by Hans Fallada
She slaps him, but not hard.
‘Get out!’ she yells. ‘Get out! Go to your office, go on the street, get out of my sight. He’s got a thousand marks, and talks filth about his own daughter just so he can keep his money for himself. Get out!’
Tredup stands in the corner. He is staring at his wife, who is sitting upright in bed, looking at him with bosom heaving. He is standing there in his short vest, his skinny, hairy legs bare, rubbing his face with his hand where she smacked him.
Suddenly he smiles. ‘That felt like the time they threw me down the stairs in jail,’ he says. ‘I guess I’ve just fallen down your stairs.’
‘What are you babbling about?’ she asks.
‘Nothing. Make me some coffee. Or tea. Or flour and water. Whatever you’ve got in the house. I need to be at the Chronicle at six.’
‘All right,’ she says obediently. ‘Frau Wandler will be up, and she’ll loan me half a pound of coffee.’
II
At half past six Heinsius is already up and sitting in his office, the chief editor of the News, a patriotic man who loves his city, author of several novels about the stolid yeomanry of Pomerania.
He sits there—writing.
He really is. All night he hasn’t slept, ever since he’s realized that the News will have to take up an editorial position on the events, which means he will have to write something.
Last night, when Blöcker was blathering on about the peasants’ struggle, the police’s wild assaults, extraordinary scenes in the auction hall, militiamen swinging batons, a megalomaniac police tyrant—last night he had smiled and said: ‘You’re exaggerating, Blöcker. Clashes during marches—ten a penny. Happens one day, forgotten the next. A paragraph in local news, the official report, a mood piece of thirty lines, max, that’s about the size of it.’
‘But the people are angry.’
‘What people? The farmers? What do we care about the farmers! The townsfolk—they’re not mad. Them least of all. At the most, they’ll be pleased to have experienced something.’
‘Actually, the townsfolk are mad.’
‘Go along now, Blöcker, go along. Today I’m running with the memoirs of a dancer who appeared before the Prince of Wales. That’ll interest people. But goings-on in Altholm? Has Altholm ever made the front page? You’re exaggerating, Blöcker.’
That was last night. Then there were various phone calls.
The scissors-and-paste man Heinsius hardly ever leaves the building. He asks others to stand in for him. He’s the quiet man in the cell, the cryptic, unpredictable one. A local reporter has to be out and about, a chief editor is the shrine in the holy of holies.
People have got accustomed to phoning the shrine. That’s the form he takes, a voice, giving laconic answers, evasive, promising nothing.
‘Our deliberations are not yet at a point. In the interests of our town . . .’
People called. The first . . .
A woman, a silver-haired spinster, he knew her. Rarely had Heinsius heard such indignation on the telephone.
‘They were on the rampage, I tell you! They were swinging their sticks like savages, bringing down their sabres pitilessly on imploring hands.’
‘These hands, ma’am. Are you quite sure they weren’t raised to strike? Forgive me, the huge responsibility that rests on us compels the question. We must be absolutely certain.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! I tell you, I had to leave the balcony and run to my room. I was sick to my stomach.’
‘Yes. Yes. The sensitive female psyche. Does you credit. We’ve heard tell of such happenings. Some of our fellows have witnessed similar things.’
More calls followed. But: Am I supposed to tangle with the police? If only I knew what view Stolpe took of things. Bah, the official report and a local-interest note will cover it.
Then—at this point Heinsius had already gone home—there was a phone call from his proprietor, Gebhardt: ‘What are we doing?’
‘Equivocate. Delay judgement. Allow the smoke to clear.’
‘I’ve spoken to a dozen people . . .’
‘People only understand what’s happened when they’ve read about it in our pages. Till that time, nothing’s happened.’
‘Then what’s happening in our pages tomorrow? We mustn’t spoil things with Gareis.’
‘No? All right. I’ll write something. I’ll have it ready by eight o’clock.’
He said it, he solved the difficulties, the boss is relieved. Oil on troubled waters.
And then he spent a sleepless night, writing, writing . . .
War and peace. Peace is preferable to war. Its emblem, the scythe, menacing when newly hammered and pointing heavenwards. Turn its crook down towards the earth, once again it is a symbol of work and peace.
