by Hans Fallada
The commander’s face is flushed. He whispers: ‘I am not cross at all. I never was.’
‘Don’t say anything. You didn’t shake my hand. You didn’t sit down, the way you always used to. You kept very quiet. You were stiff as a board. In a word: you were sulking. But let’s leave that now. You will have time until the beginning of October to understand our relationship, undistracted by my actually being here; I won’t be back till the trial begins. Good evening, Commander.’
‘Good evening, Mayor.’
VII
‘Piekbusch,’ says Gareis to his secretary, ‘while I’m gone, I’d like you to keep my office locked. I only want it cleaned with you there, present, understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You will turn everything upside down. Clear out my desk. Sometimes a paper can get stuck in the back of a drawer. Look through every folder that’s been in my office these past months, until you find the secret orders.’
‘I’ve already done all that.’
‘Then do it again, more thoroughly. People don’t steal files here, do they?’
‘Those farmers—’
‘Pish, farmers don’t go stealing files. No farmer could get it into his head that a piece of scribbled-on paper can be worth more than a piece of blank paper. So find those orders.’
Piekbusch shrugs his shoulders.
‘Find them! Find them!!—There, and now goodbye.’
‘And the Ober?’
‘I’ll tell him,’ whispers the roly-poly mayor, rolling his eyes, ‘where he can go.’
Strange, because of late he’s been sticking to him like glue.
Niederdahl is a mild, shuffling individual, a little yellow in every sense, it’s his nerves. He smiles mildly, he only whispers, his ideal is to manage the affairs of the town without anyone even noticing.
Thus far, next to the active, booming Gareis, he has only managed to achieve the latter end—that of being unnoticed—the management part is so far eluding him.
Gareis gives brief summary reports on the state of things across the board. The Ober listens in silence, confines himself to occasional cross-questions: ‘There is a file on that, isn’t there?’—‘There is a mark on a file somewhere, isn’t there?’—which Gareis usually bats aside with a lordly ‘I would assume so.’
‘So far as the police administration goes,’ Gareis continues, ‘it will be conducted as usual in my absence by Councillor Röstel. There are no new developments. Commander Frerksen is abreast of everything.’
‘Frerksen is no longer on holiday?’ whispers Niederdahl.
‘He’ll be taking up the reins again tomorrow morning,’ smiles a blithe Gareis.
‘Wouldn’t it have been in the interest of general tranquillity to have left him on holiday until the trial is over?’
‘It was in the interests of the good name of police administration to have him reappear.’
‘But he can’t shoulder any executive duties.’
‘He can. The minister of the interior has rescinded the order of the president.’
The Oberbürgermeister looks at his mayor. Even the whites of his eyes are yellow.
Suddenly Niederdahl squawks into action. His little white hands with their thick blue veins emerge from spotless cuffs and pound on the table.
‘The files! The files!’ he screams. ‘I want to see the records! The paperwork! Why was I not shown the files?’
‘There is no file as yet,’ says Gareis lethargically. ‘I obtained instructions from the ministry by telephone today. Written instructions will come by post tomorrow.’
‘Telephone! That’s not a process. All instructions go first to the office manager. Then to me.—And only then to you, Herr Gareis!—And only then to you!’
‘But I was called to the phone, not the office manager.’
‘Telephone doesn’t count. There’s no such thing. It could have been a hoax call. Have you notified Frerksen already?’
‘I have.’
‘That’s not possible. That’s a violation. What’s going on? What methods are these? What about the president?’
‘I expect he’ll have to suck it up,’ says Gareis coolly, eyeing his victim.
‘Your way of doing business is isolating us. Altholm is isolated. What is a minister? Here today and gone tomorrow. Do you propose to base local politics on ministerial decisions? Stolpe, Stolpe is where our interests are.’
Gareis quips back: ‘Would you like me to inform the minister of your caveat?’
The Oberbürgermeister is abruptly silent. He unfolds a white handkerchief and mops his face. When he surfaces again: ‘Forgive me, dear colleague! You understand, my nerves, my gall bladder. I’m a sick man. The worries—’
‘You just leave the worries to me. I’ve got a broad back.’
