A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘But first I would like to ask: Why aren’t you questioning the managing editor of the Chronicle? And secondly, you know I only took over the paper a few weeks ago, and had reasons not to pay unduly close attention to my acquisition. How can you assume that I am familiar with this notarized form? And thirdly, granted it exists, what gives you the right to question its accuracy? Burning three thousand three hundred leaflets in a stove! I doubt your source will have counted them. The court will learn that there were more like two hundred.’

  ‘Nice,’ nods Gareis, ‘very nice. But you underestimate me, Herr Gebhardt. Have you ever seen eel-fishers? Eels are slippery buggers. Hard to get hold of. You catch eels with a fork.’

  Abruptly Gareis stands up. ‘You catch them with a fork, Herr Gebhardt. I haven’t yet told the whole story, and you have a very bad memory or a good deal of faith in the forgetfulness of your fellow men. Let me begin again:

  ‘When Herr Hempel went home after seeing your managing editor, Wenk, he remembered that he had seen a notarized certificate, but that this certificate hadn’t had a date on it. Or, more precisely, it may have had a date, but the date was handily covered by a thumb. The certificate could be ancient.

  ‘Herr Hempel is an unusual man. He could have gone to Wenk and said: I didn’t see the date, would you mind showing it to me! And then he could have cancelled his order if the date was a little on the old side. Herr Hempel, though, did something else. He decided to place a bigger order. So Herr Hempel didn’t place his order with the Chronicle, Herr Hempel went to the News.

  ‘There he met your business manager, Trautmann. He spoke to him much as he had spoken to Wenk, he asked for the readership of the News. He heard the figure fifteen thousand. If both papers . . . ? Why both? There is only one!—But Herr Hempel showed his knowledge, and in the end Herr Trautmann conceded: all right, twenty-three thousand total, for both papers.

  ‘All right. Now they started to negotiate. Hempel wanted a reduction if he leafletted both papers, Trautmann was tough, no reductions, you had stipulated that. Finally Trautmann agrees to ask you, Hempel comes with him.

  ‘Perhaps now you remember, Herr Gebhardt, that this man came to see you with your business manager? Herr Hempel has declared on oath that he asked you: “For the News it’s fifteen thousand?”—And you replied, “Yes.”—“And seven thousand one hundred and sixty for the Chronicle?”—And you replied, “Yes.”—“Won’t twenty-two thousand suffice?” the cautious Herr Hempel asked.—And you, Herr Gebhardt, replied: “No, it’s around twenty-three thousand.”

  ‘Such is the sworn statement of Herr Hempel. And that’s what I would call an eel-fork.’

  ‘That’s a put-up job! That’s low!’ yells a furious Gebhardt.

  ‘It’s certainly low,’ says the mayor contentedly. ‘A low blow hurts.’

  Pause. Gebhardt gnaws his lips and stares ahead of him.

  A rustling disturbs his thinking. Mayor Gareis is balancing the thin file over the wastepaper basket.

  All the while he is whistling softly and absent-mindedly to himself. His whistle is juicy, the fat man is the embodiment of bonhomie.

  Hurriedly Gebhardt thinks: I could live perfectly comfortably off my interest. And not have to deal with all these awful people.

  The file is back on top of the desk.

  Gebhardt says hastily: ‘Yes. Yes. In God’s name, yes.’

  ‘In your name as well?’

  ‘All right. Yes.’

  ‘Until the court case?’

  ‘Until the court case.—But then I get the other material you promised?’

  ‘My dear Herr Gebhardt, that was in the event that you freely agreed. Now I will need to await developments. Everything is so—what was your word?—“unpredictable”. And now no more readers’ letters. No more open letters in the advertising section. Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’m furious with myself,’ says the mayor. ‘You should think about that too. The news about the failure of the talks at Temborius’s, that was my scoop for you.’

  ‘You’ll know why.—I’d like to take that file with me, Herr Gareis.’

  Gareis laughs. ‘I believe you. What a weapon that would be against me.—But I’ll give you something else instead. Here.’

  It’s a document, more precisely, a manuscript copy. The manuscript copy of the notarized certificate.