The black flag. Piratical heritage. Battle and triumph of force. And then again, all things come from night. The white plough tilling the black earth, symbol of work and peace.
I’d better skip the red sword, methinks.
Something else on the troubled times, the hardship of the countryside, political strife—who will take it amiss? No one. That’s the way. A column and a half, a leader, and I’ll put my name to it.
Three hours later, still night, still formulating new ringing sentences: Or should I maybe not sign it? Maybe I’ll be compromised by it?
Best thing is to wait for the Stettin morning papers. Then I’ll get a pointer from them.
Now he sits there and writes. From time to time, he turns an ear to the corridor. He knows the quick, light-footed walk of the owner. He needs to get to him first, for sure, before that cunning Trautmann fills his ears full of something.
The morning papers brought no certainty either. The government keeps its counsel. The Right-wing papers go on about police brutality. The Democrats bide their time. The SPD praise the police.
Wait and see. Symbol of work and peace . . .
Here comes the boss.
‘Good morning, Herr Gebhardt! Good morning. A king of a day. Perhaps too much so for the farmers, who need rain. On the other hand, the townies are happy. A couple of school outings scheduled for today.
‘You look thoroughly well rested, if I may say so, Herr Gebhardt. I, on the other hand, have been tossing and turning . . . Well, that’s my chosen profession, a difficult, wearing, soul-searching profession. I’ve written something. A column. If you happened to have a moment . . . ?’
‘Read it to me . . .’
‘I called it: “Black Flag—Black Day”.’
‘Could that not be taken as an attack on the farmers?’
‘Oh, do you think so? That wasn’t my intention at all! I’ll . . . Well, let’s just call it: “Black Day”, that never goes amiss.’
‘Quite right,’ his boss praises him. ‘Now on!’
Heinsius reads it out, clenches his fists, raises his eyes heavenwards, shakes the paper.
Suddenly his boss interrupts him: ‘We have a small ad from Mingel’s millinery, which I’d like to put on the front page, if possible. A charming illustration. A little girl in a mirror, trying on a new hat. Very respectable. You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I put that alongside your article?’
Heinsius makes a face. ‘On the front page? In the lead article?’
‘There’s a fifty per cent premium.’
‘Well, in that case . . .’ and he goes on reading.
Finally the boss opines: ‘All right. I don’t think anyone will feel got at by this. And with the official report to come. I think we’re covered.’
‘“Coverage” is my watchword.’
‘I know. I know. And I’ve given Stuff licence to go after the police a little bit, that’s appropriate for him and that paper.’
‘Stuff is going after the police? No! I’m not playing. Then I’m going to tear up this article.’ Heinsius is incensed. ‘Am I going to let him take the wind out of my sails? Of course people would rather read a scold than my responsible contemplations. A hundred extra copies of
the Chronicle in pavement sales. No dice.’
‘But I gave him my permission.’
‘Then I’ll call him and rescind it in your name. What did we buy the Chronicle for if it’s to go on pinching our readers?’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘I’m certain I am. Tell Stuff he can pee all over the mayor some time, that’ll please him.’
‘All right. Call Stuff. But I don’t want to hear any more about it!’
‘I’ll take care of everything, Herr Gebhardt!’
III
Someone very gently and carefully pulls open the door to the Chronicle offices and looks through the milky glass into dispatch.
Thank God, the girl isn’t there yet, and Wenk isn’t either, who would have chased him off to find advertising.
Tredup walks in with palpitating heart, looks round the familiar room once more—the address book isn’t in its usual place—and then he quietly opens the door into the editorial office.
There’s Stuff, fat and flowing, in shirtsleeves, writing. Writing with enthusiasm, squinnying through his half-off glasses, with pink cheeks.
When the door falls shut, he looks up from his paper. ‘Well, well, well! Look who it isn’t! Tredup is back. How come they allowed a bomb-thrower like you back into circulation! Well, I’m glad you’re back, I really am. Wenk is such a dullard.’
They shake hands.
