A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘It has been shown that a number of countrypeople were involved in disorderly conduct around the war memorial, but that would have been significant only if the farmers had been the aggressors. The conduct of the police speaks against that. There is at least a suspicion that Frerksen was not equal to the situation, lost his head, and acted impulsively. He chose the worst possible place to stop the demonstration. He acted with his men without giving them any sort of instructions. The agitation of his officers is easy to understand. They had the benefit of no leadership when they ran to engage the marchers. They started laying about them immediately.

  ‘It has been shown that while Henning was lying on the ground, he did kick out. But at that stage the police were not in the lawful performance of their duty. They had lost all discipline and were lashing out indiscriminately.’

  (A big ripple through the hall.)

  ‘The defendant Czibulla had to be acquitted because there was no proof that he approached the officer with any purpose other than to ask for information. The testimony of one witness that he had struck the officer with a stick or umbrella is opposed by the testimony of several other witnesses that he merely shyly tweaked at the jacket of the officer. The terrible blow he received is explainable only in terms of the uncontrolled agitation of the police.’

  (Another ripple goes through the hall.)

  ‘The defendants are entitled to mitigating circumstances. Nevertheless, custodial sentences were indicated, because their behaviour could have had dangerous consequences. What further speaks in their favour is that they believed themselves to be in the right. The flag was their emblem. And Henning allowed himself to be badly beaten for the sake of that emblem, which he took very seriously.

  ‘The farmers kept their discipline throughout. Neither the police nor the peasants sought to provoke. Both, through no fault of their own, found themselves in a situation to which they were unequal.

  ‘For reasons given above, the banner is to be returned.

  ‘The condemned are given two years on probation.’

  IV

  ‘Congratulations,’ Henning whispers to Padberg.

  ‘You can talk,’ he says. ‘I’m on the hook for the bomb. You’d better flee soon.’

  ‘Later today,’ says Henning. ‘I’m going to go abroad.’

  ‘Heil Bauernschaft, Comrade.’

  ‘Heil Bauernschaft.’

  ‘Well, satisfied now?’ Blöcker asks his mate Stuff.

  ‘Satisfied. Satisfied,’ he growls. ‘It’s another one of those on-the-one-hand, on-the-other-hand, faults-on-both-sides compromise judgments. Objectively the police are in the wrong, but, hey, subjectively they’re right. How do I sell a verdict like that to my farmers?’

  ‘Would you rather they were banged up?’

  ‘You bet I would! Put them away for years and years! That would be great propaganda. But something squishy and touchy-feely like this . . .’

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ says Councillor Röstel. ‘Now I can call in the dental practitioner Czibulla and ask him what sort of pension he wants from the town.’

  ‘The money’s not even the worst of it,’ says Chief Adviser Meier. ‘Think of my boss, Temborius! Three weeks in prison, and a police force lacking self-discipline. There’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘The prosecution is bound to appeal.’

  ‘And in six months we’ll be chewing it over again. As if we enjoyed it!’

  ‘Come on, Annie,’ says Commander Frerksen. ‘The people are staring.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Fritz, the judge said you were in the right. You were right to confiscate the flag.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure.’

  ‘As for you having lost your head . . . He ought to try standing in front of three thousand farmers to see how he likes it. It’s not very hard with the benefit of hindsight. You did very well.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. All I want to know now is who my new boss is going to be.’

  ‘I love it,’ says Colonel Senkpiel to his Lieutenant Wrede, ‘how clueless lawyers are about the damage they inflict on the police when they have a go at them. It’s just the town militia, and Frerksen’s a twerp—he really blotted his copybook—but to say that in front of the public. What’s going to happen to our authority?’

  ‘Three weeks and two weeks, what wouldn’t you give for a sentence like that?’ says the official Matthies. ‘I think, for pinching Frerksen’s sabre, I’m going to go down for at least a year.’

  ‘You will too. You will.’

  The prosecutor: ‘Typical.’

  His deputy comforts him: ‘It’s not necessarily the last word, this judgment.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. But for the moment we’ve lost.’