‘Yes. True. You’re healthy. Enviable.—And you say the minister’s instructions will come tomorrow?’
‘Definitely.’
‘That’s bound to put a few backs up in Stolpe! We could have employed Frerksen on administrative affairs. We could have made him office manager.’
‘He’s a good policeman, remember.’
‘But the alienation produced by his appointment. We need someone to carry the can.’
‘Not this time.—I’m giving a short bulletin on his reinstatement to the press.’
‘Must you? Wouldn’t it be enough if people just saw him back in uniform?’
‘His decommissioning was in the papers, so the papers will have to report on his recommissioning.’
‘But not before the instructions have come through, surely?’
‘All right then, I’ll have it embargoed by the press until the day after tomorrow.’
‘I’d like it better if I could inform the press myself at the right time.’
‘As soon as the time is right.’
‘Of course. As soon as the time is right.’
VIII
The mayor asks his secretary: ‘Piekbusch, don’t you have a cousin or something who drives to Stolpe every evening?’
‘Yes I do. The electrician, Maaks.’
‘Will you get him to post three letters in Stolpe tonight?’
‘Fine.’
‘You remember the communiqué you typed for the press regarding Frerksen?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The Ober was a bit sticky about it. He’d rather notify the press himself. But once I’m gone, there’s no knowing when he’ll get around to it.’
‘I see the point.’
‘Will you type up three of those communiqués, on unheaded paper. A bit differently, like so:
‘“As we have heard from well-informed sources”, and so on and so on. Three unmarked envelopes, to each of our three daily papers. No sender.’
‘Of course. I’ll do that.’ Pause. ‘Where do I take the postage from? It’s not official business.’
‘If you won’t then I suppose I’ll have to fork out myself. How much?’
‘Forty-five pfennigs.’
‘There.—After the election, though, I’m going to take care to have a slush fund set up. It’s an absolute necessity for ministers—ministers and anyone in active life.’
The following morning, Oberbürgermeister Niederdahl gives the district president a call.
‘Yes, the ministerial confirmation has arrived just now.’
‘We have yet to hear from Berlin. I find it all . . . Well, Herr Niederdahl, these are our friends, that’s where the cultivation of authority gets you nowadays.’
‘President, you should have seen Gareis. He was oozing self-satisfaction.’
‘Well, in the end, even the minister’s decision means little. The court’s verdict, that’s what will really matter.’
‘But what if the court finds against the police and for the farmers?’
‘You would think. But it could as well be against the farmers and also against the police.’
‘Yes. Yes. There’ll be a way.—And the communiqué?’
‘What communiqué? Oh, you mean about Frerksen? Bin it. We’re not about to go and shout it out from the rooftops!’
‘I’d just suggest, President, that the other party may have taken steps—’
‘Steps? What steps?’
‘Well, having the press informed by back channels.’
‘Give the editors a call. They’ll do you that little favour, Herr Niederdahl.’
‘Bound to. Of course. How not?’
‘This is Oberbürgermeister Niederdahl’s office on the line. The Oberbürgermeister would like to speak to Herr Stuff.—Ah! In person? One moment, I’ll connect you.’
‘Yes, my dear Stuff. Good morning. As a gifted newshound, you will surely have heard that our controversial commander has been seen back in uniform today.—Have you not? As I thought.—Correct. A decision taken at ministerial level, but not yet a binding one, the last word will be spoken by the courts in October.—No, no, admittedly. A certain party, I don’t need to identify it any further, of course has an interest in getting the minister’s decision bruited about.—No, no, that’s not in our interests at all.—No, we, and still less you, have no interest in it at all.—Well, I’ll be counting on you, then. You won’t cover it. Your colleague on the News has already agreed as well. Thanks again. Good morning, Herr Stuff!’
Stuff keeps the receiver in his hand a moment longer. Then, with a broad smile, he sets it down on the cradle.
So you gave them your word, did you, Heinsius? Wagging your tail again, like a good dog? Yes, yes, no, no. Niederdahl, you’re a good man, but you’re too plodding, too plodding by half.
