the leader? Or are Rohwer and Rehder? And you too, Count, where were you, if I might ask? Yes! Send strangers to the front, and let them save your bacon, eh?’
‘Fellows!’ says Cousin Benthin in bewilderment. ‘Don’t quarrel among yourselves. The count was with me, to bring up the band.’
‘No,’ says Rehder. ‘The count’s right. You had taken on Henning, you’re the one to blame.’
‘Me? Let me tell you something! Fuck this kangaroo court! Do you think it’s up to me to wipe your bottoms? First, you publish letters from Reimers that stink to high heaven—’
‘That letter was a fake!’
‘I wrote the correction, I know what’s what!—And then you get a demonstration going, not even knowing that your leader’s long ago been stuck somewhere else . . .’
‘Did you know that then?’
‘And then you take that stupid ruddy flag with you, even though anyone can tell there’ll be trouble—’
‘You personally helped attach the scythe.’
‘Then you let your marchers be beaten to a pulp, and the one who’s to blame for everything is me. If you think I’m going to stand by and let you get away with it, you’re fucking mistaken. You can all go and take a running jump, you bunch of amateurs. I’m out of this. I resign! I’m giving up the paper. I don’t want anything more to do with you. God knows there’s other things to do in this Germany, things that are better run, with better prospects, where they don’t stand for militia poking you in the face with their stinking fingers.—Thank you and goodbye! Top of the morning to you, gentlemen. I’m out of here. You can assemble by yourselves in future, you bunch of bleeding arseholes!’
And Padberg, bulging with rage, pushes off to the right, on to the pavement, away from the column.
‘Stop!’ says a policeman to him. ‘Get back in the column. No one is allowed to leave.’
‘What?!’ roars Padberg. ‘I’m not allowed to leave. When I’m a free citizen in this blessed Republic? Have I not paid my taxes? Is this not a public thoroughfare? Will you kindly stand aside and let me pass, sir!!’
‘Go back,’ says the militiaman. ‘Those are orders, and I’m not making any exceptions. Carry on.’
‘Who gives these orders? Show me the fellow!—I want to get to the railway station. I’ve got a train to catch. I’m press, for fuck’s sake! Here’s my card! Will you now—’
‘It’s just for a moment. The two minutes to the auction hall. Then everything’ll be sorted out.’
‘Come on, Padberg,’ calls Rehder. ‘We’ve got something we want to tell you.’
And Padberg, beside himself: ‘Did you hear that? We’re under escort here like a chain gang. It’s humiliating . . .’
‘Here’s a gentleman,’ says Rehder, ‘who’s seen the whole thing, the fight over the flag. He’s indignant about the police. He wants to tell the farmers about it in the assembly . . .’
Padberg turns to the gentleman who is offering to relieve him of his bitter address in the auction hall. He looks at the gentleman.
Suddenly his rage has evaporated and he grins mockingly.
‘Oh, so the gentleman from the Political Section has seen something he objects to in the policing? Perhaps I should introduce you? This is Detective Inspector Tunk from Stolpe. And here are Herr Meier, Herr Schmidt, Herr Müller and, er, Herr Schulze. So you thought it was over the top, did you? Well, that does you credit!’
‘My name is Megger. From the area around Hanover. You must be confusing me with someone else.’
‘Oh no, I’m not confusing you with anyone. It’s not possible to get you wrong, Detective Inspector.’
‘I am engaged in the cause of the farmers!’
‘Sure you are,’ says Padberg. ‘Only you’re on the other side.—Get lost!’ he suddenly screams in fury. ‘You little snot! You spy, you, get away!’
‘You’ve surely . . .’ the other continues obdurately.
‘You there, Padberg,’ Rehder calls out in excitement, ‘there’s Gareis!’
The mayor of Altholm is driving past in an open car. At his side, talking agitatedly, is his pale police commander.
‘Well, there they are together again, the Red king and queen,’ comments Padberg.
Hooting and buzzing, the car makes its way past.
‘They’re hatching their next cuckoo’s egg, those two darlings,’ Padberg explains. ‘Well, what’s happened to our yeoman from Hanover?’
But the yeoman is nowhere to be seen.
II
Short of beating Mayor Gareis’s brains out, you can do little to keep him quiet.
For a moment he sat in the chair beside the telephone. The farmers are drawing pistols on the police! What on earth is going on? It’s not possible!
Already his very next thought is: Who’s fouled up here?
And after that: Let’s try to keep things from getting worse.
He calls the town hall guardroom. ‘Who is it?—Hart? This is Gareis. Listen, will you tell
me what’s going on?’
