A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  Ah, ah . . .

  He takes two or three strides. Long, swift strides. The toad squatting on the ground spins round. But there is the blow, dealt with the length of the whole stick, and the lever of the arm. And now listen to the gurgling scream: ‘Wooaahh!’

  And then Banz has to sit himself down again. He hunkers on the ground beside his victim, and beside himself.

  VIII

  It’s still night. A cool night, without stars, moonless. Near by, a light breeze in the pines and over his left shoulder the endless surge of the waves. There must be low rain clouds in the sky, he can feel the pressure.

  Banz is back, and he knows what’s happened as well.

  But it’ll be a lesson for Franz not to sneak his father’s money for the maids, he’ll not try that again.

  He’s been lying there long enough now.

  The farmer puts out his hand in an arc until it encounters cloth, he crouches down very close to the fellow.

  His fingers, like clever, inquiring beasts, travel along the cloth. They encounter flesh, a hand.

  And they leap back: the hand is cold and stiff.

  With a bound, the farmer is crouched over the man. Is he dead? It was only a little blow with a stick. A man’s skull can survive much worse blows!

  But when he holds the hands in his, he knows two things: he is dead, irrevocably dead. And: he’s not Franz either. This is a soft, long hand, and Franz has stubby, rough paws. This—it dawns on him—is the true owner of the money.

  The farmer moves his head from side to side. He is sitting next to someone he has never seen, whom he has killed. It gets worse.

  ‘There’s some that have no luck in this life,’ says Banz. But he means himself.

  Half an hour later, he sees his wife, who is circling the house at a distance.

  ‘Are they still there?’ he asks.

  ‘Gone for two hours now.’

  ‘Really gone?’

  ‘Franz crept after them for a whole hour.’

  ‘Franz!—How many of them were there?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘And all four have left?’

  ‘All four.’

  ‘Are the children sleeping?’

  ‘All sleeping.’

  ‘Bring food, drink, clothes and underclothes, my hat and coat and . . .’—he hesitates—‘a stick. Plus a pickaxe and shovel. A lantern.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go inside and eat?’

  ‘No. I won’t go in the house again.’

  ‘Banz!’

  ‘Get a move on, before it gets light.’

  He stands and waits. The poplars he hears were planted by his father. The wind is coming from the direction of the farm, there’s a smell of manure. This winter he was going to build a manure pit, so that the rain didn’t keep washing away the precious nitrates. Won’t happen now. The fence needs a couple of new posts, and he wouldn’t have minded planting one or two more trees in the orchard. Won’t happen.

  He picks up some of the stuff, and they walk off into the woods. Don’t speak.

  Only when they’re under the trees does he tell her: ‘Don’t be scared. There’s a body.’

  ‘A body?’

  ‘I beat his brains out. Didn’t mean to. He was over the money.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll take a look with the stable lantern.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘He was over the money. I thought it was Franz. I was angry.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Ah. You’ve been angry for thirty years. For forty years.’

  ‘I know,’ he says.

  They walk in silence a ways. Then she asks: ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have to think about it.’

  ‘What will become of the farm?’

  ‘The farm is yours!’ he says furiously. ‘Yours and yours alone. Chase the kids away when you’ve had enough of them. It’s yours. We planted it.’ More quietly: ‘Perhaps I’ll have you come later.’ He stops, and drops his load.

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘No further. You get some tree branches and rocks together. He’s got to go deep into the earth, on account of the rabbits. Then I’ll pack the branches and stones on top.’

  He checks to see her start looking. Then he lights the lantern, takes the pickaxe and shovel, and sets to work.

  An hour later, it’s all done. He sits with her at the edge of the wood, and eats.

  Silence. Once, he asks: ‘Do you want any of the money?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not.’

  A while later: ‘You ought to get the Jersey cow bred. She’ll not give milk until the springtime.’

  ‘All right,’ she says. ‘I will.’

  A while later, she quietly asks: ‘Who was he?’

  And he, quieter still: ‘I don’t know. A youngish fellow.’

  ‘God,’ she says.

