Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 4

by Bertolt Brecht

  THE OLDER WORKER: They are. An invasion.

  THE YOUNGER WORKER: And then it’s what they call ‘consulting the people’. ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!’ ‘A single people, a single empire, a single leader.’ ‘Willst du das, Deutscher?’ ‘You’re German, are you in favour?’ And us not able to put out the least little leaflet about this referendum. Here, in a working-class district like Neukölln.

  THE WOMAN: How d’you mean, not able?

  THE YOUNGER WORKER: Too dangerous.

  THE OLDER WORKER: And just when they’ve caught Karl. How are we to get the addresses?

  THE YOUNGER WORKER: We’d need someone to do the writing too.

  THE WOMAN points at the radio: He had a hundred thousand men to launch his attack. We need one man. Fine. If he’s the only one who’s got what’s needed, then he’ll score the victories.

  THE YOUNGER WORKER in anger: So we can do without Karl.

  THE WOMAN: If that’s the way you people feel then we may as well split up.

  THE OLDER WORKER: Comrades, there’s no use kidding ourselves. Producing a leaflet’s getting harder and harder, that’s a fact. It’s no good acting as if we just can’t hear all that victory din – pointing at the radio. To the woman: You’ve got to admit, anyone hearing that sort of thing might think they’re getting stronger all the time. It really does sound like a single people, wouldn’t you say?

  THE WOMAN: It sounds like twenty thousand drunks being stood free beer.

  THE YOUNGER WORKER: For all you know we might be the only people to say so.

  THE WOMAN: Right. Us and others like us.

  The woman smoothes out a small crumpled piece of paper.

  THE OLDER WORKER: What have you got there?

  THE WOMAN: It’s a copy of a letter. There’s such a din I can read it out. She reads: ‘Dear son: Tomorrow I shall have ceased to be. Executions are usually at six a.m. I’m writing now because I want you to know I haven’t changed my opinions, nor have I applied for a pardon because I didn’t commit any crime. I just served my class. And if it looks as though I got nowhere like that it isn’t so. Every man to his post, should be our motto. Our task is very difficult, but it’s the greatest one there is – to free the human race from its oppressors. Till that’s done life has no other value. Let that out of our sights and the whole human race will relapse into barbarism. You’re still quite young but it won’t hurt you to remember always which side you are on. Stick with your own class, then your father won’t have suffered his unhappy fate in vain, because it isn’t easy. Look after your mother, your brothers and sisters too, you’re the eldest. Better be clever. Greetings to you all, Your loving Father.’

  THE OLDER WORKER: There aren’t really that few of us after all.

  THE YOUNGER WORKER: What’s to go in the referendum leaflet, then?

  THE WOMAN thinking: Best thing would be just one word: NO!

  Señora Carrar’s Rifles

  Partly based on an idea of J.M. Synge

  Collaborator: M. STEFFIN

  Translator: WOLFGANG SAUERLÄNDER

  Characters:

  TERESA CARRAR, a fisherwoman

  JOSÉ, her younger son

  PEDRO JAQUERAS, a worker, brother of Teresa Carrar

  THE WOUNDED MAN

  MANUELA

  THE PRIEST

  OLD MRS PÉREZ

  TWO FISHERMEN

  WOMEN

  CHILDREN

  A fisherman’s cottage in Andalusia on a night in April, 1937. In one corner of the whitewashed room a large black crucifix. Teresa Carrar, a fisherwoman of forty, is baking bread. Her son, José, fifteen, stands at the open window, whittling a float. Roar of cannon in the distance.

  THE MOTHER: Can you still see Juan’s boat?

  JOSÉ: Yes.

  THE MOTHER: Is his lantern still burning?

  JOSÉ: Yes.

  THE MOTHER: No other boat joined him?

  JOSÉ: No.

  Pause.

  THE MOTHER: That’s strange. Why isn’t anybody else out?

  JOSÉ: You know why.

  THE MOTHER patiently: If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.

  JOSÉ: There’s no one out but Juan; they’ve other things to do than catch fish these days.

  THE MOTHER: I see.

  Pause.

  JOSÉ: If it was up to him Juan wouldn’t be out either.

  THE MOTHER: Right. It isn’t up to him.

  JOSÉ whittling furiously: No.