‘Herr Mayor, it’s awful. They’re just bringing in my colleague Soldin, badly hurt . . . The farmers . . .’
‘Thank you,’ says the mayor, and hangs up. ‘Fräulein! Fräulein! Will you get me Piekbusch right away! And now pay attention: As soon as I hang up, put me through to Mendel’s Inn in Grünhof.—And one other thing, I want your colleague to call the station watch in the meantime and have Frerksen or Kallene expect me in ten minutes. And then you try and chase up the identity of the man who just called me. You got all that? All right!
‘Piekbusch? Are you there?—Good. Send the next person in the waiting room to my driver. I want the car outside my house in three minutes.—No fiddle-faddle, just do what I tell you. I’m waiting.—All right? Done? OK. Next, in the top-left drawer of my desk there’s a yellow envelope from the district president, will you bring that over to the telephone . . .
‘You got it?—Good. Now read it out to me. Read it! Hey, where’ve you got to?! What are you playing at, Fräulein? Bloody tomfoolery!—Who is it? Lieutenant Wrede?
‘All right, Lieutenant, you set off with your men. In ten minutes at the playground. Don’t do anything before I’ve spoken to you.—The secret orders?—Yes, I’m still reading them.—All right. Of course. On your way.
‘Fräulein! Fräulein!—Damn, the car’s honking outside.—All right then. The secret orders will just have to remain secret.’
He gets up with a groan, looks around once more. ‘Oh well,’ he sighs. ‘Rügen tomorrow? We’ll have to see about that.’
Slowly and massively he shoves his bulk through the doorway and wheezes down the steps. ‘All right, Wertheim, to the station guard-post.’
The roads are deserted. The car shoots off.
‘Stop!’
The fire ambulance is driving past, Gareis flags it down.
‘Who’ve you got on board?’
‘Two badly hurt farmers.’
‘Hurt how?’
‘Sabre blows to face and arms.’
‘Any more casualties that you’re aware of?’
‘Another farmer. And a sergeant.’
‘Badly injured?’
‘The sergeant probably a concussion, according to Dr Zenker. The farmer has a sabre blow across the arm.’
‘Any others?’
‘Not so far as we know, no, Mayor.’
‘No gunshot wounds?’
‘None that we’ve heard of.’
‘All right. On your way.’
Gareis wheezes back into the car, lowers his eyelids, starts twiddling his thumbs.
The people on the street are saying: ‘Look, it’s our mayor. He’s too fat. He’s sleeping again. It’s a warm day, though.’
Gareis thinks: Three badly hurt farmers, one lightly hurt policeman.—The farmers clearly haven’t been all that aggressive.—I should have let Wrede stay in Grünhof. Maybe I’ve made a mistake here.
When he walks into the guardroom, he sees his police commander sitting hunkered at a table at the back, his face in his hands in the half-light.
How now! he thinks.
And, beaming: ‘Now, boys, talk to me. In order would be nice. You first, Kallene.’
But the commander leaps up. ‘I’d like to report, sir, that we have the flag! The flag has been confiscated and is being taken back to HQ!’
‘What flag would that be?’
‘The farmers’ flag. The black flag, with the scythe on it.’
‘A scythe on it?’
‘A scythe mounted on the pole. An emblem of civil disturbance. I confiscated it.’
‘All right, Frerksen, talk to me. Chronological order, if you will.’
And Frerksen reports.
‘The flag was dodgy, sir. The public were offended. The scythe was a possible hazard.’
He describes how he proceeded. The first time, he requested, the second time, he demanded. How he was pushed back, beaten, had his sabre taken from him.
‘Was I to give in? Were the farmers to be allowed to hang on to it? I sent men to retrieve it. The farmers put up tough resistance. Soldin is badly hurt . . .’
‘I know.’
* * *
‘Now your turn, Superintendent. Did you get a sight of the flag? Before the fight, I mean.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did it strike you as provocative?’
‘To be frank, I didn’t pay it any attention. It was hanging down when I passed with my men, at Tucher’s. You see so many flags these days . . .’
‘Hmm. And what about you, Pinkus? What does the press have to say about the feeling in the streets?’
‘The workers are indignant. What are the farmers doing here! They were so aggressive, those bomb-throwers! Comrade Gareis, I tell you, the proletariat won’t stand for it. We’re on the Left here in Altholm, this is no place for shows of strength from the radical Right—’
‘All right. All right. Thank you. Well, now . . .’ The fat man lapses into thought. The clock in the guardroom is loud: tick tock tick tock . . . That’s how quiet it is.
