by Hans Fallada
‘I thought you might know that,’ says the councillor.
‘Neither here nor there.—I wonder if this is an exit here? This door—’
‘Stop!’ shouts Feinbube. ‘That’s the door into the hall.’
But the man he was escorting has already slipped away. Feinbube thinks about pursuing him, but the hall is jam-packed, the detective has melted into the crowd, and when Feinbube tries to ask people if they saw him, all he gets is indignant calls to be quiet.
Up on the stage, a man is standing and speaking . . .
It’s Cousin Benthin, old Moth-Head as they call him, who is orating. There he is with his blotchy scalp, a dirty jacket, a pair of twill trousers, and dirty boots on his feet. He is an old man, and the people are laughing at him because his young wife is expecting a baby which is certainly not his.
But he speaks.
He is the only one who dared to step out in front of three thousand farmers. He speaks slowly and with trouble, in short sentences, between which he stands there with eyes half closed, seeming to think or perhaps to have fallen asleep. But he is speaking at just the right speed for this listenership, which doesn’t like haste.
‘He shook,’ he is just saying as Feinbube enters the hall, ‘he shook my hand, and he said to me, “Let us both, as old Altholmers, shake hands on nothing bad happening here.” And this is what happened.
‘They beat a young man to a cripple. They beat others till they were bloodied. And why? Over a flag.
‘Fellow farmers, I’ve lived in Altholm all my life. Even before the War Altholm was known as a Red town. Well, let them, I thought, everyone must know what’s best for them . . .
‘In the last few years I’ve seen my fair share of flags. Both Red and others . . .
‘What the Communists liked to carry around with them was straw effigies. One of them was the Oberbürgermeister, and the other was our Field Marshal Hindenburg. They carried them around on a gallows.
‘The flag we had was a black flag. And the reason it was black was because we’re in mourning for our dear German fatherland. And there’s a white plough on it, because we’re farmers, and we till the land, and the plough is the best thing on God’s earth. And then there was a red sword, because victory will only come if we fight . . .
‘The ones that were carrying the gallows, they went around unmolested, but with us they took away our flag.
‘Now, my friends, you may ask, why didn’t we defend it? There are so many of us, and the police were so few, and we have enough strong-boned young farmers on our side.
‘Farmers of Pomerania, I tell you we let them take our flag because we obey our government. We let them take everything we have.
‘They took away our brother Reimers, and they led away Rohwer, and put him in the clink.
‘And they take the cattle from our byres, and the horses from our stables. They confiscate our grain while it’s still on the stalk, and they chase us out of our farms.
‘Now, you ask, why do we stand for it? Have we no representatives? No parliamentarians? No members? A Chamber of Agriculture and a German Agricultural Council? Why do they not help us? Why don’t they set up an outcry?
‘Dear farmers, they do cry out. As long as they’re here, among us. But then they go to Berlin. And when they come back, we don’t recognize them. We are told we have to understand that things can’t happen as we would wish. Taxes and more taxes—it has to be.
‘And then we understand, and we accept . . .
‘And when you ask me, I say: Dear countryfolk, you must pay taxes, and more taxes. You should be happy you are required to pay so much, and that they take away your animals and your farms . . .
‘The less you have, the less will be required of you. And then, when you are left with nothing, then the dear government will look after you, as they looked after your parents who had put by a few thousand marks, and who now go to the benefits office, which has a high-sounding name for them: social claimants!
‘You must pay your taxes until you’re bled white, I tell you. Till you can’t pay any more, and have no more marrow in your bones, and are half starved. Then you won’t make any more trouble for the dear government in Berlin, then you’ll be meek . . .
‘And that’s why the Altholm police were completely right when they took away your flag. Workers are allowed to have flags.
‘But you, farmers, you’re not allowed to have anything.
‘All you can do is take your lumps from the administration, and bleed and bleed.’
He stands there, Cousin Benthin, and for the moment he seems unable to continue. He mops his brow. Behind him are the farmers’ leaders with lowered heads, or peering out into the crowd, which is going wild . . .