‘Well, how did you get on in prison? Behind the so-called Swedish curtains? I have a vivid sense of it! It’s supposed to be a sort of health farm these days, with football and lectures and psychotherapy. Is that right? You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you? I’m under a bit of pressure at the moment. The police have been fabulously stupid. Well, you’ve been a little bit stupid yourself. That’s the thanks you get anyway. I don’t suppose you’ll be selling them any more photographs?’
‘Not likely,’ says Tredup, feeling mightily relieved by Stuff’s kind reception.
‘And the to-do with the farmers yesterday. Our Police Commander Frerksen.—What? You haven’t heard? Here, read this! Read it, man! If you don’t know about this, you haven’t lived. You can correct the silly cow’s typos while you’re about it. I stick it to those pigs. I’m not meant to. Gebhardt says “take it easy”, but—’
‘Gebhardt . . . ?’
‘Of course, Gebhardt! Oh, God, you don’t know that either, that the good ole Chronicle has as of yesterday joined the Gebhardt stable of papers? Schabbelt sold up? Ach, it’s Rip Van Winkle time. The man from the Magic Mountain! Jesus, Tredup, how will you adjust? Read! No, listen!’
Stuff stops, puffing and sweating. He mops his brow. ‘What a morning! It feels good to be alive again. They’re all going to catch it from me.’
The phone rings.
‘Yes, Mayor?—Well, I need the report in half an hour at the latest. My sense of things? Well, one thing is for sure: Frerksen is toast.—What’s that? Oh, come on, not even you could deny that he’s made a gigantic rickets of everything, Mayor.—Oh, you thought he performed well? I would keep my voice down if I were you, and not say that to anyone else, because in twenty-four hours you won’t be able to keep him afloat any more.—He has the backing of the government? I wouldn’t be so sure. Different water flows into the Blosse every day, and why wouldn’t the government have reversed itself, as they like to say, in twenty-four hours?—Yes, as a matter of fact I do go after him in my piece, you’re damned right I go after him, I give it to him, both barrels.—Why? Well, Mayor, I suggest you start by reading the Chronicle this lunchtime instead of the News.—No, that is not against our understanding. Just because you give us the municipal announcements doesn’t make the entire town administration right down to the lowliest charwoman a journalistic no-go area.—No, I’m not planning on going to the press conference. I don’t have the time, frankly, Mayor, I need to put my paper to bed, the typesetters are waiting.—Good day to you, Mayor.—Yes, in three hours.—No, I can’t manage it at this time. Goodbye.’
Stuff snorts and gets to his feet. He spreads his arms and shakes his head. ‘My God, that thick, lardy oil, that supposedly oh-so-disarming soft-soap. But I told him where to stick it, didn’t I, Tredup? The Chronicle hasn’t spoken in such tones to Mayor Gareis before. I tell you, he stood in the auction hall yesterday like Luther in Worms and allowed those blue gorillas of militiamen to lay into the farmers!’
Shyly Tredup observes: ‘But Gareis isn’t such a bad man. If Frerksen has made a rickets and he stands by him, surely that’s just decent of him?’
Stuff explodes: ‘Gareis and decent! That’s politics, it’s the Reds standing shoulder to shoulder against the farmers. He’s ensnared you too, that’s obvious; you should see what happens when you want something from him, he just won’t want to know.’
‘It’s happened already.’
Stuff crows: ‘You see! You see! . . . Oh, who is it now . . . ? Hey, what is this . . . ?’
IV
Two shapes danced past, in a wild commotion, but they were gone before Stuff and Tredup could get the windows open.
‘Who on earth was that?’ mutters Stuff.
There’s din and commotion coming from the front room. Wood bashes against wood, chairs are upset, Heinze can be heard beginning to squeal, a gruff roar by way of reply—and through the opened door two gentlemen ride in on chairs.
In the lead is Agricultural Councillor Feinbube. Spiked on his stick is a hunting hat with a chamois beard, raised high like a banner. Behind him on a rocking horse is syndic Plosch, from the local Craftsmen’s Association, his duelling scars well reddened with alcohol.
Feinbube gives his mount a kick that causes it to collapse. With outspread arms he careens towards Stuff.
‘Come to my bosom, Stuff, you old porker, come to my arms. The hour is now at hand when you can make good all your sins. Join the Green Front. Stick it to the Reds . . . Come!’
