by Hans Fallada
Hart is hurt. ‘If it was down to you, mate, we’d all be in the dock tomorrow for bloodlust.’
But Stuff knows the score. ‘Did I ever write a word against you, Hart? As for some of your colleagues, you and I both know they’re not exactly angels, there’s no point in wasting words on that.’
Hart sighs. ‘Lord knows. And I tell you, now that it’s public knowledge that Gareis is going, Frerksen is getting more uppity the whole time. His rosters are bursting at the seams. He doesn’t seem to care how many hours we’re on our feet.’
‘The fellow’s got some neck, that’s for sure.’
And Hart, eagerly: ‘My words, those are my words exactly. And when he’s made himself a laughing-stock and all. But that’s the Right for you, kiss up and kick down.’
‘Where are you on your way to, Hart?’
‘To him, of course. He spends all day there, so he doesn’t miss a single word of what anyone says about him.’
‘He’s actually working as unpaid secretary for the prosecution. Last night the legal councillor said: “I note that the commander is continually passing notes to the prosecutor.”’
‘And?’
‘And he went red like he always does, and ran away, and was back in half an hour, writing notes again.’
They have got to the anteroom of the gym hall, and Hart looks around in the crush of new arrivals for Frerksen. Stuff finally looks in the witness room, but that is almost empty for now. A little man with chubby hands and a greedy white face is sitting there, and an elderly lady.
‘Oh, excuse me, sir,’ says the lady, ‘I was asked to be here at nine o’clock. Is it not beginning yet?’
‘They’re not so precise with their time-keeping,’ says Stuff consolingly, ‘it might be noon, and it might be four, Fräulein Herbert.’
‘Do you know me?’
‘Of course I know you. Your father dusted my coat for me at school. I’ll have a word with the usher.’
Stuff plunges away.
He’s feeling a steadily increasing pressure on his shoulder: Hart has got his claws in him and is now jabbing him in the side.
‘Are you mad?’ asks Stuff indignantly. ‘What have they done to you?’
‘Who was that, mate, who was it?’
‘That was Fräulein Herbert, the daughter of Herbert the primary schoolteacher. He’s been dead these past five or six years. No, hang on, it was the year—’
‘No. I meant the fellow—’
‘What fellow?’
‘The one who was sitting in there with the Herbert woman.’
Stuff stares pensively at Hart. ‘I don’t know him. Do you?’
‘You bet I do. But not his name.
‘What happened, I was on duty on the traffic island, five minutes before the fighting started, and this fellow comes up to me, asks me where the auction hall is, and he jeers at me, and says the farmers had beaten us up and we deserved to have our faces punched.’
‘And why didn’t you nab him?’
‘I couldn’t, could I? I was on traffic duty. But afterwards I felt mad I’d let the farmers get away with nothing, never mind us having our faces punched.’
‘Say,’ says Stuff slowly. ‘I wouldn’t let him get away with it. I’d have him.’
‘If I only knew his name, or what he did.’
‘A farmer?’ suggests Stuff.
‘No chance. Much too clean about the chops.’
‘Then a manual worker.’
‘Could be. You know, Stuff, when I give Frerksen my letter, I’ll tell him to announce me as a witness.’
‘Naah,’ says Stuff slowly. ‘Naah. I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If you get that man, he’ll only become a martyr or something. Tell you what, I’ll take care of it for you.’
‘You?’ asks Hart doubtfully.
‘Me. Yes, me. I’ll see that you’re brought on as a witness.
‘Oh, I get you, you think because I’m on the side of the farmers? Yes, but not for a piece of work like that! He’s no farmer. He only harms the cause. He’s a nasty man, and it’ll be a pleasure for me to see him get his hide singed.’
‘And you’re not shitting me?’
‘Hart, my old Dutch, why would I do that to you? Everything’s on the level, OK?’ And he pats the policeman on the back, rather moved by himself.