‘Fritz!’ he booms out.
The apprentice setter appears.
‘Fritz, take the item on Frerksen out of the local section. The organ concert review moves up one spot. Tell them in there, I’m doing a whole column on Frerksen. I’ll have it ready for you in ten minutes.’
It’ll all have to be in the running headline, thinks Stuff. Because, basically, that’s all I know.
What about:
serious difference of opinion between ministry and district president . . . ?
A bit watery.
Or:
police commander frerksen, dismissed by temborius, reinstated by the minister . . .
Too long, much too long. Come on, Stuff, three words.
I’ll go and get a drink.
In the cognac he found a title:
minister endorses police terror.
And a subtitle:
farmers deprived of civil rights.
Stuff grins.
‘Listen, Fräulein Heinze, if anyone calls this afternoon, I’ve gone away. In fact, I’m on holiday. I won’t be available for the whole of next year.’
* * *
Herr Gebhardt asks grimly: ‘How far along are you, Herr Tredup?’
‘Stuff is certain to go by the 1st of October.’
‘That’s what you tell me. He hasn’t given his notice.’
‘It’s definite. Perhaps he’s trying to get you to sack him.’
‘I won’t do him the favour. And have the man on my payroll for another six months?’
‘If you ask me,’ says Herr Heinsius, ‘today’s piece is justification for instant dismissal.’
‘And the whole town learns that my employees do what they freaking like? No, thank you.—Are you quite sure, now, Herr Tredup?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘What makes you so sure? If you can tell us. What have you done? What sort of pressure have you brought to bear on Stuff?’
‘I’d really rather not . . . He is definitely going.’
‘My employees keep secrets from me. Of course. Very nice. Very nice . . . That’s all for today, Herr Tredup.’
Stuff is sitting in the snug at Tucher’s, drinking.
A man walks in, the train-driver Thienelt. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Stuff.’
‘Done what?’
‘Today’s article. Everything was so nice and peaceful.’
‘Since when does the Stahlhelm stand for peace?’
‘Yes, but you have to have periods of quiet sometimes. Business is so poor, Stuff.’
‘Well, next time you can have quiet.’
Textil-Braun comes in. ‘So there you are, Stuff. I am here to convey to you the disapproval of the retailers of Altholm. It’s time you kept quiet.’
‘I’m perfectly quiet. Me and my beer.’
‘Everything was nice and peaceful, you must pay some regard to business.’
‘I do. I do. I leave all my wages in various bars.’
Braun, poisonously: ‘It’s impossible to talk to you seriously, Herr Stuff. But it’ll show in the subscription figures, you mark my words.’
The waiter says to Stuff: ‘They’re all upset with you about your article. I thought your article was fine.’
‘How fine? I thought it was crap.’
‘I thought it was fine when I read it.’
‘Franz, I’m not going to give you another penny in tips. You really don’t need to come crawling to me.’
‘No, no, Herr Stuff. I’m not. I won’t. I really thought it was pretty good. People had half forgotten about the boycott. And suddenly it’s everywhere again: the farmers, the farmers.’
‘Well—so?’
‘If people talk about it, it means they’re getting angry about it, Herr Stuff.’
‘And why shouldn’t they bloody well get angry? I get angry every day.’
‘You’re used to it, Herr Stuff. But you should see how much schnapps is sold here each day. Whenever people are angry about something, they start drinking more schnapps than beer.’
‘I drink a schnapps with every beer myself. Sometimes two.’
‘But that’s just what I was saying, Herr Stuff, you’re used to it. But the people aren’t used to it. They want their peace and quiet.’
‘All right, Franz. And now I’d like some myself too.’
‘Very well, Herr Stuff. Another schnapps? Coming up!’
‘I seem,’ says Stuff complacently, ‘to have damaged the psyche of the whole of Altholm!’
PART III
Judgement Day
1
Stuff Moves On
I
The 30th of September is a fine blue-and-gold autumn day with a crisp lustre in the air. It’s also a Monday, a working day like any other.