  The mother puts the dough in the oven, wipes her hands and takes up a fish-net to mend it.

  JOSÉ: I’m hungry.

  THE MOTHER: But you don’t want your brother to go fishing.

  JOSÉ: Because I can do that just as well and Juan ought to be at the front.

  THE MOTHER: I thought you wanted to go to the front too.

  Pause.

  JOSÉ: Think the food ships will get through the British blockade?

  THE MOTHER: Anyhow there’ll be no flour left when this bread is done.

  José shuts the window.

  THE MOTHER: Why are you shutting the window?

  JOSÉ: It’s nine o’clock.

  THE MOTHER: Well?

  JOSÉ: That swine is on the radio at nine and the Pérezes will tune in.

  THE MOTHER imploringly: Please open the window! You can’t see properly with the light on in here and the window reflecting it.

  JOSÉ: Why should I sit here and watch? He won’t run away. You’re just afraid he’ll go to the front.

  THE MOTHER: Don’t answer back! It’s bad enough my having to keep an eye on the two of you.

  JOSÉ: What do you mean, the two of us?

  THE MOTHER: You’re no better than your brother. Worse if anything.

  JOSÉ: They only put on the radio for our benefit. This’ll be the third time. They opened their window on purpose yesterday to make us listen; I saw them.

  THE MOTHER: Those speeches are no different from the ones they made in Valencia.

  JOSÉ: Why not just say they’re better?

  THE MOTHER: You know I don’t think they’re better. Why should I be for the generals? I’m against bloodshed.

  JOSÉ: Who started it? Us, I suppose?

  The mother is silent. José has opened the window again. An announcement is heard from a near-by radio: ‘Attention! Attention! His Excellency General Queipo de Llano will address you.’ The radio general’s voice comes through the night loud and clear as he delivers his nightly address to the Spanish people.

  THE GENERAL’S VOICE: Today or tomorrow, my friends, we propose to have a serious word with you. And we propose to have that word with you in Madrid, even if what’s left of it doesn’t look like Madrid any more. Then the Archbishop of Canterbury will really have something to shed crocodile tears for. Just wait till our splendid Moors are through.

  JOSÉ: Bastard!

  THE GENERAL’S VOICE: My friends, the so-called British Empire, that colossus on feet of clay, cannot stop us destroying the capital of a perverted people that has the effrontery to oppose the irresistible cause of nationalism. Rabble! We’ll wipe them off the face of the earth!

  JOSÉ: That’s us, Mother.

  THE MOTHER: We’re not rebels and we’re not opposing anybody. Perhaps you boys would if you had your way. You and that brother of yours, you’re both reckless. You got that from your father and maybe I wouldn’t like it if you were different. But this thing is no joke. Can’t you hear their guns? We’re poor; poor people can’t make war. Knocking at the door. Pedro Jacqueras, a worker, Teresa Carrar’s brother, enters. It is plain that he has walked a long way.

  THE WORKER: Good evening.

  JOSÉ: Uncle Pedro!

  THE MOTHER: What brings you here, Pedro? She shakes hands with him.

  JOSÉ: Have you come from Motril, Uncle Pedro? How are things going?

  THE WORKER: Ah, not too well. How are you getting along here?

  THE MOTHER hesitantly: Not too bad.

  JOSÉ: Did you leave
today?

  THE WORKER: Yes.

  JOSÉ: Takes a good four hours, eh?

  THE WORKER: More; the roads are clogged with refugees trying to get to Almería.

  JOSÉ: But Motril’s holding out?

  THE WORKER: I don’t know what has happened today. Last night we were still holding out.

  JOSÉ: Then why did you leave?

  THE WORKER: We need some stuff for the front. So I figured I’d look in on you.

  THE MOTHER: Would you like a sip of wine? She fetches wine. The bread won’t be done for another half hour.

  THE WORKER: Where’s Juan?

  JOSÉ: Out fishing.

  THE WORKER: Fishing?

  JOSÉ: You can see his lantern from the window.

  THE MOTHER: We’ve got to live.

  THE WORKER: Of course. As I was coming down the street I heard the radio general. Who listens to him around here?

  JOSÉ: The Pérezes across the street.

  THE WORKER: Do they always tune in on that stuff?

  JOSÉ: No. They’re not Franco people, it isn’t for their own benefit, if that’s what you mean.