  ‘We should do something right away to show where we stand.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We march straight to the police and confiscate the farmers’ flag all over again.’

  ‘Nice. Very nice.—Chief Adviser Meier, one moment, please. We intend to show what we think of this judgment, in other words, to avoid future clashes, we’re going to seize the farmers’ flag all over again!’

  ‘Ah, a ray of sunshine,’ Meier beams. ‘That will delight the president’s heart. So there are still men.’

  Epilogue:

  Just Like at Circus Monte

  I

  A week after the verdict was pronounced, the News and the Chronicle, though not the Volkszeitung, carried the following full-page advertisement:

  towards the restoration of economic peace with the farmers’ union!

  After the verdict was pronounced in the trial of Farmers’ Union leaders, and as there is agreement in principle, we have taken a step towards the end so dear to the hearts of all Altholmers: the promotion of economic peace. There is still one obstacle in our path, and that is the need to raise money to pay for the damages that have occurred. The undersigned therefore appeal to the population of Altholm with the request that they do whatever they can towards raising funds. Not until the promised sum has been raised will economic peace with the farmers’ leaders be achieved, and the boycott ended. The committee asks that all participate, to the utmost of their ability.

  People of Altholm, don’t leave your town in the lurch!

  The committee towards the restoration of economic peace. Town Council Leader Manzow. Medical Councillor Dr Lienau. Braun, trader. Dr Hüppchen, certified accountant. Council Member Meisel.

  II

  However willing Manzow the Children’s Friend had found the representatives of the Farmers’ Union to swill his champagne on that night before the verdict was handed down, the gentlemen remained unyielding in their demands. But what had seemed perfectly outrageous by candlelight on that chaotic night in the auction hall, today seemed somehow to be discussible.

  ‘But ten thousand marks, gentlemen, that’s mad.’

  ‘Well, let’s wait a little longer,’ says Henning, ‘it doesn’t have to be now.’

  ‘And what if you’re sent down tomorrow?’

  ‘Same deal. Do you think the farmers will drop the boycott if we’re put behind bars?’

  ‘I would like to remind you,’ says the legal councillor, ‘that apart from the payment of ten thousand marks, which is not nearly enough to pay the costs incurred at the trial, there are a whole number of injured farmers who need compensation. There is Henning, crippled for life, there are farmers who were struck with sticks, there is Banz—’

  ‘Banz knocked down a policeman, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Well? It was in self-defence!’

  ‘So what’s your floor?’

  ‘Thirty-five thousand. All in.’

  ‘Mad.’

  Henning drinks and repeats himself: ‘Let’s wait, then. Where’s the rush?’

  ‘Gentlemen, name me a figure . . .’

  ‘One hundred and twenty-three thousand,’ suggests Stuff.

  ‘Won’t you compromise at all?’

  As the number of empty bottles rose, s
o the prospects of coming to an agreement improved. At four in the morning, a preliminary agreement is signed on a piece of hotel stationery:

  One: Return of the flag with all honour, by a prominent citizen of the town.

  ‘That doesn’t mean you! Doesn’t mean you!’ burbles Stuff to Manzow intransigently.

  Two: Payment of twenty-five thousand marks within the next fortnight.

  ‘You come expensive, fellows. Cut-throats. But I’ll manage it.’

  III

  It wasn’t so easily managed, the expensive business.

  Wherever Manzow asked: ‘We’d like to do our bit. But the boycott has wiped us out, we’re flat broke . . .’

  ‘Maybe the Bakers’ Guild . . . ?’

  ‘Maybe the retailers . . . ?’

  ‘Or the teachers? They’re always idealists.’

  At the end of six days, Manzow has scraped together just four hundred and sixty-five marks. Within another eight days, they need to have swollen to twenty-five thousand, otherwise the reputation of the great diplomatic conciliator is mud. And in two weeks there are the local elections.

  It’s dark, it’s gloomy, there is no moon either in the calendar or in the sky, when Manzow slinks round to Mayor Gareis’s flat.

