A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘We have heard what Farmer Päplow has to say about this ruling. He has made it clear that the ruling is based on the average yield of farms in this area. But this average does not pertain to him, because in 1928 he suffered extraordinary losses. He lost two horses from colic. A heifer of his died while calving. He had to move his father out of his house and into the hospital at Altholm, and keep him there for over a year.

  ‘These mitigating factors are known to the tax office, both directly through Farmer Päplow, and indirectly through me, the district headman. The tax office would agree no reduction.

  ‘We, the farmers of Gramzow, declare the ruling of the tax office at Altholm to be null and void because it constitutes an attack on the substance of the farm. We deny the tax office and its masters, the German State, any assistance in this matter, regardless of the consequences for ourselves.

  ‘The confiscation of two well-grazed oxen belonging to Farmer Päplow announced two weeks ago is null and void. Whoever puts in a bid for these oxen at the auction set for today is from that moment forth to be cast out by the Farmers’ League. Let him be despised, no one is to come to his assistance, whether he be in financial or physical or spiritual travail. He is to be ostracized, both in Gramzow and the district of Lohstedt in the province of Pomerania, and throughout the State of Prussia, and throughout the length and breadth of the German Reich. No one is to bandy words with him, not even to give him the time of day. Our children are not to speak with his children, nor our wives with his wife. He is to live alone, and die alone. Whoever acts against one of us, acts against all of us. He is already dead.

  ‘Have ye all heard me, farmers of Gramzow?’

  ‘We have heard, Headman.’

  ‘Then to action. I call the meeting closed. Withdraw the sentries.’

  The door between the public bar and the back bar is closed again. District Headman Reimers sits down, wipes his brow, and takes a swallow from his glass of grog, now gone cold. Then he looks at his watch. ‘Five to eleven. Time for you to be gone, Päplow, otherwise the representative of the tax office can read the protocol to you.’

  ‘Yes, Reimers. But what will happen when they drive my oxen away?’

  ‘They won’t drive your oxen away, Päplow.’

  ‘How will you stop them? By violence?’

  ‘No violence. No violence against this State and its administration. I have another idea.’

  ‘If you have another idea . . . But it has to work. I need the money for the oxen.’

  ‘It will work. Tomorrow farmers all over the country will know how we in Gramzow deal with the tax office. Go, and don’t worry.’

  Farmer Päplow goes out through the back door, crosses the yard, and disappears round the corner. Seven farmers funnel out into the crowded bar.

  III

  There is some commotion outside the pub: the two tax officials are coming. Each of them has a red ox on a halter.

  They have been to Päplow’s farm. Some farmhand was there, and let them into the cow-byre, to the attached animals. The farmer and his wife were nowhere to be found, there was no one to whom to present the order to pay. So they led away the two beasts, and brought them to the Krug, to hold the auction as duly announced.

  They tether the animals to the post outside the door, and walk into the pub. In the bar there was some murmuring of conversation, perhaps the odd oath, when they saw the men with the two beasts. Now there is silence. But thirty or forty farmers are staring fixedly and expressionlessly at the two officials.

  ‘Is there a Herr Päplow from Gramzow here?’ Kalübbe asks into the silence.

  No reply.

  Kalübbe walks down the middle of the room to the bar. Under so many hostile eyes his walk is clumsy and awkward. He knocks against a stick that is hanging over the back of a chair. It falls to the ground with a clatter. Kalübbe bends down to pick it up, hooks it over the chairback again, and mumbles, ‘Excuse me.’

  The farmer merely looks at him, and then stares out the window.

  Kalübbe says to mine host: ‘I am here as you know to hold an auction. Would you set up a table for me here?’

  The host growls: ‘There’s no table here, nor no room for one neither.’

  ‘You know you have to make space for me.’

  ‘How would you want me to do that, sir? Who do I send away? Perhaps you could make some room for yourself? Sir?’

  Kalübbe says emphatically: ‘You know you are required—’

  And the weaselly publican, quickly: ‘I know. I know. But give me some advice. Not the law, but some advice I can follow.’