And at that moment, the door to the left of the raised stage opens: Superintendent Kallene appears, with his Hindenburg figure, in a blue tunic with red lapels . . .
He crosses the stage and stops next to Cousin Benthin, where he raises his hands for quiet from the wild crowd.
At that moment, the hearts of the men on stage stand still.
Perhaps this policeman is just stupid, or then again he might be insanely brave.
At any rate . . .
Hundreds of ashplants are raised against him, the air is full of wild, furious threats, the first sticks are about to be hurled at the stage . . .
The conductor of the Stahlhelm band has seen a fair few wild gatherings in his time. At that instant he gives a signal with his baton, and the band launch into the ‘Deutschlandlied’.
A quiver goes through the entire assembly. Suddenly the farmers are all on their feet, singing, they’re wild with enthusiasm, they hurl it in the face of the policeman up there, the representative of the German government:
‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles . . .’
Superintendent Kallene stands there with head lowered, not looking at all. Perhaps he has no feeling for the contrast: the small, dirty, used-up-looking farmer beside him, with the ugly, chewed-looking head, and himself, two hundred pounds, well fed, rosy-cheeked, clean and presentable.
When the first verse is finished, there’s a small pause. Kallene repeats his hushing movement, he wants to address them again, but the second verse sets in.
He waits again.
The same thing after the second verse.
After the third.
After the fourth, which is a repeat of the first, Superintendent Kallene slowly and leisurely walks off stage. He’s giving up, they’re not going to let him speak.
The farmers watch him go.
Now there’s another silence. The band stop playing. The farmers are looking at Cousin Benthin, will he carry on speaking?
Once again, the left-hand door on the stage opens, but this time a farmer comes on, a large, well-built man, with his hat pulled low over his face.
He stops. From the shade of the hat-brim, the eyes scan the crowd below, as if they were something he hadn’t expected. He carries on into the centre of the stage, with a strangely unsteady walk, as though he were drunk.
The farmers stare at him, hardly any of them have come across Banz from Stolpermünde-Abbau. They stare at the big, unsteady-looking man, a feeling of apprehension spreads in the hall, as though something were about to happen.
The man stops, just in front of Cousin Benthin. His lips move, but no one can hear anything.
And suddenly he throws his arms up in the air, rips the hat off his head, and hurls it into the crowd. His head is laid bare—nothing but a terrifying, gruesome mass of flesh and blood.
The farmers release a yell.
And, as if their yell had restored the power of speech to the man, he roars: ‘Farmers! Farmers! This is what Altholm has to offer! Farmers! Farmers! These are the acts of the government!’
The crowd bays like a thousand wild animals in one.
The man releases a chilling scream, and falls down in a heap.
All the doors to the hall are flung open.
Militia and police
force their way in, with swinging truncheons. They call out:
‘Empty the hall!’
‘The meeting is over!’
‘Leave the hall quietly!’
IV
‘So we’re going?’ says Stuff to Blöcker.
‘Yes, we’d better,’ agrees Blöcker. ‘Who could stand to see more of this.’
The union of militia and town police have won a resounding victory over the farmers. They were chased out of the hall one by one, and made to stand still like dolls, and be checked for weapons. Their ashplants were taken off them. Then they were driven out on to the road again, made to form up in a new column, which was in turn broken up. They were made to walk down this road, then that one, were forced to retrace their steps two or three times, following the whim of some sergeant or other. They were told not to use the pavement, and they were instructed to make way for cars.
Stuff takes a look back. There is the mayor in his black suit, surrounded by uniforms. Police hurry officiously back and forth, and the last few farmers slink out of the exit, heads lowered and meek.
‘The airs that Red sow gives himself!’ groans Stuff. ‘Look at that, Blöcker, the way the fellow from the pinko press is sucking up to him.’
And it’s true, the reporter from the Volkszeitung in Stettin, the newspaper for the class-conscious proletariat, is bang on form. A beaming Pinkus dances attendance on a militia officer, tosses a few words to his mayoral colleague, and spins round, with outstretched finger at a farmer, honest indignation all over his face.