The 1st of October, eo ipso, will be a Tuesday, and on this Tuesday the case against Henning and associates will begin, for breach of the peace, insulting behaviour, actual bodily harm, damage to property, aggravated assault . . .
Moreover, the 1st of October is, as it is every year, moving day, people moving house, employees changing jobs.
For fully a week now Max Tredup has been in a condition of wild excitement. Herr Gebhardt has summoned him twice, to inquire what was happening in relation to Stuff’s promised departure. Tredup assured him he was going.
Gebhardt, though, doesn’t believe him; Tredup, bullish, insists; Gebhardt on the first occasion sceptical, and on the second he lost his rag.
Tredup is not so unshakeably convinced as all that: Stuff gives no signs either way.
Tredup has been following Stuff everywhere these past few days. Stuff acts as though nothing’s up. Tredup stands guard outside half a dozen bars, Stuff drinks away the nights. Tredup runs to Stuff’s landlady, Stuff hasn’t given notice.
Do I go to the public prosecutor and press charges after all . . . ?
But he told Elise he was going!
Didn’t he . . . ?
Tredup sits at one desk, Stuff sits at the other. They look at one another, or, rather, Tredup sneaks numerous swift, sly looks at Stuff, while Stuff is unaware of Tredup’s existence.
It’s the afternoon of the 30th of September, a fine autumnal afternoon.
Stuff is trimming his nails.
Then he looks at his watch, sighs, and starts digging around for something in his desk.
Could it be that he�
�s packing!?
Stuff has unearthed a pristine notepad and put it in his pocket. He stuffs the rest of the mess back into the drawer.
In no particular direction, Stuff says: ‘Tonight you’ll be going to the Nazis.’
Hopefully, Tredup says: ‘Yes?’ and then, tenderly: ‘How come? Don’t you have the time?’
But he’s had his lot, because Stuff is already halfway out of the room.
Tredup jumps up, chases after him, lays his hand on Stuff’s shoulder, and whispers imploringly: ‘Man, you’re driving me crazy!’
Carefully, with finger and thumb, Stuff removes the offending hand and lets it drop. Serenely he whistles in the advertising manager’s face.
‘Stuff, don’t go on tormenting me! Please tell me if you’re going or not.’
‘Yes,’ says Stuff, ‘I’m going—to court. And right now.’
‘Stuff . . . !’
Whistles.
‘You told my wife you were going on the 1st of October.’
‘Fool!’ says Stuff deafeningly. ‘More fool you! October 1940!’ And he exits whistling and slamming doors, leaving one rather crushed Tredup in his wake.
II
After Stuff has dealt with Tredup, he doesn’t go to court at all, but to Auntie Lieschen’s. He sits there the whole afternoon in a state of pleasant excitement, drinking a lot, and feeling like a boy skipping school. In the end he gets up and walks over to the News. It’s already dark there when he arrives. He gropes his way into the corridor, a little light from the typesetting room strikes a doorknob, causing it to shine. Stuff turns it, and the door opens. Stuff is in Herr Gebhardt’s room. First of all he draws the curtains, then he switches on the lights.
Stuff sits down at his boss’s desk, stretches his legs, and thinks.
‘Heigh-ho,’ he sighs. ‘Oh well. I will have to say goodbye to him, I suppose.’
He tries the telephone and gets put through.
‘Number ninety-six, Fräulein,’ he says.
‘Herr Gebhardt?—Ah, Herr Gebhardt! This is Stuff here.—Yes, Stuff.—Herr Gebhardt, I just happened to be passing the News, when I saw a light on in your room. I go in, total disorder, desk wide open.—No, I haven’t informed the police, I wasn’t sure if that was what you wanted.—Will you be coming yourself? Right away?—Yes, I’ll stay here and hold the fort. I can try and set things to rights, a little—Oh? I’m not to touch anything? No, no, not if you don’t want me to, of course not.—No, I won’t read anything, how could I? I don’t read! Left to myself, I never read, Herr Gebhardt . . . Oh, he’s hung up. Shame.’