A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘It’s all in the open,’ Revenue Councillor Andersson comforts him. ‘If the identities of the guilty parties can be confirmed from the photographs, heavy penalties will be handed down.’

  Temborius remains unhappy. ‘But will it help? Will it deter others?’

  The colonel looks at the revenue councillor, the revenue councillor looks back at the colonel.

  Then they both turn their heads and stare into the corner, where the completely insignificant adviser is sitting.

  First to speak is the colonel: ‘Deter them? I should think so. If they get six or twelve months, it should help them think straight.’

  The president raises his hand, a narrow, bony, long-fingered hand with thick veins. ‘You say it will. But will it really? Gentlemen, I must confess, I see this movement as highly dangerous, extremely dangerous, potentially much more dangerous than the KPD or NSDAP. It’s the worst thing that can happen: the administrative machinery grinds to a halt. I tell you, I can see the day when the countryside becomes ungovernable.’

  Consternation among the gentlemen: ‘Oh, President.’

  ‘Indeed. Our district headman left much to be desired. Compliance was sluggish. Invariably there were delays. Today, these delays have turned into full-blown passive resistance. Files remain out in the villages for weeks, if not months. Written warnings are a waste of time, fines can only be collected in the context of an overall confiscation process—’ He breaks off.

  And starts again: ‘The district already has at least two dozen headmen who fail to pass on tax demands to their community members, no, who return them to us. As unfair. Unfair, you hear! We are unable to count on their assistance during distraint procedures, see the recent example of Gramzow. And the movement is growing. Our machinery is grumbling and creaking. And that it has to be in my district . . . !’

  ‘The minister is very appreciative of your efforts,’ says Andersson.

  ‘No, no, even the minister . . . I have the sense that Berlin is not happy with developments in the province.’

  The colonel says: ‘The situation will change at a stroke, the instant people switch from passive to active resistance. Gramzow was the farmers’ first mistake. We will—should the pictures permit the guilty ones to be recognized—come down on them like a ton of bricks. That will cause the farmers to make more mistakes. Give me leave to send in my people, there will be incidents, and wherever there are incidents we can be sure of victory.’

  ‘You’re an optimist, Senkpiel,’ remarks Temborius. ‘There’s nothing so uncertain as the outcome of such a process.—We should have had someone here from the prosecution.’

  ‘Nothing so certain,’ contradicts the colonel, ‘so long as the pictures are good enough.’

  ‘The pictures won’t do it by themselves. The two revenue officials will have to give evidence. Can we rely on their cooperation?’

  Andersson grimaces. ‘You’re right. You’re right. I heard some bewildering news from my colleague Berg in Altholm this morning. Apparently there’s a rumour going around there that Kalübbe—you remember, the doughty fellow, who got his ox as far as Lohstedt—well, that Kalübbe is being demoted. And that the other man, Thiel, who was only informally employed by us, has been sacked.’

  The district president heaves his shoulders. ‘Can anyone explain that to me?’

  Andersson braces himself. ‘Well, it’s not the farmers. No question, other people must be involved. I presume . . .’—enigmatically, to the tense faces of his listeners—‘Berlin. The card has been played with great skill. My colleague Berg assures me that Kalübbe is a changed man, a broken reed, if you will. When Berg talked of promoting him, his reaction was sceptical, doubting. He simply didn’t believe it.’

  ‘Then why not promote him immediately!’ calls the district president.

  ‘Now, before the case?’ objects Andersson.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says the colonel eagerly. ‘I remember a case where His Majesty promoted a man to sergeant, who had shot some members of the public who had provoked him.’

  An uncomfortable silence ensues. This time, Andersson and Temborius exchange glances, while the colonel clears his throat several times, hard.

  ‘In any case,’ observes the revenue councillor coolly, ‘a promotion is out of the question for the moment. Even if the official won’t testify with the enthusiasm we would have liked. Much more serious, to my mind, is the fact that Thiel, the other man, has completely disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? What do you mean, “disappeared”? People don’t just disappear! Doesn’t he have an address somewhere? Parents?’

  ‘He lives in furnished rooms. His things are still there. The police have made discreet inquiries, but there’s no sign of him.’