‘Wretched cribber!’ growls Stuff.
‘Swine, the lot of them,’ Blöcker concurs. ‘Well, just wait till tomorrow!’
They are almost at the gate, the two representatives of Altholm’s fourth estate, when a rapid stride is audible behind them. They turn round.
It’s Commander Frerksen who is in pursuit. ‘Gentlemen, excuse me! The mayor would like to invite you to attend a press conference he is giving tomorrow, at nine o’clock.’
‘Oh, really?’ says Blöcker.
‘You need us for something, then?’ asks Stuff nastily.
‘I will be presenting an official report on the lamentable occurrences.’
‘Lamentable for you!’ mocks Stuff.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Stuff. My superiors in the local government and the police are completely behind me.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ says Stuff.
‘You mustn’t listen to partisan witnesses.’
‘Yours aren’t, I take it?’
‘I take it,’ the commander turns earnestly to Blöcker, ‘that the News will, as ever, manage to find a way that is favourable to our town?’
Blöcker shifts his shoulders doubtfully.
‘But, gentlemen,’ the commander cries out in consternation, ‘the police had to step in. The authority of the State was being mocked. The constitution was being held in contempt. The law was being trampled underfoot! Were the police to be bullied by these rebels? Without a fight?’
There is silence. Frerksen waits for an answer.
‘Well, are you going?’ asks Stuff. ‘I’ve got no more time. Things to do.’
‘Wait up, Stuff. I’ll come too. Good evening to you, Commander.’
Frerksen calls after the pair of them: ‘See you tomorrow morning, then. Nine o’clock. Press conference.’
They shamble down the street.
‘Bah!’ Stuff suddenly exclaims. ‘Are we going into town now? Come on, Blöcker!’
They turn back, pass the entrance to the cattle yard again, a stretch of avenue, then through a gate in a hedge, across a pasture and along the edge of a cornfield. Through a meadow, to a stream.
‘Let’s sit down here!’ says Stuff. ‘Doesn’t that feel good! Can you smell the good air!’
‘This meadow must belong to Benthin. There used to be a line of poplars along the stream.’
‘No, this is Grünhof,’ Stuff corrects him. ‘That stream is the boundary between Altholm and Grünhof. We’re not on Altholm soil any more.’
‘It wouldn’t be a bad thing to stay away for good. What a lot of bother there’s going to be!’
‘Do you have a cigar?’ asks Stuff. ‘Thanks, I’ll help myself for later. I’m going to have a little nap. I still feel a bit woozy.’
‘I wonder at us sitting in the pub, with something like this going on. Now we’ve missed the whole commotion.’
‘Oh, I’ve seen enough in the auction hall. I know the score. And as for the rest, there’s no shortage of witnesses.’
‘You cut Frerksen good and proper, you know.’
‘And why the hell not? I heard he was responsible for the whole damn thing. I’m going to give it to him, the wretched shite.’
‘Don’t you want to wait for the press conference first?’
‘Wait? What is there to wait for?’ yells Stuff. ‘For them to lie their way out of the responsibility? As I say, I’ve seen enough. I know. Beating defenceless farmers, you wait, chum! The Chronicle’s got your number.’
‘Is that OK with Schabbelt?’
‘Schabbelt? What’s he have to do with it?—I’ll tell you something, just between you and me, Blöcker: Schabbelt’s sold up.’
Silence.
And Blöcker: ‘Then I’ll tell you something too, Stuff, in strictest confidence: Gebhardt’s bought it.’
‘What?!’ Stuff gives a start. ‘You know that? Then the whole place knows, and no one’s telling me.’
‘No one knows, except a couple of us from the editors’ conference: Trautmann and Heinsius and me. And it’s supposed to remain a secret.’
‘I’ve had it, then. That’s it, Blöcker, I’m finished.—Give me a push, and I’ll fall over.—Why’s it supposed to remain a secret?’
‘Because it’s bad for business if people know the competition isn’t really competition.’