‘Well, you know, Stuff, with you, you never know—’
‘No. With me you always know. Namely that I’m always good for a schnapps and a beer for a thirsty soul.—Can you arrange to be waiting for me here at twelve?’
‘Twelve? No. Maybe twelve thirty.’
‘All right. Twelve thirty it is. Then I’ll know who the man is, and you can do whatever you want to him.’
‘All right. I’ll be waiting for you here at half twelve.’ And Hart sets off in search of Frerksen.
Stuff watches him go pensively with his sad blue eyes. Boy oh boy. Come tonight you’ll wish you could smash my face in.
And he dashes off to find Councillor Streiter.
II
The judge says: ‘Call witness Detective Inspector Tunk.’
A small, fat, whitish man enters the hall and stands in front of the judge’s table.
Stuff observes to a colleague: ‘I’m going to take this down. This is going to be interesting.’
‘How so?’
‘It’ll bring you back to life.’
The judge half gabbles (this is after all the one hundred and twenty-third witness): ‘Your name is Josef Tunk? Age forty-three years old? Are a detective working for the Political Section in Stolpe? Not related or connected to any of the defendants?’
Once these things have been duly established, still hurrying: ‘You witnessed the events of the 26th of July? You wrote a detailed report on them that same evening? Will you tell us when you arrived from Stolpe, and what you saw when you got here?’
The witness clears his throat. He stands a little straighter. In an oddly squawking voice for one so round, he begins to speak:
‘I took the nine o’clock train from Stolpe to Altholm. I had strict instructions from the government to confine myself to an observing role. I therefore did not liaise with the local police, but went straight from the station to various drinking establishments.
‘They were all full of farmers. I saw that feeling was running very high.’
‘One moment, please. Why “running very high”? Could you explain?’
‘I just had the impression that the people were excited. It’s an impression. An experienced detective picks up on these things in five minutes, or else he doesn’t.’
‘You don’t recall any particular sayings?’
‘No, there was a lot of swearing.’
‘Who were they swearing at? The police? Mayor Gareis?’
‘Just general swearing. The people were excited. You know?’
The witness speaks slowly and rather grindingly. Each word leaves his mouth with emphasis. He stands there, a heavyweight personality, perhaps thirteen stone live weight, an expert come to enlighten the court, fully aware of his worth.
‘In the afternoon I was in the biggest pub, in Tucher’s. The place was full to bursting. The atmosphere struck me as extraordinarily menacing. It was there that I saw the defendant Henning, who was working on the flag together with the defendant Padberg.
‘I thought right away that I hadn’t seen the last of him. I introduced myself to him, to ascertain his name.’
Councillor Streiter says: ‘I’d like to ask the witness a question.—What was it about my client that convinced you at a glance that you hadn’t seen the last of him?’
The witness changes his posture. He turns, looks the defence lawyer up and down, waits, then turns to the court, and asks: ‘Is this question admissible?’
The judge motions with his hand. ‘It is.’
‘I could see it, because my experience as a detective told me it was so.’
‘That’s no explanation,’ says the counsel. ‘Kindly give me a p
recise answer: How could you tell you hadn’t seen the last of Herr Henning?’
The detective says pityingly: ‘An old detective acquires a sixth sense for these things. If he sees a man on the street, his sixth sense may tell him: That man is a criminal. That’s the way it was with the defendant Henning.’
Henning leaps up in indignation. ‘Your Honour, I crave your protection from the witness’s insolence. The witness called me a “criminal”.’
The prosecutor leaps up. ‘I contend that this is not the case. The witness was speaking of a hypothetical case. I would like to remind the defendant that terms like “insolence” are actionable.’
It takes five minutes for the judge to restore calm to the proceedings.
Detective Inspector Tunk creaks on: ‘The defendant would not give me his name. As I noted, he was warned not to by the defendant Padberg. Instead, Henning unfurled the flag, which was greeted with a wild shout of joy. I noted that the flag was extremely provocative and incendiary in its effect, and took the feeling of the farmers over the edge.’