  The colonel tries to widen the breach: ‘Perhaps it’s wrong to go looking for him. Shouldn’t we look for the man responsible for spreading the rumour? It is just a rumour, I take it?’

  ‘Rumour . . .’ says Andersson irritably. ‘Well. Of course there’s been an inquiry as to whether the two men didn’t exceed their rights in taking the oxen to Lohstedt instead of Haselhorst. At any rate, as things stand now, we will neither punish nor sack them.’

  The colonel crows: ‘As I thought! It was considered . . . You have to look for the people who leaked.’

  The telephone rings.

  Temborius turns round. ‘Chief Adviser Meier, will you answer it? I have left instructions that I am not to be disturbed. Find out who has disregarded my instructions.’

  The chief adviser goes over to the telephone. The three gentlemen stop talking. There is something in the air. They look expectantly at the adviser, who first listens, then says ‘Yes’, listens again, says ‘No’, continues to listen . . .

  The district president: ‘Please, Chief Adviser . . .’

  Across the room, the adviser holds the receiver out to the president. He looks suddenly pale, there are drops of sweat on his brow. ‘I think . . .’ he whispers ‘. . . it seems to be serious . . . you should . . .’

  Protestingly, Temborius gets to his feet. He goes to the phone, muttering to himself: ‘What is it now?’ The receiver in his hand: ‘Yes, this is District President Temborius . . . yes, in person . . . who is it?’ Out of patience: ‘What is it you want?!’

  A man’s voice says: ‘The photograph seller Tredup and Commander Frerksen have just entered the building. In five minutes the regional centre of government will be blown sky-high.’

  II

  Receiver in hand, the long, thin, dry, softly spoken bureaucrat suddenly shouts at the top of his voice: ‘What? What?! If this is your idea of a joke, sir . . .’ Then, imploringly: ‘Please, tell me who you are? What’s your name at least! What?’

  He drops the receiver, stares at his colleagues. ‘What do you say now? What on earth do you say now? The government presidium will be blown up in five minutes.’

  ‘A hoaxer,’ says the colonel, walks over to the president, and simply takes the telephone from the president’s hand. ‘Miss! Miss! Get me the police barracks right away!—Who am I talking to?—First Lieutenant Wrede? Er, comrade, I want all men to report immediately to Government House. I’ll be looking for you in the driveway. We’re under attack!—Miss, quickly call all offices: vacate the building. Immediately. Your colleague in the meantime should take steps to establish who just called.—You listened in, I take it? Aha. As I thought.’

  He puts down the receiver. Smiles. ‘There, gentlemen, four minutes. But as I say: hoaxers!’

  ‘But that’s mad!’ shouts Temborius. ‘Who would dare—?’

  The door opens. Behind Commander Frerksen, pale and shifty-looking, in creased clothes, in walks Tredup. Frerksen gives a military salute: ‘At your service, District President.’

  The president winks at him. ‘From Altholm? On account of the photographs?’

  Frerksen nods.

  The president whispers: ‘This is all your mayor’s fault! Gareis is responsible! You can stick your wretched pictures! I w
ish you would just go to—’

  Andersson intervenes. ‘President, if I might . . . ? Forgive us . . .’ Turning to the entirely bewildered visitors: ‘The thing is, the building is going to be blown up in three minutes . . . We’re a little agitated on account of that . . .’

  The president again: ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. There are important papers, documents of State . . . I must urgently . . . Chief Adviser Meier, I authorize you to . . . Will you pay a reward to . . . gentlemen, the documents . . .’

  A dark pair of double doors closes noiselessly.

  The colonel says quickly: ‘All right, Chief Adviser, you’re in charge. Will you excuse me. I need to join my men.’

  And Commander Frerksen: ‘Comrade, if you’ll allow. The solution of this policing task interests me . . .’

  And Andersson: ‘If you’re in charge, then I’m de trop. Goodbye.’

  He hurries out.

  There are two men left in the huge room: Chief Adviser Meier, small, pallid, very Jewish-looking, slightly sweaty. And Tredup, scrawny, pale, untidy, unshaven.