  A commanding voice calls through the pub: ‘Put up a table outside.’

  Suddenly the little landlord is all action and politeness. ‘A table outside the door. Of course. What a good idea. From there the animals will be in plain view too.’

  The table is brought out. The host in person carries two chairs.

  ‘And now a couple of glasses of beer for ourselves, Landlord.’

  The landlord stops, his face creases with worry. He squints at the open windows, at which farmers are sitting. ‘Gentlemen, please . . .’

  ‘Two glasses of beer! What’s the—?’

  The landlord raises his hands imploringly. ‘Gentlemen, please don’t ask me . . .’

  Kalübbe looks over to Thiel, who is looking at the tabletop. ‘You see, Thiel!’ And to the landlord: ‘You have to give us two beers. If you don’t, and I press charges, you’ve lost your licence.’

  And the landlord, in exactly the same tone: ‘And if I do, I’ve lost my custom. Heads I lose, and tails I lose as well.’

  Kalübbe and the landlord look at each other for what seems like a long time.

  ‘Well, let them know inside that the auction’s beginning.’

  The landlord half bows. ‘I think one should try and be decent as long as possible.’

  He goes inside. The official takes a protocol and a list of conditions out of his briefcase and lays them out on the table in front of him. Thiel wants Kalübbe to look at him, so he says: ‘I just thought of the pistol. I think I’m learning that weapons don’t help.’

  Kalübbe, leafing through his protocol, says drily: ‘The day’s not over. When you’re home, you’ll have learned more.’

  A shadow falls across the table. A young man, dressed in black, with black horn-rims, and the strap of a camera across his shoulder, approaches them, doffing his hat. ‘Morning, gentlemen, Tredup’s the name, I represent the Altholm Chronicle. I’ve just come from Podejuch, taking photographs of the restored church for our pages. I was cycling by, when I saw there was an auction being held here.’

  ‘The announcement was in your paper.’

  ‘And those are the distrained animals?—You know, one hears so much about trouble at attachments. Did you experience any yourselves?’

  ‘Herr Berg is the man to turn to for official information.’

  ‘So you experienced no difficulties? Would you have any objections if I took pictures of the auction?’

  To which Kalübbe, roughly: ‘Stop bothering us. We’ve got no time for you and your chit-chat.’

  Tredup shrugs his shoulders loftily. ‘Whatever you say. I’ll take some pictures anyway.—We all have work to do, and yours doesn’t seem to be much to your taste.’

  He crosses over to the other side of the village street and starts setting up his camera.

  Kalübbe in turn shrugs his shoulders. ‘He’s right, basically. It’s his job, and I shouldn’t have been rude to him. But I’ve got a bone to pick with the Chronicle. They’re nothing better than blackmailers. Did you happen to catch the review of the Circus Monte there a couple of days ago?’

  ‘I did. Yes.’

  ‘Bare-faced extortion. The whole town knows that no one from the Chronicle saw the show. The owner wanted to bring charges against them for damaging his trade, but there’s really no point. Schabbelt has a screw loose, his wife is on the sauce, the fellow who writes it, Stuff, has his wobbles f
rom time to time . . . And as for the rest of them . . .’

  ‘My God. Who reads the Chronicle anyway? I’m a News reader myself.’

  ‘I wonder what the man will find to write about the auction. Doesn’t seem to be eliciting much interest from anyone.’

  They look in the direction of the pub windows. It looks to them as if the place may have somewhat emptied, even though there are still plenty of farmers sitting there.

  ‘Will you go over to the doorway and call out that we’re about to begin. And then ask the landlord to see me again, if you will.’

  Thiel gets up and goes over to the door. Kalübbe hears him shout something. Someone else shouts something back. There is laughter, and then a harsh voice calls for quiet. Thiel comes back.

  ‘What just happened?’ Kalübbe asks with equanimity.

  ‘The landlord’s on his way.—Oh yes, some joker told me to go home, my mummy wants to wash behind my ears. And then a tall fellow told him to shut up.’

  The landlord steps up to the table. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’

  ‘Were there any cattle-dealers here this morning?’