  ‘You’ll have to clean the pickaxe and shovel so that it doesn’t show that they’ve been used of late. And go out more often than you usually do, and check there’s no animals turning up the ground.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  He stands up. ‘I’d best be going.’

  She stands in front of him.

  He says it again: ‘I’d best be going.’

  She says nothing.

  He turns slowly and walks off in the direction of the sea. Suddenly she cries as loud as she can: ‘Banz! Oh Banz!’

  He turns to look. Five paces away.

  In the dark she sees him slowly, thoughtfully, nod. ‘Yes,’ he says sadly. ‘Yes.’ And then after a while: ‘That’s the way of it. Yes.’

  He continues to walk towards the sea.

  IX

  At a quarter past ten that night, there is a knock on the Tredups’ door.

  Frau Tredup has been writing the letter to her sister, and glances up at the clock. Max has been quick.

  But then it’s not Max, it’s Stuff standing outside. ‘Is your husband home, Frau Tredup?’

  ‘No, Herr Stuff, but he ought to be back any moment.’

  ‘Do you mind if I wait for him here?’

  ‘Come on in, if it’s not too messy for you.’

  Stuff sits down a little awkwardly, looks at his cigar, looks at the sleeping children, and puts his cigar away.

  ‘Smoke if you like, Herr Stuff. The children are used to it. My husband smokes too.’

  ‘No, no, I’d better not.—How is your husband?’

  ‘Well, he was a bit depressed first, but since we took the decision to move away, he’s cheered up.’

  ‘Are you moving away?’ Stuff jumps. ‘Surely not on account of Gareis? I tell you, Frau Tredup, your husband will come up smelling of roses. Tomorrow the entire press desk will present a protest letter against the low attack from Gareis. Everyone signed it,’ says Stuff, and grins. ‘Only the Volkszeitung refused to join in. And of course the News.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Herr Stuff, very nice. And Max will certainly feel better for it. But it’s too late. Herr Gebhardt sacked Max on the spot.’

  ‘But that can’t be! That’s outrageous. Tredup doesn’t have to stand for that. Sacked? With no severance?’

  ‘No severance pay.’

  ‘You must protest, Frau Tredup. Shout it from the rooftops!’

  ‘No, we’re not going to protest, Herr Stuff. And in actual fact, I’m quite glad it’s happened this way.’

  ‘Great! That too!’

  ‘It means Max leaving Altholm. The place didn’t agree with him, Herr Stuff.’

  ‘Well, Frau Tredup, I think you have a point there. If you hang around with pigs too much, you end up becoming one yourself.’

  ‘God, Herr Stuff, it’s a different matter with you. You’re a grown man. It doesn’t matter if you do something like that from time to time. But Max is just a boy, and he gets himself soiled from top to toe once he starts playing with dirt.’

  ‘You’re a good woman,’ says Stuff approvingly. ‘You’re the salt of
the earth.’

  ‘Well, that’s as may be, Herr Stuff. But who knows what you’ll say tomorrow.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘It’s after half past, he ought to be here any minute.’

  ‘Where is he anyway, so late?’

  ‘He went to Stolpe.’

  ‘To Stolpe? At dead of night?’

  ‘And beyond. I’ll tell you where he went, Herr Stuff: he’s gone to get the money.’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘Yes, the money.’

  ‘Where has he got it?’

  ‘As if I knew. He said something about Stolpermünde.’

  ‘In the dunes, eh? Not bad.’

  After a while: ‘Sorry for speaking out of turn, Frau Tredup, but if I was you, I think I would have gone with him.’

  ‘Why should I have gone with him?’

  ‘Well, if he got the push this afternoon. You know how impulsive he is.’

  ‘No, he was fine when he went this afternoon.’

  ‘Until he runs into someone who has a go at him, and he won’t dare show his face here.’

  ‘Oh, Herr Stuff!’

  ‘I’m a hopeless ass,’ says Stuff slowly. ‘An idiot. Of course everything I said was nonsense.’

  ‘He really ought to be here by now. It’s a quarter to eleven.’

  ‘Perhaps he missed the train. It’s pitch black outside. Perhaps he’s got to look for it somewhere.’

  The woman pleads: ‘Wait a while longer, won’t you?’