  The adviser looks at the man standing in the doorway. ‘Aren’t you scared?’ he asks.

  ‘I want my money,’ says Tredup, unmoved. ‘Here are the pictures.’

  He pulls them out of his inside pocket, unwraps them, holds them out to the adviser, one in either hand.

  The adviser casts a fleeting look at them, sees men, smoke, a lanky, clean-shaven, chiselled-looking farmer fanning flames.

  ‘Very good. Put them down there. Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘First the money.—You’re still here too.’

  ‘Right. Wasn’t that . . . ?’ He listens to a sound outside the window, whistles, people running, voices in a crowd. ‘You know what, why don’t you come for your money tomorrow?’

  Tredup is insistent: ‘No. Now.’

  And the adviser, hurriedly: ‘I feel we’re the last people left in the building. Where do you want to get your money from?’

  ‘What about the safe?’ suggests Tredup.

  And Chief Adviser Meier: ‘Must we?’

  ‘Of course. No money, no pictures.’

  ‘Well. Let’s go.’

  He leads the way, small, bandy-legged, flat-footed, but at least he leads the way. The doors are open on all the corridors, a stack of files has toppled off a chair where it was put. There’s a powder puff lying on the floor. The open goods lift goes spectrally up and down.

  The adviser hesitates. ‘No, we’ll take the stairs. If the man left a bomb, it’s probably in the lift shaft.—Well, that’s nonsense too. If it goes off, we’re done for anyway. Come on.’

  On the ground floor, the iron door of the accounts office is open. They walk in. The adviser murmurs: ‘This is mad.’

  The great safe is gaping open. The mobile till behind the barrier opens its grating. It is littered with packets of notes.

  ‘Well, then,’ says the adviser. ‘Help yourself. But please be as quick about it as you can.’ Tredup looks inquiringly. ‘Do you want me to—?’

  Impatiently: ‘Yes, go on, man! What do you take me for, some kind of hero?’

  And Tredup: ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take it in tens.’

  Chief Adviser Meier groans: ‘Not that as well!’

  To which Tredup: ‘It doesn’t notice so much when it comes to spending it.’

  ‘True. If you ever get around to spending it.’

  Tredup counts out the money, slowly and carefully. It takes a while, but eventually he gets to a thousand.

  ‘And now let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Don’t you want a receipt from me?’

  ‘No. I want to go.’

  The presidium has been sealed off by the police. The crowd has been kept back to the far ends of the market square, a long way back.

  Two figures emerge on to the granite steps, and slowly, to the breathless silence of the crowd, make their way across the market square.

  Colonel Senkpiel steps out to meet them, with his stopwatch upraised. ‘What did I tell you, gentlemen? Twelve minutes! A childish prank!’

  Chief Adviser Meier shakes hands with the advertising manager of the Chronicle. ‘I was glad to be of assistance. If you need anything else from me, look me up.’

  He spots his boss, and heads off in his direction.

  Tredup makes his way through the crowd. Something occurs to him. He turns back, and after some negotiation with a constable, is allowed to pass through the security screen.

  There is Chief Adviser Meier, in a group of six or eight gentlemen. Tredup lays his hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Chief Adviser, but we forgot all about the photographs. Here they are.’

  And the district president, appalled: ‘Chief Adviser, I sometimes don’t understand you! I really have to do everything myself around here . . .’

  III

  A motorbike cuts down the road from Stolpe to Gramzow on a bright summer morning. Georg Henning, the milking-machine and centrifuge representative from Berlin, is aboard. He’s doing an even fifty, but his aim is to get there ahead of the telephone call that at any moment can be put through to the rural constabulary in Haselhorst, ordering the arrest of District Headman Reimers.

  He’s counting on the confusion in Stolpe, and hopes to reach Reimers in time. In such cases he has always managed to get there in time.

  The road rises, falls, rises again. A bend. And again, up—down—up. Another bend. Fields. Meadows. Pastures. A few trees. A patch of woodland. Fields. A village. More open road.

  Life is good, thinks Henning. I know what I’m doing.

  Haselhorst!