  ‘I’m astonished,’ mutters Gebhardt. ‘The thing is meant to be in the safe. Surely . . .’

  ‘That’s right. That’s right. That’s why I’m making a present of it to you.’

  ‘Now will you tell me the name as well?’

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you. Well, I’d say it’s one of three: Stuff, Wenk, Tredup.’

  ‘That’s obvious. But you won’t tell me who?’

  ‘I’d sooner not. You’ll work it out.’

  The gentlemen part.

  Later, the telephone rings at the Chronicle.

  ‘Herr Tredup is to see Herr Gebhardt immediately.’

  Tredup has a bad conscience. He’s still pondering what this is going to be about.

  The telephone rings a second time.

  ‘If Herr Tredup could come and see Mayor Gareis right away. Right now.’

  Tredup makes big round eyes.

  IV

  A simple thought process tells Tredup it’s better on this occasion to leave his boss waiting, and see the mayor first. If it’s about what he thinks it’s about, then at least Gareis will tell him what Gebhardt knows.

  But Gareis is very curt with him.

  ‘You’re a literate fellow, aren’t you, Tredup?’

  And when Tredup looks uncomprehending: ‘I mean, you are able to write: “Herr Meier has once more vouchsafed his trained bass-baritone . . .” Or: “Herr Schulze, the psychologist and graphologist, has become the talk of the town, and no one should pass up this opportunity to visit . . .”? You can write things like that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Well, then, your hour and your appointment are at hand. Herr Gebhardt will send for you.’

  ‘He already has.’

  ‘What are you still doing here, then? To everything he says, just reply: “Stuff!” Promptly, or reluctantly, doesn’t matter. The answer is always: Stuff. And then you’re a made man.’

  Tredup hesitates: ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘My God, and why should you? Did you understand what you were getting into when you sold the photos? Well, Herr Gebhardt has in his possession the copy of the notarized certificate—’

  ‘How come—?’

  ‘But talk and blather and witter on you can do? That’s what you’re all like. Hurry along. And remember: Stuff! Always Stuff! Stuff every time.’

  But Tredup doesn’t hurry. He stops for a long while on the bridge over the Blosse and watches the languid water. His mind is full of a thousand ideas, mainly trivial variations on the theme: What am I doing?

  Once again he has half a mind to go out to the woods on the dunes, pull up his money, disappear off somewhere, but it’s not time yet . . .

  And he slinks off in the direction of the News building.

  He’s expected there, and Trautmann, his business manager, knows what it’s about. He darts him a poisonous look. ‘Took your time, didn’t you? I can see why. The boss is pretty mad at you.’

  He walks Tredup—like a prisoner—to the boss’s office. In the passage, Editor Heinsius’s head pops up.

  ‘Nosy parker!’ growls Trautmann.

  But the boss says: ‘Thank you, Trautmann. You can leave us alone now.’

  Trautmann protests: ‘Herr Gebhardt, can’t I—?’

  ‘No. Please, Herr Trautmann, will you leave?’

  Trautmann growls: ‘But he’s bound to try and trick you,’ and disappears. Tredup is left with the distinct feeling that Trautmann’s stopped just behind the door, and is listening for all he’s worth, and, looking at the boss, it’s clear he has the same feeling.


  All the more resolutely he begins: ‘Herr Tredup, I took you on on Herr Stuff’s recommendation, having no direct personal knowledge of you. You had no references. Well, your performance has been mediocre. The sale of advertising in the Chronicle is poor. It may be that times are hard, but I have the feeling a lot of the fault is yours. The News seems to be doing very much better.’

  ‘The News has a print run of fifteen thousand.’

  ‘And the Chronicle?’

  ‘About seven thousand readers.’

  The boss stops, half smiles, and remembers the eavesdropper outside.

  ‘Only numbskulls fall for that. Readers and subscribers. There’s a difference. You may as well claim that the Chronicle has fourteen thousand readers.’

  ‘If I claimed that, not even the numbskulls would fall for it.’

  ‘Ha. So what do you do if someone says: “Readers! I want the number of subscribers.” What do you do?’

  ‘I refer them to a notarized certificate.’

  ‘And if they don’t believe you?’

  ‘Then I produce it.’