  ‘Happily, Frau Tredup. I’m not missing anything.’

  ‘Shall I get you a beer? You’re used to it of an evening, Herr Stuff.’

  ‘No thanks. No beer. I’m getting too fat as it is.’

  ‘There’s a train just before one o’clock. We could perhaps meet it at the station?’

  ‘No thanks. Don’t be upset with me. I’m not leaving here. I have a feeling I ought to wait for him here.’

  ‘Then of course we’ll wait for him here.’

  At half past one.

  ‘It looks like he didn’t come with that train either. Why don’t you go home now, Herr Stuff?’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep you company. The milk train is at ten past six.’

  ‘But you need to sleep, Herr Stuff.’

  ‘I’ll be fine on your sofa. You go to bed.’

  ‘Herr Stuff!’

  Uncompromisingly: ‘I’m keeping you company.’

  At three, the oil lamp goes out after a brief flicker. Frau Tredup puts it outside, and looks at Stuff, snoring on the sofa.

  And she sits down again to wait.

  At half past six, Stuff yawns and stretches.

  In sudden alarm: ‘My God, half past six? Has he not come yet?’

  The woman: ‘No, he hasn’t. And I know he won’t come now. He’s taken the money and left us. It’s what he always wanted.’

  ‘No, Frau Tredup. I think he’ll have spent the night in Stolpe. He’ll be along in the course of the morning.’

  ‘No,’ says the woman. ‘He’s not coming any more. He’s left us.’

  ‘You mustn’t think that. As soon as the trial is over for today, I’ll go to Stolpe and Stolpermünde and make inquiries.—But by then he’ll be back.’

  ‘He’s not coming back,’ says the woman.

  4

  Gareis’s Head on the Block

  I

  On the 4th of October it rains. It’s a proper autumn day. The wind tugs at the trees, chases sodden leaves through the streets, and chucks rain at the windows. Gareis stands at the window, hands crossed behind his back, and looks out.

  He is nibbling at his lower lip.

  His outer office is full, but he doesn’t want to see anyone. What are they all after? A job, a grant, an order, somewhere to live.

  Three hundred and sixty-four days a year he runs around fulfilling innumerable personal requests, steering a course that will keep the ship going forward, that will benefit the town.

  Today he doesn’t feel like it.

  He’s waiting for a call from Berlin. He’s waiting for Pinkus. He’s waiting for Stein. The call doesn’t come. Pinkus doesn’t come. Even Stein is taking his time.

  The trial is already in its fourth day. They’re laying into the police from morning till night. The police are pretty hacked off about it. Poor, noble peasants, poor, noble townspeople, wicked, wicked police . . .

  What’s it for? What’s the point? Where will it get anyone?

  If they were going to shut the police down, or prove the police are deleterious, are unnecessary, that would be some point. But this?

  Gareis stands in front of his desk. ‘Widow Holm’s petition for half a ton of coal briquets.’

  People are cold.

  ‘Petition from the invalid Mengs to the Welfare Department for two hundredweight of potatoes.’

  They are hungry.

  They want a gas lamp. Space on the municipal noticeboard is up for lease. Funds need to be secured for the completion of the new hospital. A bus line to Stolpe has to be put out to tender. Post or rail contracts secured for Meckerle’s factory otherwise facing bankruptcy (with three hundred and fifty jobs).

  There were things to do, things to buy. The town needed looking after.

  And there they were sequestered together, three hundred souls, for nine hours a day in the gym hall, threshing straw. They would move their tongues in their mouths until something was brought about that no amount of labour could uncreate in ten years.

  The mayor pushes the bell, one, two, three times.

  Piekbusch appears.

  ‘Tell me, Piekbusch, is something the matter? You’ve looked so puffy these past days.’

  ‘Puffy, Your Worship?’

  ‘A bit like a window that can’t be opened.—This wouldn’t be a case for fleas, would it?’

  ‘Fleas, sir?’

  ‘To put in your ear, man.’

  ‘Not me, Your Worship!’

  Gareis looks long at his secretary.

  Who is equal to it.

  ‘So: no fleas here,’ Gareis says grumpily. ‘Where’s Stein?’