  ‘Yes, there were some. Cattle-dealers.’

  ‘Who?’

  The landlord hesitates. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know their names.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. And they’ve left?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve left.’

  ‘Thanks. That was all.’ The landlord goes away, and Kalübbe says to Thiel: ‘I’ll give the butcher Storm a shout. I buy meat from him myself. Maybe he’ll be brave and buy the animals for a nominal price. I’ll give him a good deal.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘My God, then I’ll call the office. Berg can decide what to do next.’

  Thiel sits and looks at the sunny village street. A couple of hens are pecking for grain in horse-apples, a cat with tail erect is stalking across the nearest farmyard. It could be so lovely here, he thinks. There’s everything here, but there’s a bad feeling in the air. The man from the Chronicle seems to have accepted that the auction won’t happen. He’s just mooching off. He’s still got his camera out, maybe he’s found something better to photograph.—Stop your mooing, ox. I’m thirsty as well, and I’m not getting anything to drink, even though there’s a well in every one of these farms.—Kalübbe is pretty hacked off, but he’s putting a good face on it. Farmers are farmers. A thick skin and do your job, and don’t think too much. The Middle Ages and hangmen—wonder where that comes from? He must have read about it somewhere. I play skat, and he has his family, and we both have Altholm, so what do we need farmers for? It’s pretty here, even though there’s something bad in the air . . .

  He dozes gently in the noonday sun. The two oxen toss their heads from side to side, and switch their tails to keep off flies.

  IV

  Kalübbe is standing in front of the table. ‘Drop off, did you? Yes, there could be a storm coming. It’s a day to curdle milk.—Well, Storm isn’t interested. He’s afraid of being blacklisted, and then he won’t be able to buy meat any more anywhere. Leave him be. My wife will change her butcher.’

  ‘And the revenue councillor?’

  ‘Yes, well, the revenue councillor, our Herr Berg, of course he doesn’t get what’s happening. He’s baffled. But he says he wants to send the farmers a message. We are to drive the oxen to Haselhorst, and put them on a train to Stettin. Pleasant prospect, eh? I’ve ordered up a cattle car. So I think we’d best be on our way. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll get our glass of beer. The station pub will have to serve us.’

  ‘All right then! Let’s go. Which one will you take?’

  ‘Leave me the one with the crooked horn. He’s a bit of a fidget. If yours gets any ideas, just keep a hold of the rope, and give him one over the muzzle. That’ll make him think again.’

  They have untethered the beasts from the post, and are about to set off. The pub door opens, and a dozen, two dozen, three dozen farmers emerge into the open. They line up by the roadside and stand there in silence to watch the two men set off.

  They drive the oxen along the village street. The beasts are placid. Kalübbe turns to Thiel and remarks: ‘How do you like this running a gauntlet?’

  ‘Well, so long as they’re happy!’

  ‘Sure they are!—Hey, what’s that?’

  They’re at the end of the village. There’s a sharp bend in the road, and the tree-lined avenue to Haselhorst is in front of them. On either side of the road, wide water-filled ditches, and some three hundred yards in front of them, an obstacle, something pale but clearly visible lying across the road.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t work it out. Are they building some kind of barrier?’

  ‘It looks so bright. Fluffy, almost. Like straw. Well, we’ll ignore it. Straight through.’

  ‘What if we can’t get by? The ditches are too wide to get across.’

  ‘Well, then we’ll wait. Some car or wagon is bound to pass.’

  They are reasonably close now, and Thiel says, relieved: ‘It’s nothing. Someone’s dropped a load of straw.’

  ‘Yes, I can see.’

  Then, a little closer: ‘There’s something fishy here. They’re not picking it up. In fact, they’re leading horses and wagons away!’

  ‘Never mind! We’ll get through. Just kick it aside.’

  And now they are very close. There are three or four people standing by the straw, which is lying across the whole roadway. One of them bends down, and suddenly there is a flickering here, and another there. A flame dances aloft. Ten flames. A hundred. Smoke, thick white gouts of it, spews up.