  THE WORKER: Is that so?

  THE MOTHER to José: Are you keeping an eye on your brother?

  JOSÉ reluctantly returns to the window: Don’t worry, he hasn’t fallen overboard.

  The worker takes the wine jug, sits down by his sister and helps her mend the nets.

  THE WORKER: How old would Juan be now?

  THE MOTHER: Twenty-one in September.

  THE WORKER: And José?

  THE MOTHER: Have you got something special to do around here?

  THE WORKER: Nothing special.

  THE MOTHER: You haven’t shown your face in a long time.

  THE WORKER: Two years.

  THE MOTHER: How’s Rosa?

  THE WORKER: Rheumatism.

  THE MOTHER: The two of you might have dropped in once in a while.

  THE WORKER: I guess Rosa was a little put out about Carlos’s funeral.

  The mother is silent.

  THE WORKER: She said you might have let us know. Of course we’d have come to your husband’s funeral, Teresa.

  THE MOTHER: It was all so sudden.

  THE WORKER: What actually happened?

  The mother is silent.

  JOSÉ: Shot through the lung.

  THE WORKER amazed: How come?

  THE MOTHER: What do you mean ‘How come’?

  THE WORKER: Everything was quiet around here two years ago.

  JOSÉ: There was the rising in Oviedo.

  THE WORKER: How did Carlos get to Oviedo?

  THE MOTHER: Took the train.

  THE WORKER: From here?

  JOSÉ: Yes, when he read about the rising in the papers.

  THE MOTHER with bitterness: Same as other people go to America to stake everything on one card. Fools.

  JOSÉ rising: Are you saying he was a fool?

  Silently, with trembling hands, she lays the net aside and goes out.

  THE WORKER: Must have been pretty bad for her.

  JOSÉ: Yes.

  THE WORKER: Did she take it very hard when he didn’t come back?

  JOSÉ: He did come back, she saw him again. That was the worst part of it. Up there in the Asturias, he seems to have managed to take a train with a field dressing under his blouse. He had to change twice, and then he died here at the station. One evening our door suddenly opened and the local women filed in, the way they do when someone gets drowned. They lined up along the walls without a word and reeled off an Ave Maria. Then he was brought in on a piece of sailcloth and laid down on the floor. She’s been scurrying off to church ever since. And refusing to see the school teacher that everybody knew was a red.

  THE WORKER: You mean she’s got religion?

  JOSÉ nods: Juan thinks it was mostly because people round here started talking about her.

  THE WORKER: What did they say?

  JOSÉ: That she put him up to it.

  THE WORKER: Well, did she?

  José shrugs his shoulders. The mother returns, looks into the oven and sits down again with the net.

  THE MOTHER to the worker who is again trying to help her: Never mind that. Drink your wine and take it easy, you’ve been up and about since early morning.

  The worker takes the wine jug and returns to the table.

  THE MOTHER: Do you want to stay the night?

  THE WORKER: No. I haven’t that much time. I’ve got to go back tonight. But I’d like to wash. He goes out.

  THE MOTHER beckons José to come to her: Did he tell you what he came for?

  JOSÉ: No.

  THE MOTHER: Are you sure?

  The worker returns with a wash basin; he washes himself.

  THE MOTHER: Are the old Lópezes still alive?

  THE WORKER: Only him. To José: I suppose a good many of the villagers have gone to the front?

  JOSÉ: Some are still here.

  THE WORKER: In our town a lot of good Catholics have joined up.

  JOSÉ: Some from here too.

  THE WORKER: Have they all got rifles?

  JOSÉ: No. Not all.

  THE WORKER: That’s bad. Guns are the main thing now. Aren’t there any rifles left in this village?

  THE MOTHER quickly: No!

  JOSÉ: Some people hide them. They bury them like potatoes.

  The mother looks at José.

  THE WORKER: I see.

  José ambles away from the window and withdraws into the background.

  THE MOTHER: Where are you going?

  JOSÉ: Nowhere.

  THE MOTHER: Get back to that window!

  José remains obstinately in the rear.

  THE WORKER: What’s going on here?

  THE MOTHER: Why have you left the window? Answer me!

  THE WORKER: Is there someone outside?

  JOSÉ hoarsely: No.