  ‘Do you ever let it leave your hand?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘And yet, it must somehow have fallen into others’ hands. Today I was shown a manuscript copy circulating in the town. A complete copy, with date.’

  Tredup doesn’t look. Very indifferently he remarks: ‘I know . . .’

  ‘You know? So. You know. How do you know? Since when have you known?’ The little magnate is agitated, really very angry. He takes a chance, and looks his employee indignantly in the face.

  He says back: ‘I thought you knew . . .’

  ‘You thought . . . You thought what? What am I supposed to know? Out with it!’

  Tredup says slowly and unwillingly: ‘I thought you knew a preparatory meeting had taken place . . .’

  ‘What meeting! Jesus Christ, can’t you open your mouth? All you fellows have a way of putting me on the rack. Please say what it is you have to say.’

  Tredup says: ‘A new Right-wing paper is supposed to be being started. The business world is annoyed with your monopoly of advertising, and the two recent price hikes. Moreover, in the view of the political groups, the Chronicle has become unreliable. That’s why a new paper is being launched.’

  The boss, impatient: ‘You’re wasting my time. This is ancient history! I’ve heard it all before. Go on!’

  Tredup, peeved: ‘Well, anyway, there was a meeting and a discussion.’

  ‘Well—and? Who was discussing what?’

  ‘I’m not giving any names,’ says Tredup tartly.

  ‘What do you mean, “you’re not giving any names”? Surely you’ll give your employer some information?’

  ‘I’m not giving any names.’

  ‘My God, you go into all this detail, and you leave off the names! What’s it all got to do with the certificate anyway?’

  Tredup smiles a cunning smile. ‘Six gentlemen took part in the discussions.’ He waits, and when Gebhardt has become sufficiently impatient: ‘The sixth distributed five copies.’

  ‘Six . . . ? Five . . . ? Oh, I see, the sixth of them gave out five. Well . . . Why was Stuff so insistent that I take you on?’

  The door opens a crack, and Trautmann’s foxy face intrudes. ‘Why don’t you ask him what kept him just now? He was asked to come right away.’

  The boss goes red, shouts: ‘Herr Trautmann, please—!’

  But the door is already shut.

  Herr Gebhardt gulps, then he says: ‘So where were you all this time, Herr Tredup? It was forty-five minutes since my call, and it only takes five.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was that urgent. I looked in on Meisel, to do with an advertisement.’

  The door pops open. ‘I’ll give Meisel a call right away.’

  The door shuts.

  These offences against his majesty incline the boss to treat his suspect with greater leniency. ‘Why won’t you name the names, Herr Tredup? When you’ve told me so much?’

  Tredup feels his heart thumping. The fox will be back any moment. Will Meisel have let slip that he saw him this morning, and not just a moment ago?

  He says: ‘I’d really like to accommodate you, Herr Gebhardt.’ His voice has a wheedling tone. ‘But I don’t even know the names for certain. People don’t tell me everything either. And then afterwards, it becomes a big issue, and I’m out of a job.’

  ‘Now, now,’ says the proprietor soothingly, moved by so much desire to oblige in his employee. ‘Surely I’d have something to say first. Was it a serious discussion? Not just castles in the air?’

  ‘A bank manager was present,’ explains Tredup.

  ‘That can only . . . Well, we won’t use names. And also?’

  ‘A book publisher.’

  ‘Well, well, so little Krauter’s felt the sting of ambition? Let him see how easy it is to destroy a fortune with a newspaper. And then . . . ?’

  ‘Two business people. Retailers.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘A wholesaler.’

  ‘Well, we only have one here. And . . . ?’

  ‘I’d really rather not . . .’

  ‘Oh, come along. If you’ve told me five, you’ll tell me six.’

  Tredup makes an effort. But it’s difficult. Not so much the lying, as that it seems so crude. Gebhardt must realize what this whole farrago is about.

  He says quietly: ‘The sixth was a newspaper editor.’

  ‘I’ve seen that coming for a long time,’ says the boss proudly.

  Through the door dives Trautmann’s head. ‘He really did go and see Meisel.’