  The oxen throw back their heads, dig their feet in. Turn violently away.

  And suddenly the wind gets into the flames, searing heat beats into their faces, they are standing in a pall of smoke.

  ‘Go! Go! Back to the village!’ yells Kalübbe, smacking his steer on the muzzle. The cartilage makes an echoey noise.

  Almost side by side, pulled up by the ropes each time they stumble, they are racing to the village.

  A hundred yards on, their beasts are walking more calmly. Breathlessly Kalübbe shouts: ‘There’s nothing for it this time, I’m going to have to write a report!’

  ‘And what do we do now?’

  ‘They won’t let us get to Haselhorst. That’s pointless. But just to show them, we’ll go to Lohstedt by way of Nippmerow, Banz and Eggermühle.’

  ‘But that’s ten miles!’

  ‘So what! Do we want to put the oxen back in Päplow’s byre?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘Well then!’

  They are now back at the Krug. There are the farmers, staring at them.

  ‘They’ve been waiting for us. Well, don’t think you’re going to get your beasts back.—Drive by as quickly and smoothly as possible!’

  All the faces are staring at them. They are young and old, pale blond, doughy, smooth and creased, with grey or black beards, with skin tanned by autumn storms and winter rains. At Thiel and Kalübbe’s approach, the farmers break up. Some step across to the other side of the village street, and now, as the two men try to pass them, they all start walking, silently and close to them, like an impromptu escort. Faces lowered or upraised, seeing nothing, sticks in their hands.

  They’ve not finished with us, thinks Kalübbe. This isn’t going to go smoothly. I wish I could get nearer to Thiel, to see that he doesn’t lose his cool.

  But the farmers press him too closely, and now the oxen are almost running, they have the smell of home, of Päplow’s byre in their nostrils.

  But Kalübbe is paying attention. Just at the moment his ox makes to turn home into the entry, he gives him a resounding thwack on the right horn, and jabs the tip of his stick into the animal’s side, and the steer races blindly off, straight along the village street.

  That did the trick, thinks Kalübbe in pursuit, surprised that the farmers haven’t given up, but are still providing a trotting escort. And t
here’s Thiel coming up alongside him as well. Breathless from running, he whispers to Thiel: ‘Don’t worry about anything. Keep the rope looped round your wrist. Don’t let them steal the animal off you. It rightfully belongs to the State, and we have to get it to Lohstedt, whatever happens.’

  The farmers are trotting alongside. They are distracting, and they restrict his vision. Even so! There ahead, across the middle of the road, is the pale straw again.

  This time there’s no stopping. We have to go through, thinks Kalübbe.

  The alarmed beast is rumbling along so fast, Kalübbe can’t manage to turn round. He hears the sticks of the farmers raining blows down on his ox, and he shouts, ‘Look out, Thiel, we’ll cut on to the pasture!’

  And there is the fire already. He sees, in bizarrely sharp focus, six or eight faces, and suddenly he spots the man from the Chronicle as well, camera in hand, he just manages to catch a farmer lashing out at the camera with his stick . . .

  Then the blaze is there, the heat, the choking smoke.

  He can’t see anything any more. His ox is practically pulling his hand off.

  Now he’s standing under a tree. He’s made it, the road ahead of him is clear, he is breathing hard, through choking lungs.

  He looks back. Thick clouds of yellow-white smoke roll over the pastureland. Shadows dart hither and thither.

  Where is Thiel?

  Then he sees the other steer racing across the grass, leaderless, tail up and head down.

  He waits for fifteen minutes, thirty. He can’t leave his beast, after all—it belongs to the State. Finally he stops waiting. Thiel will turn up somewhere along the way. The farmers won’t hurt him.

  Kalübbe takes his ox all the way to Lohstedt.

  2

  The Hunt for the Photograph

  I

  It’s almost eleven at night. Stuff has just stepped out of the cinema and joined Wenk at his table in Tucher’s.

  ‘What’ll you have? Just beer? No, that’s not enough, I’ve got flies buzzing round my brain again today.—Franz, I’ll have a pint of lager and a short.

  ‘What was the film like?’