They’ve made their bed, thinks the mayor. Now we’ll all have to lie in it. Things can’t stay as they are.
Unclear: What shall I investigate, to see if it was properly done? We all make mistakes. What happened, after all? An incident during a demonstration, a little kerfuffle. Happens every day in Berlin. If there’s no outcry in the press, it’ll all be forgotten in a week. But we’ve begun, so we have to go on. I can’t whistle the militia back to barracks, more’s the pity.
He asks: ‘Where are the farmers now?’
‘They’ll just be moving into the auction hall. For their mass meeting. I’m giving the demonstration a police escort.’
‘Very good. Very good.’
Tick tock tick tock, goes the clock.
They stare at me as if I were Father Christmas. Frerksen looks as pale and gormless as a stuck calf. When things are really so simple. We just have to keep going. Whoever stops has made a mistake already . . .
And aloud: ‘I will break up the demonstration, seeing as it’s become disorderly. We’re sending the farmers home. Militiamen are even now arriving at the playground.—You, Kallene, are to go there right away, liaise with Lieutenant Wrede, and seal off the auction hall. We’ll go there directly. Frerksen, you come with me.’
III
The holding pen of the Association of Holstein Cattle-Breeders is ringed by a tall brick wall. A wide gate is let into this wall, and the police have taken up position by this gate, while the column of farmers, band to the fore, marches in. At this gate, police violence stops. In the hall, and on the surrounding terrain, the farmers have rights, this is their place. The police stand singly or in groups either side of the gate. The further the column moves in, the more police there are.
The farmers walk in, some with lowered heads, others glowering at the police, and clutching their ashplants harder. News of the clash and the confiscation of the flag has spread. All the farmers have seen the group of police standing round the captured flag on the Burstah. There’s talk of serious injuries, of deaths, the name of Henning—until recently unknown—is in everyone’s mouths.
A few times bad words reach the ears of the police. They hear ‘bloodhounds’, ‘murderers’ and ‘killers’, but on the whole silence prevails.
The dark and gloomy auction hall is overfull straight away. Here, in their own four walls, the farmers feel among their own. A wave of noise crashes like surf, a Babel of voices.
Then the arc lights come on and cast their light on the assembly.
This is no room, this hall built for showing off cattle, more a circus, with a sand arena in the middle, with ramps leading up to either side, with galleries and little staircases, and a dais at the front, where usually the livestock appraisers sit, or the auctioneers.
It’s to this dais, in front of which the Stahlhelm band has set up, that the farmers now raise their eyes. For the moment, though, it’s still empty. In the room behind it stan
d a group of men, unable to decide on what to do next, unable to decide what slogan to give out, or what can be said about what has taken place.
They all talk at once, and once more they hurl reproaches at each other.
‘I’m not going to open my mouth!’ yells Padberg. ‘What is there to say about this royal balls-up? It was poor in the inception, and poor in the execution. You want me to make it look nice? No thank you.’
‘It’s just a matter of telling the farmers about what happened,’ says Count Bandekow. ‘You’re the man for that. It’s no different to what you’ll do in your paper tomorrow.’
‘Talk about what happened here? Pour oil on the flames? Thanks! Does any one of you have the least idea what will happen when three thousand people hear about how we were assaulted, beaten and robbed? No thank you. I’ve already got one case for ringleadership behind me, that’s enough for me.’
He turns to find himself facing a man with a little badger-brush hat on his head, listening attentively in the crush.
‘God damn us to hell!’ rages Padberg. ‘Has no one got the balls to chuck the stoolie out? Feinbube, you have seniority here, can’t you show this gentleman where to go?’
Agricultural Councillor Feinbube is a little abashed. ‘Yes, really, you oughtn’t to be here at all. You are from the police, aren’t you? Would you mind following me, or have you got a special written assignment?’
‘Stop being polite to him!’ yells Padberg. ‘Throw the little sh–—’
‘You referred to me as a “shit”,’ says the top-boots. ‘The assembled company are witnesses.’
‘I said “sh” and that’s not an insult. And now, clear off, will you, you sh––, you sh––, sh––!’
‘Well, let’s go. An intention to cause offence is certainly present. Come along, Agricultural Councillor. I’ve heard enough. More than enough.’
The lanky Feinbube and the false farmer walk down a corridor, a flight of stairs, along another corridor.
‘I can find my way from here,’ says the interloper. ‘Down the steps at the back, and then the long passage . . . I don’t want to inconvenience you any more . . .’
‘It’s really no trouble,’ quips Feinbube.
‘Some fine premises here for husbandry. I imagine the ministry awarded a grant?’