  ‘Come on in, Trautmann,’ says the boss complacently. ‘I’m learning a lot here. Well, I’ll tell you later. At any rate, Herr Tredup is without stain.’

  Trautmann squints doubtfully.

  ‘Tell me, my dear Trautmann,’ asks the boss, ‘is there no way we can get out of our contract with Stuff?’

  ‘I see! Well, now, indeed. Who always said so, Herr Gebhardt? Who always asked why we had to have a contract with Stuff? He’d never in a million years . . . Well, really, we . . . A way out? I don’t think so. It’s a sound contract.’

  ‘We need to get rid of him. Someone who does deals with the other side has no place on my paper.’

  ‘Newspaper people are all like that,’ observes Trautmann sagely. ‘That one,’ pointing out the door, ‘is just the same as well.’

  The door flies open, and Heinsius’s tousled head appears. ‘What do you think you’re doing, blackening my good name to the boss, Herr Trautmann!’

  The door shuts, and the manager says tuttingly: ‘Listening at doors . . .’

  The boss looks irked. ‘It has to stop. This snooping . . .’

  Trautmann comforts him: ‘All newspaper people do that. It’s the way they are. That’s their profession.’

  And the boss: ‘But you listen too, Herr Trautmann!’

  Trautmann looks injured. ‘Me? All I do is in the interests of the firm, keeping myself informed on occasions when you forget to call me in.’ And, pityingly: ‘Otherwise, there’d just be too much of a rickets being made.’

  ‘Herr Trautmann, I will not have you cast aspersions!’

  One of those poisonous scenes between boss and business manager is about to develop, in which Trautmann always comes out on top because he has tougher nerves.

  Tredup intervenes: ‘I know a way for you to get rid of Stuff.’

  Both spin round. They’ve almost forgotten him in his corner.

  ‘Without scandal?’

  ‘Without compensation?’

  ‘Without anything.’

  ‘And how is that . . . ?’

  ‘I’ll do it on my own. There’s something I know about him.’

  ‘And it won’t come back on me?’ the boss asks fearfully. ‘I really don’t want a scandal!’

  ‘I’ll do it all myself.’

&n
bsp; ‘And what do you want in return?’ asks Trautmann. ‘You won’t be doing it for nothing.’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t offer you any money. The Chronicle is indebted as it is.’

  ‘Not money.’ Tredup hesitates, and then, slowly: ‘I want Stuff’s job.’

  The boss exclaims: ‘But that’s completely out of the question!’

  And Trautmann: ‘Why so? I think he’s useful.’

  ‘Do you think?’ Gebhardt asks. ‘Well, perhaps it’s worth considering.’

  ‘I need a firm commitment,’ says Tredup.

  ‘We can give you that,’ announces Trautmann.

  ‘Is Herr Gebhardt agreed?’

  ‘It’s as Herr Trautmann says,’ affirms the boss. But that’s not quite enough for Tredup.

  ‘This is certain, yes?’ he asks hesitantly.

  ‘Quite certain,’ says Trautmann.

  ‘I’m depending on it,’ says Tredup.

  ‘You can.’

  ‘It’ll take a couple of weeks, the business with Stuff.’

  ‘That’s your affair.’

  ‘And of course he mustn’t hear from you that you suspect anything.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  The boss is already back at his desk, crunching numbers and statistics.

  ‘All right then, goodbye,’ says Tredup. ‘And many thanks.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ say the other two.

  Outside, Tredup thinks: I’m sure they want to screw me. But I know too much. The thing about the print run alone.—Well, time to saw off Stuff.—Maybe I’ll end up doing nothing at all.

  V

  Banz has recovered to the degree that with the help of a stick he can walk out of his room, across the yard, and to a field where his wife and children are working.

  He likes it when his wife goes out on the field as well, so that there’s some supervision. He himself does the housework, a fairly minimal bit of sweeping, peeling potatoes, the cooking. He does it with long pauses, in which he props himself dizzily against the wall. Then he sees red, and everything spins in front of him.

  After a while, it passes. And he hobbles on, out to work and to the field. I’m just about ready to retire, he mocks himself. An old man of forty-five. Well, you wait, you people of Altholm, till I can fix myself up with a lawyer.