‘I see. Between two stools. As ever. The dear old Chronicle. Does Gebhardt interfere much?’
‘Him . . . ? He doesn’t care about anything! If it brings in readers, he doesn’t care about apostrophes.’
‘Great! Then he’ll let me stick it to the Reds!’
‘I think so. You’ve got a readership on the Right. Talk to him about it.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, if you’ve got time to see him then? Eight o’clock. Back entrance, he doesn’t want people seeing.’
‘Oh, Blöcker, Blöcker, Blöcker!’ groans Stuff. ‘So that’s why you treated me to a beer this morning! I might have guessed . . . And if you’d got to the point a little quicker, then we wouldn’t have missed the show just now!’
‘So. Is eight o’clock all right then?’
‘Eight. Yes. Under cover of darkness. Back entrance. I’ll keep it like that from now on. I can sleep for an hour and a half now. And I will, I tell you, Blöcker. I’m fed up with the world.’
He lies back down on the grass, pulls his hat over his face and goes to sleep. The water burbles and murmurs. Blöcker drifts back to town. To listen out.
V
It’s evening. Almost eight.
Lots of people are still out and about in Altholm. They’d like to see something in print about the events they witnessed, along with a firm editorial line on them. That’s why there’s quite a little crush around the News building at the Stolpe Gate. But all they have on show in the display-box are the pictures from round the world, nothing else. The windows are dark too. Only the four windows of the machine room at the back are lit up, that’s where the presses are preparing the next-day’s paper.
Gebhardt is in his office, he can hear the whir of the machines. The curtains are drawn tight, and only the desk lamp is on, casting a pool of light on a page covered with figures.
Gebhardt is checking and rechecking his numbers. He goes over them again, he looks at receipts, he works out averages. The numbers are all he is interested in. This building, with its thirty employees, the only reason it exists is to make the numbers grow.
; There’s safety in numbers, so to speak. Big numbers mean more power. People still dare to not take him seriously, even though he’s the wealthiest man in Altholm, but that’s only because the numbers still aren’t big enough.
There’s a noise outside. Someone’s fiddling with the door, and blundering around in the unlit corridor.
Gebhardt opens the door, shedding a little light in the corridor, and asks nervously: ‘Is anyone there?’
‘Yes, me. Stuff,’ and Stuff looms out of the darkness.
‘I was expecting you,’ says Gebhardt, and puts out his hand.
For a brief flash, an astonished Stuff sees the bowed neck of his new bread-giver with its rough frizz of hair, sees as far down as the top vertebra on his neck, and thinks in bewilderment: Good God, he’s really bowing to you!
Then Gebhardt asks him to sit down. ‘Do you smoke? A cigar? This is a fairly light one. These are heavier. Whatever you like. Here’s a light. No, thanks, I don’t smoke myself.’
Stuff sits comfortably in front of the desk, in a low armchair, his cigar is drawing nicely. Behind the desk squats the newspaper king, looking at papers.
‘I asked you to come and see me, Herr Stuff,’ begins Gebhardt, toying with his pencil, ‘because I have a few things to discuss with you. I take it Herr Schabbelt will have told you I’ve bought the Chronicle?’
‘Actually, no.’
‘I see. Odd. But you know I have anyway.’
‘Yes, I heard about it.’
‘I bought the Chronicle because the opposition of two moderate newspapers in Altholm is nonsensical. We must stand together against the Red front . . .’
‘Yes. We must,’ says Stuff, for the sake of saying something, because Gebhardt has left a pause.
‘I wanted to ask you whether you were prepared to go on devoting your gifts to the Chronicle under my control?’ And, quickly: ‘Lest you misunderstand, I mean financial control, it wouldn’t really affect you. You are free in editorial matters. We might occasionally discuss the positioning of the paper. But in general you will be completely free, you know the readership best, after all.’
‘So I could write about today’s disturbances as I felt I had to?’
‘Disturbances? Oh yes, there were some clashes, weren’t there? Involving the peasantry. Do you have an interest in peasants?’