The defence counsel asks: ‘Would it be true to say that you found the flag provocative and dangerous while you were still in Tucher’s?’
The detective condescendingly replies: ‘That is what I just said.’
‘May I ask you then, Detective Inspector, why you did not inform the police? So long as the flag was not on the street, it must have been a relatively straightforward matter to secure its confiscation.’
‘As I said already, I was present as a special informant for the government. I was specifically instructed not to contact the local police.’
‘So you preferred to allow a calamity to unfold? You preferred to countenance something that in your view was against the law?’
‘I had my orders.’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector. I’ve heard enough.’
The official carries on with his evidence: ‘When the flag-bearer appeared on the street with the flag, he provoked a storm of displeasure. People on the pavements, good, honest citizens, were outraged. My view that the flag would have a provocative effect was therefore borne out.
‘The flag-bearer initially took up a place at the front of the column of people, but when he heard the storm of displeasure, he was frightened, and ran back into the pub.’
The judge remarks mildly: ‘That must be an assumption on your part, that the defendant felt fear.’
‘No assumption, Your Honour. I could tell from the discoloration on his face that he was afraid.’
The judge says: ‘It has been recorded by witnesses that Herr Padberg told Herr Henning: “The scythe is loose,” and that they retired to the pub to make it fast.’
‘That’s not true, Your Honour. He was afraid, I could see it in his face.’
‘As I said, there are witnesses. The landlord of the pub has stated that the two men asked for a screwdriver to help them tighten the bolt.’
‘They would only have done that to mask their retreat. They were frightened, Your Honour.’
‘Then why, in your view, did they come out again with the flag?’
‘Because lots more farmers had come out by that time. That gave them courage. The defendant Henning took up a position at the head of the column. From the other side of the street I could see Commander Frerksen approaching.’
The judge has his head propped on his hand. The associates are staring into the court, looking for acquaintances. The defence counsel is listening with a sceptical smile on his face. The prosecution is scribbling hasty notes.
Stuff groans: ‘What a prize son of a bitch.’
Pinkus hisses back: ‘Not what you want to hear, eh?’
Stuff eyes him through his pince-nez, and Pinkus ducks out of the way.
‘Herr Frerksen was advancing calmly and confidently towards the defendant, and in a polite tone of voice said something to him that I was unable to hear. At that, the defendant Padberg leaped like a fiend at Herr Frerksen, grabbed him by the scruff with both hands, shook him, pushed him aside, and then the procession started to move.’
‘This is new indeed,’ says the judge. ‘Thus far none of the witnesses has mentioned that Herr Frerksen was attacked at this stage of the proceedings. He himself has stated that he was pushed out of the way by the farmers as they set out on their march.’
Unmoved, the detective says: ‘Herr Frerksen is mistaken. His memory is playing tricks on him. I am in the habit of making precise observations. My observations are reliable.—Then Herr Frerksen spoke with two police constables, and followed the train of people, which by then had moved on approximately sixty yards. When Herr Frerksen then appeared alongside the flag-bearer, he laid his hand on the flag.
‘I could tell he was confiscating it. Straight away, the farmers raised their sticks, turned, and attacked Herr Frerksen, who drew his sabre. The defendant Henning wrested the sabre away from him, drove its point against the ground, and bent it. Then the defendant started punching the commander.’
Legal Councillor Streiter walks right up to the witness. ‘Your account is manifestly unbelievable. Of numerous witnesses, not one has stated that Henning relinquished the flag even for a second. That is why he cannot have done those things that you are claiming on oath that he did.’
The witness replies with considerable calm: ‘The observations of laypersons are meaningless. Laymen are incapable of distinguishing between legally significant and insignificant actions.
‘I clearly saw Henning hand the flag to a farmer. The flag then went through another three or four pairs of hands. I find it very instructive that none of the witnesses has commented on this, though it happened in plain sight.’