‘It is necessary to dishtinguish,’ says the at-least-as-drunk Plosch, ‘between the human being Shtuff, whom we love, and the journalist, who is a shwine.—You are too, don’t contradict me, you’re a shwine of vasht proportions. I ushed to be a journalist myshelf onshe.’
‘We have been beaten,’ crows Feinbube. ‘The Reds have smacked our bottoms. But we celebrate it like a victory. That Frerksen—’
‘Frerkshen ish a shwine too,’ explains Plosch. ‘A vasht shwine.’
‘Frerksen is responsible for everything,’ affirms Stuff. ‘But have you heard what happened to his sabre?’
‘The sabre on Frerksen,’ lectures Feinbube with heavy tongue, ‘looks like a sword on a Jew.’
‘Ah, boys,’ yelps Stuff, ‘you’re in for a treat. The farmers took his sabre off him outside Tucher’s. And then he tossed the empty scabbard into Bimm’s. Then suddenly the Commie Matthies brought his sabre after him. He was standing there with the shiny blade—’
‘It was folly,’ explains the heavy-tongued Plosch, ‘to attack marchers with sabres in the first place. Where do the police get shabres from? Why have they been issued with truncheons? Write it down, Stuff!’
‘I have already. Wait, I’ll read you something.’
‘Not read. I feel thirsty. Haven’t you got any schnapps here? We were drinking all night with Padberg, and we missed you, Stuff, you tell the dirtiest jokes. Do you remember the one about the cook and the pair of trousers?’
‘No, wait. I’m going to read to you. I want you to hear how I stick it to Gareis.’
‘Ah, never mind Gareis, just stick it to Frerksen!’
‘Him too. Now listen up!’
‘Did you know we want to cancel the point-to-point in Altholm? The farmers are in no hurry to come back here.’
‘There’s a long time till then. Listen to my article!’
‘Ach, you and your writing. You’ll only betray us again. You were born a swine, Stuff, you live like a swine and you’ll die a swine too. Where’s the official report?’
‘Not out yet. But in the auction hall—’
‘I was there. I can tell you about it. There was this agent provocateur—’
The phone rings.
‘Can’t you turn off the phone, Stuff, you ape? It’s just giving yourselves airs to stick a phone in here. You crib everything you write from the other papers anyway.’
‘That’s right, Feinbube.—Yes, right away? It’ll be difficult. OK, I’m on my way.—No, not yet.—Please.—Yes, please don’t give yourself airs. You’re not my boss.—Yes, I said I was coming. Right away. This I want to see.’
And, in a sudden rage: ‘Listen, mate, you can take a –!’
Stuff hangs up. He looks distractedly round the room.
‘Who was that then?’ inquires Plosch. ‘Who’s that mate of yours?’
‘Oh, that was just larking. That was the fire service. I have to go there right away.’
‘Not possible. You’re going to read to us, like you promised.’
‘Where’s the schnapps?’
‘Tredup can read to you. Can’t you, Tredup, you’ll read to them?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right then, gents. I’ll be back in ten or fifteen minutes.’
‘Stuff!’
But Stuff is already gone.
V
It’s very quiet in the office after Stuff has left it. The two drunks stand by the stove and stare silently at Tredup, who is sheepishly browsing through some papers.
‘Shall I read to you?’ he finally asks.
Agricultural Councillor Feinbube belches violently. ‘Tell me, what did Stuff address you as a moment ago? I didn’t quite catch your name?’
‘Tredup,’ whispers Tredup. ‘Max Tredup.’
Feinbube takes a step forward. Unsteadily. He drills the tip of his cane into the lino, props himself on the handle with both hands, and leaning forward stares at the man behind the desk.
‘Now then, Tredup,’ he says slowly, and one senses his effort to fight his intoxication. ‘Tredup. A widespread name here in Pomerania.’
He stares.
‘Shall I read?’ asks Tredup quietly.
‘Would you,’ asks Feinbube just as quietly, ‘by any chance happen to be the bastard who sold the photos of Gramzow to the prosecution? Because that bastard was called Tredup.’