  Children’s voices are heard howling outside.

  CHILDREN’S VOICES:

  Juan’s not a soldier

  He’d rather stay in bed.

  Juan’s a lousy coward

  Pulls the blanket over his head.

  The children’s faces appear in the window.

  THE CHILDREN: Baah! They run away.

  THE MOTHER gets up, goes to the window: Just let me catch you and I’ll beat the stuffing out of you, stinking brats! Talking back into the room. It’s those Pérezes again!

  Pause.

  THE WORKER: You used to play cards, José. How about a little game?

  The mother sits down at the window. José gets the cards and they start playing.

  THE WORKER: Do you still cheat?

  JOSÉ laughing: Did I?

  THE WORKER: Used to think so. I’ll just cut to be on the safe side. Right then, anything goes. All’s fair in cards and war.

  The mother looks up suspiciously.

  JOSÉ: What lousy trumps.

  THE WORKER: Thanks for letting me know. – Ha, look at him playing the ace of trumps. That was a bluff, but it didn’t pay off, did it? Fired your big gun, and now here I come with my peashooter. Slaps him down with a series of quick tricks. You had it coming. Daring is all very well, my boy. You’re daring all right, but you’ve a lot to learn about caution.

  JOSÉ: Nothing venture, nothing gain.

  THE MOTHER: They got those sayings from their father. ‘A gentleman takes risks.’ That it?

  THE WORKER: Yes, he risks our skins. Don Miguel de Ferrante once lost seventy peasants to a colonel in a single card game. He was ruined, poor devil; had to make do with twelve servants for the rest of his life. – Look at that, he’s playing his last ten.

  JOSÉ: I had to. He takes the trick. It was my only chance.

  THE MOTHER: That’s the way they are. His father used to jump out of the boat when his net got caught.

  THE WORKER: Maybe he didn’t have all that many nets.

  THE MOTHER: Didn’t have all that many lives either.

  In the doorway sta
nds a man in the uniform of the militia.

  His head is bandaged, one arm is in a sling.

  THE MOTHER: Come on in, Pablo.

  THE WOUNDED MAN: You said I could come back to be bandaged, Mrs Carrar.

  THE MOTHER: It’s all soaked through again. She runs out.

  THE WORKER: Where’d you get that?

  THE WOUNDED MAN: Monte Solluve.

  The mother returns with a shirt which she tears into strips. She renews the dressing, constantly keeping an eye on those at the table.

  THE MOTHER: You’ve been working again, then.

  THE WOUNDED MAN: Only with my right arm.

  THE MOTHER: But they told you not to.

  THE WOUNDED MAN: Yes, I know. – The rumour is, they’ll break through tonight. We’ve no reserves left. Could they be through already?

  THE WORKER getting restless: No, I don’t think so. The gunfire would sound different.

  THE WOUNDED MAN: That’s right.

  THE MOTHER: Am I hurting you? You must tell me. I’m not a trained nurse. I’m doing it as gently as I can.

  JOSÉ: They’ll never break through at Madrid.

  THE WOUNDED MAN: There’s no telling.

  JOSÉ: Oh yes there is.

  THE WOUNDED MAN: Fine. But you’ve gone and torn up another good shirt, Mrs Carrar. You shouldn’t have done that.

  THE MOTHER: Would you sooner have a dishrag around your arm?

  THE WOUNDED MAN: You people aren’t so well off either.

  THE MOTHER: While it lasts it lasts. There now. But there wouldn’t be enough for your other arm.

  THE WOUNDED MAN laughs: I’ll have to be more careful next time. Gets up; to the worker: If only they don’t break through, the bastards! He leaves.

  THE MOTHER: Oh God, those guns!

  JOSÉ: And we go fishing.

  THE MOTHER: You two can be glad you’ve still got sound limbs.

  The swelling and fading noise of trucks and singing is heard from outside. The worker and José step to the window and watch.

  THE WORKER: That’s the International Brigade. They’re being sent to the Motril front.

  The refrain of the ‘Thälmann Column’ is heard: ‘Die Heimat ist weit…’.

  THE WORKER: Those are the Germans.

  A few measures of the ‘Marseillaise’.

  THE WORKER: The French.

  The ‘Warszawianka’.

  THE WORKER: Poles.

  ‘Bandiera rossa’.