The judge remarks mildly: ‘I must point out, Detective Inspector, that Herr Henning thus far has not aspired to put a good face on anything. He has admitted everything that was claimed against him. Herr Henning, did you pass the flag on to anyone else?’
‘I never let the flag leave my hands.’
Councillor Streiter says, not without asperity: ‘It’s fascinating to hear the evidence of the detective. I would like to say the following: I know the man who tore the sabre from the commander’s grasp. I was told it in confidence. It was not Henning.’
The detective stands there unmoved. ‘There are conscious deceptions and unconscious deceptions. I clearly saw the defendant Henning pass the flag to another, bend the sabre, and punch the commander.’
The prosecutor suggests: ‘Herr Frerksen is in attendance. Perhaps he would like to comment?’
The commander approaches the judge’s table. The judge says: ‘You have already said in evidence that you are unable to recall individuals in the general turmoil. But perhaps you will be able to remember whether Herr Henning passed the flag to someone or not?’
The commander looks around hesitantly. He looks from one face to the next. Finally, hesitantly, he says: ‘I can’t make a definite statement either way. I suppose it’s possible.’
‘You see,’ crows the detective, ‘not even the commander will deny the possibility. If you think about it hard, Commander, you will surely also remember Henning grabbing you by the lapels and shaking you.’
‘We object—that’s leading the witness,’ says the defence counsel.
And an alarmed Frerksen says: ‘No, that’s not what I want to say. I don’t know. It could have been. But I don’t want to say.’
Padberg has also made his way towards the little group, and is looking breathlessly from one to another. Now he says excitedly: ‘Your Honour, I’m about to do something terribly stupid, but I can’t stand to hear any more of this nonsense. I can’t believe the twaddle this witness is coming up with.
‘I, Detective Inspector, and no one else, wrested the sabre away from the commander. I did it from behind, I grabbed his wrist from behind and twisted it until he dropped the sabre on the cobbles. Wrest his sabre away from him!—Who would be so stupid as to grab the blade of a sword?’
General excitement. The defence counsel has thro
wn himself at Padberg and is chiding him. The detective stands there, completely unmoved.
The judge says: ‘It does you credit, Herr Padberg, that you did not set your personal interests above other considerations.—I should like to ask you, Detective, to proceed carefully with your testimony, and in places where your memory is not quite clear, just to say: “I don’t know.”’
The detective says easily: ‘Of course it may look for the moment as if I had been mistaken. Of course I am not mistaken. My portrayal of events is accurate. The self-accusation of Herr Padberg means nothing. He has secured himself a favourable opinion, whereas his friend would have been seriously incriminated by my testimony.’
The judge says rather animatedly: ‘Detective Inspector, would you kindly leave the evaluation of individual testimony to the court.—Please carry on with your evidence. Will the defendants return to their places.’
Stuff grins along the desk at Pinkus: ‘Grade A specimen, isn’t he? This must be a proud moment for you.’
And Pinkus, quite astonished: ‘You’re surely not falling for Padberg’s gambit, are you? It’s one of the oldest in the book.’
The detective continues to give evidence. The court learns that he is the witness who spotted the dentist Czibulla with a stick or umbrella, though which he is not quite able to say. No possibility of error.
Czibulla jumps up: ‘Your Honour, at my almost biblical age, do I look like the type who would attack large policemen with sticks?’
The judge, smiling, inclines his head from one side to the other. Then he asks Czibulla not to intervene in the hearing.
The detective continues to be full of rare perception. He gravely gives his deposition against Henning, against Padberg, against Czibulla, against Feinbube, against Banz, incriminating, incriminating, incriminating.
When he finally finishes, the whole court heaves a deep sigh of relief. Even Pinkus has written down nothing for the last half-hour.
The detective stands there, the prize witness, the expert whom nothing is able to shake.
The judge asks in a bored tone whether there were any questions for the witness, or whether he could let him go.