  Gareis doesn’t seem at all annoyed. Gareis is perfectly friendly. Gareis even breaks out a bottle of wine.

  Then, after Manzow has poured out his grievances: ‘You’re starting at the wrong end. You can have your reconciliation without it costing a penny. Go out into the country yourself and talk to the farmers. I’ll give you the names of the sensible ones you can talk to.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. For them to turf me out and beat me up! Give me the legal councillor and Henning any day!’

  ‘Fine, if you’ve got twenty-five thousand marks.’

  ‘I don’t have a penny. I’m doing all the work.’

  ‘You have to wonder, though, if the farmers will obey their leaders when they turn round and tell them: All right, the boycott’s over.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they? If they get the money? Just tell me how I get the money together . . .’

  But if Gareis knows, he’s not telling. He breaks out more wine, more brandy. He is in a wonderful mood. He talks about the town of Breda, where he’s been appointed mayor, about his plans . . .

  ‘You’re the clever one again,’ Manzow states. ‘You clear off and leave us in the shit.’

  Gareis says: ‘Yes, that’s right, I’m clearing off. And leaving you in it. How many times you’ll be saying that over the next months and years. Gareis, he was clever, he made a mess, and he left us in it.’

  ‘But isn’t it true?’ wails Manzow.

  ‘If you weren’t so stupid,’ says Gareis, ‘one could even feel sorry for you.’

  IV

  But the night visit to Gareis wasn’t completely in vain. On his way home through the night, through the darkness, Manzow gets an inspired idea.

  That’s the way.—He calls the Bauernschaft.

  ‘Could one of you come over so that we can discuss the transfer?—Yes, I think we need to make it a bit official.—Herr Stuff? That would be fine.—The money, yes, the money will be there.—Don’t believe what the Reds write! Our citizens have once again displayed their generosity.—No, it wasn’t at all easy, but I managed it.—I think we should do it quite soon. What about next week, three or four days before the local elections?—Saturday, the 17th of October?—Fine. Excellent. I’ll expect Herr Stuff then.’

  V

  ‘Why are you so suspicious, Stuff?’ says Manzow. ‘If it wasn’t evening now, and after closing time, I’d walk you to the bank right now and show you the twenty-five thousand.’

  ‘I don’t believe for one second that you’ve got together that money. I know my Altholmers! You’ve got something up your sleeve. You know what, let me talk to the treasurer or the bank manager.’

  ‘Happily. We’ll call in a moment. But first I have something I want confess to you—’

  ‘Ah, here we go. I knew the cheese was off.’

  ‘I banged away at Gebhardt. So of the twenty-five thousand, ten thousand are from his pocket.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘If he can boast about it! I get Meisel to say that Oberbürgermeister Niederdahl had said: “Oh, Gebhardt, he would never contribute, he’ll give you fifty marks, tops.” Then he wrote out a thousand.—I looked at the number, and then I said: “Why don’t you hang another nought on the back of that, Herr Gebhardt. You own a Rolls-Royce, for land sakes. A thousand doesn’t sit well with that. Niederdahl will probably chip in a thousand himself.” Well, he groaned at me, but he put another nought on it.’

  Stuff grins. ‘As it’s you telling me, Manzow, I believe you. The only thing that bugs me is that the guy goes to the Riviera, and he’s already wondering how to get it back. I don’t suppose any of his workforce will be able to look forward to a Christmas bonus.’

  ‘So what we’re planning on is this: ten a.m., meet outside Tucher’s. Procession through the town to the auction hall. Handing over of the flag by Medical Councillor Dr Lienau. All the veterans’ associations to be present. March back through the town, with flag and music. Festive lunch at various hostelries all over town.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘You’ll be given that in the auction hall as well.’

  ‘Why not today or tomorrow?’

  ‘Because we don’t quite trust you either, Stuff. What if the farmers don’t come through, what if they don’t do what they’re told—?’

  ‘They’ll come through.’

  ‘– then I’ll be humiliated. Three days before the elections. And I’ll be liable for the money.’

  ‘The farmers will come through.’