  ‘He’s probably still in court.’

  ‘Can you call him? I want him. Right away.’

  ‘Yes, Your Worship.’

  ‘Hold on!—What’s keeping the call from Berlin?’

  ‘I’ve given them a gee-up twice already.’

  ‘What’s keeping it, I asked you?’

  The secretary shrugs.

  ‘Stop! Why do you keep running away from me, Piekbusch?—Why is Pinkus not here?’

  The secretary hesitates.

  ‘Well? Out with it!’

  ‘Pinkus is in court.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he come when I send for him?’

  ‘Pinkus says to say he has no time.’

  It comes out sounding rather graceless, and this time the secretary avoids the eye of his boss.

  Who whistles. A long-drawn-out whistle.

  ‘Well, well, well! So old Pinkus has no time for us.’

  Very quickly: ‘Wait, stay where you are, Piekbusch. Stay where you are. Don’t move!’

  The mayor goes to the phone, his eyes on his secretary.

  He picks up: ‘Is that the Central Exchange?—This is Mayor Gareis.—Give me long distance.’

  Piekbusch says: ‘Your Worship—’

  ‘You shut your trap! And stay where you are! I’ll teach the pack of you –

  ‘Long distance?—Supervision, please!—Yes, Supervision.—Ah, excuse me, Fräulein, my secretary asked for an urgent call to Berlin thirty or even forty minutes ago, to the Prussian Ministry of the Interior.—Why has the call not been put through?—Yes, please check, I’ll wait . . .’

  Threateningly into the corner: ‘You keep very quiet, Piekbusch! If you kick up, I’ll throw the phone book at you!’

  ‘Your Worship, I—’

  ‘Silence –!

  ‘Yes, Fräulein?—No
record of a call? Not possible! There must be a mistake on your end.—No mistake? One moment, Piekbusch, she says there is no mistake . . . ?’

  ‘Your Worship, may I—?’

  ‘Nincompoop!—Very good, Fräulein, the fault is ours. My secretary has bodged it.—Yes, please, if you would. Prussian Ministry of the Interior. And, Fräulein, urgent.—Yes indeed. Urgent. To me, Mayor Gareis, in person. Thank you.’

  He puts the receiver back. Stretches.

  Slowly and massively he walks, menacing elephant, towards the pallid Piekbusch, crouching there in the corner.

  ‘Your Worship,’ he begins, oddly fluently, eloquent with fear: ‘You will not hit me, you will not threaten me, Mayor. You know very well what Party discipline is. I couldn’t. I was ordered to.’

  ‘You were ordered! Who ordered you?’

  ‘You know I have said more to you than I am allowed to. When you’re gone, it won’t be easy for me to get a job, and I don’t want to be unemployed.’

  ‘When I’m gone, eh—is it come to that? You’re mistaken, Piekbusch, you’re all mistaken. Just tell me one thing, Piekbusch . . .’ The Mayor ponders. ‘Those secret orders, was that on instruction from the Party as well?’

  He looks narrowly at his secretary.

  ‘No, Your Worship, as I live and breathe! They’re just lost. I don’t know anything about them. Let me be struck down on the spot, Mayor, if—’

  The telephone rings.

  The mayor says gently: ‘Piekbusch, go and get Stein for me right away. And, please, do it. Otherwise I’ll break every bone in your body.’

  The telephone rings madly. The mayor picks up the receiver. Piekbusch goes.

  II

  The slight figure of Political Adviser Stein slips in through the side door of Gareis’s office.

  Gareis comes smiling to meet him. ‘Well, Steinlein? You trust yourself to come, in spite of all the interdictions?’

  ‘Interdictions?’

  ‘Don’t pretend with me. I know what’s going on. And you’re not worried what the Party will do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you really not know? Were you frozen out of the plot? Are you such a hopeless case?—Maybe you are. The Party seems to have imposed a kind of ban on me, censored me, blackballed me, call it what you will. No one is permitted to deal with me any longer.’

  ‘Surely not! Mayor, that’s not possible—’

  ‘Everything is possible, if you’re unsuccessful.—But I’m not yet—unsuccessful.—Were you over there?’