  He doesn’t know which house the rural constable lives in, but he keeps his eyes peeled for the sign with the plucked vulture. Maybe he’ll see it. Everything seems quiet in the village, hardly anyone to be seen, even the railway station looks deserted.

  If I encounter the constable on his bike outside Gramzow, I’ll just run him over, thinks Henning. Franz Reimers has to have time to pack some belongings, get some money together, burn some papers.

  Shortly afterwards: Never mind the packing.—It’s essential that I get hold of Stuff tonight.—And then the Bauernschaft. They’ll be in the editorial office till eight or nine. And then to Thiel. Well, you Stolpers, you’ll be in for a nice surprise tonight!

  The first buildings of Gramzow appear in front of him. As he rushes by, he looks at the hedges and ditches, to see if there are any traces of straw left out. Doesn’t seem to be much. Paler grass has grown back where the straw fires scorched the earth. This is where it began. You wait, you bureaucrats, I’ll show you . . .

  At last, the farm. He props his motorbike against the cowshed, runs up the steps to the main house. In the dark hallway a maid squeals with surprise. ‘Easy, Marie,’ he calls, puts his arm round her, and gives her a kiss.

  Then he knocks, and walks into the farmer’s parlour.

  It’s no longer the pre-War parlour with mahogany furniture, pillarets and shell epergne, and the mirror cabinet. This is a farmer’s room from the inflation era. Heavy, modern furniture with turbulent marbling, wide armchairs, a leather sofa, a writing desk, a bookshelf, whose central section has been made over into a gun cupboard.

  The farmer is sitting at his big desk, puffing away on a postprandial cigar. In front of him is a cup of coffee with cognac.

  ‘Hello, Georg,’ he says.

  ‘Morning, Franz. Ah, you’ve got coffee. Can I get a cup as well? And if you’ve got anything left over from lunch . . .’

  The farmer goes out and gives instructions. He brings the cup himself. ‘There. Mix it up as you like.’ And while Henning is mixing coffee and cognac: ‘The hay harvest is looking good this year.’

  ‘Ah, crap! The milking-machine business is looking lousy this year.—By the way, you’re going to be arrested in the course of today.’

  The farmer pulls on his cigar. ‘The business with the oxen?’

  ‘Yes, that.’

  ‘So the son
of a bitch on the Chronicle did take pictures?’

  ‘Yes,’ Henning affirms.

  ‘We should have offered him more money.’

  ‘I know. But he would never have sold us the pictures on the instalment plan.’

  ‘It’s always money. We’d be ten times further along if . . . bah, never mind . . .’

  The farmer paces up and down, up and down. Smokes. The maid comes in, sets lunch out on the desk, goes away. Slowly, and with enjoyment, Henning begins to eat. Once he gets up to fetch some mustard from the kitchen, the maids can be heard squealing. The farmer continues to pace.

  Finally, Henning is finished, he pours himself another cup of coffee, drinks it, lights himself a cigarette. ‘Don’t you want to pack anything, Franz?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or see about money? Or burn any papers or anything?’

  ‘They can be here any moment?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Who told you anyway, and how come they aren’t here yet?’

  ‘When I left you last night, I got the sense: he does have photographs. This morning, first thing, I called Stuff, and he hadn’t seen Tredup yet.’

  ‘You shouldn’t get involved with Stuff, you know.’

  ‘I’m always careful not to tell him anything he’s not supposed to know.—Then I think to myself: Who’s going to be in the market for those pictures anyway? The State prosecution doesn’t pay out money, they just summon witnesses. The Red Mayor Gareis isn’t free to slosh money around in the way he’d like to. The Centre-Right keep an eye on him. Which leaves only the gelding in Stolpe.

  ‘So I go to Stolpe. Sure enough, just after twelve, they show up. You know, that snooty Frerksen who bootlicked his way from ABC school all the way to commander. And Tredup in tow. Tredup just spots me as I’m ducking round a corner.’

  ‘You need to be careful you’re not arrested.’

  ‘That can wait. Tonight we’re going to pull a very big job. But tomorrow I’ll be out of here.—I wait five minutes, then I call Temborius. From a phone box at the post office. First they refused to put me through to him, but then I said his life was at risk, and so I got him.’