  ‘Don’t you be so suspicious. If I can’t pay the money, then I’m the one who loses out. I’m finished in Altholm. I’ll be uninsurable.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Stuff suddenly. ‘You wouldn’t be that stupid, Herr Manzow.’

  ‘So now, I think, we should sit together and have a drink in anticipation of the reconciliation. The Arcona does a wonderful pheasant. With juniper berries and some delicious herbs, it’s bliss, I tell you, with a sappy, heavy claret—’

  ‘No, thanks all the same,’ says Stuff. ‘I need to go somewhere first. But I may pop by in a couple of hours’ time.’

  VI

  Stuff walks slowly through the dark town.

  Not really any better, he thinks. If anything, worse. Gareis was a swine, but he got things done. Manzow is a swine and he gets nothing done. Not an improvement from the Altholm point of view.

  On the dimly lit Stolpe Road, Stuff sees a couple of fellows coming: Well, look who it isn’t.

  And aloud: ‘Good evening, Your Worship.’

  Gareis stops. ‘And a good evening to you, Herr Stuff. Back in your old stamping grounds?’

  ‘I’ve no choice. The story with the farmers—’

  ‘Is this peace going to come about, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Next week.’

  ‘The money’s there?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘I know, Herr Stuff. Still and all. The twenty-five thousand marks.’

  ‘They’re there.’

  ‘Are you actually enjoying all this now, Herr Stuff?’

  Stuff slowly raises his red-rimmed eyes to the mayor. ‘Enjoying it? Christ no, Your Worship. But a man has to do something. Something other than drinking and womanizing.’

  ‘And you get on with the farmers?’

  ‘Farmers? What do I know about farmers? It’s no different to the way things used to be here. Except that they meddle even more.’

  ‘You really ought to come along with me, Herr Stuff,’ says the mayor. ‘A little industrial town, where nothing ever happens.’

  ‘I’m too old and broken down,’ says Stuff. ‘I don’t see the point of it, not of any of it. I just happen to have a thing against Reds. It’s an instinct, I’ll never change it.—When are you l
eaving us, Mayor?’

  ‘Next Saturday.’

  ‘Well, then, I’ll bid you farewell.’ Stuff gives the mayor his plump hand. ‘I wish you all the luck, Mayor.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you again for that other time.—Goodbye.’

  ‘Well, I doubt it. Evening, gents.’

  ‘Good evening, Herr Stuff.’

  VII

  Stuff opens the garden gate at 72 Stolper Strasse.

  As he walks across the yard, he sees that the windows are dark, even though it’s not yet nine o’clock. He feels around in his pockets for some matches.

  The door is open, and he walks in.

  A voice asks: ‘Who is it? Stay away. I don’t want to see anyone.’

  ‘Not even me?’ says Stuff, striking a match and lighting the lamp.

  The room looks terrible. Nothing has been done here for days. Wild, with tangled hair, the woman squats in front of the window. The children, still half dressed, are asleep. The bedding is black.

  ‘Shame about the kids, really,’ says Stuff, and lifts a bunch of stuff off the sofa, to make room for himself.

  ‘To have them turn out the way their father did, you mean?’ says the woman.

  Stuff is patient. After a while he asks: ‘Have you got any money left?’

  ‘Don’t know. Yes. There’s money still. Over a hundred marks.’

  ‘And what’s to happen when they’re spent?’

  ‘How do I know? Something’ll turn up.’

  Another pause.

  Then: ‘So he didn’t write?’

  And she: ‘He won’t write.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s waiting to get established, so he can send you money?’

  ‘He won’t send me money. He’d rather keep it.’

  Long silence. Then Stuff says determinedly: ‘Now listen to me, Frau Tredup. I’ve got a three-room flat in Stolpe complete with gas, electricity, bath and all. Two rooms are all fixed up. The removal man will come for your things tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not going to leave here.’

  Stuff continues, unimpressed: ‘I’m taking the kids with me right now. I’ve already de-registered them at school this afternoon. If you want, you can keep house for me, if you don’t you can stay here. But the stuff is going.’

  ‘I’m staying here.’