by Hans Fallada
In the corridor is a rather irresolute-looking woman, whose face seems to lighten when she sees him. The mayor, who has the whole help-seeking world in his outer office—he is also in charge of the Welfare Department—the mayor stops and asks: ‘Did you want to see me, madam?’
‘Oh, yes, Mayor. Yes, please. And then I was told I couldn’t see you. Even though you’ve had my husband arrested.’
‘Your husband? That’s bad. Who is your husband?’
‘Tredup, Your Worship, Tredup from the Chronicle, who came to see you over the photographs once.’ Falling over herself with hurry and worry: ‘Even if he’s in trouble now, and not everything was right about the pictures, he is a good man deep down. It’s just that we’re not lucky, and that we stumble from one thing to the next. He’s hard-working and he doesn’t drink and he doesn’t gamble, and he will go anywhere to sell space, and he addresses envelopes all evening, until deep into the night. Only, not all of it seems to help, and we have two little ones, and we’re just barely treading water.’
‘But surely you must be doing a little bit better now that he’s got a thousand marks for the pictures?’
‘A thousand marks? My Max? But, Your Worship, that can’t be right, because surely I’d know about it then. We’ve had no money in the house these past days, not until Wenk, who’s the manager of the paper, gave him an advance of ten marks.’
Gareis blinks his eyes. ‘Well, maybe he hasn’t got the money yet. But he certainly will. I’ll, er, look into it.’
And Frau Tredup: ‘Are you really sure about the thousand marks? Oh, Your Worship, if that’s true! A thousand marks . . . That would mean we could buy clothes and shoes for the children, and I’m sure Max could use—’
‘It’s quite certain, Frau Tredup. But now your husband has been arrested?’
‘Yes. Oh Lord, and I forgot all about it. It’s only because I got so excited. And would you be kind enough to visit him? If you want. And if it’s not an impertinence to ask you.’
‘No, no, not at all. I’ll go and see him. Probably some time today. And don’t worry. Your husband isn’t in any trouble. You’ll get him back very soon.’
‘Oh, thank you, Your Worship! And the thousand marks?’
‘They’re yours.—Well, I’ll give him your best, shall I, your—Max?’
‘Thank you, Your Worship! And then—’
But Gareis has already slipped into Political Adviser Stein’s office, and the door is just shutting behind him.
Standing by the window is Farmer Benthin, the only farmer in Altholm, known by the name of ‘Moth-Head’, because some condition has eaten round ‘moth-holes’ in his greying-blond thatch. He is puffing on an almighty stogey.
‘Keep it there, Father Benthin, you puff away. Well, and how’s life treating you? Your wife well? Is the boy come yet?’
‘Thank’ee, Herr Mayor. All are doing well. The son and heir is still keeping us waiting. It’ll be any day now.’
‘Same with us here, I gather.’
‘With us? How do you mean, Herr Mayor?’
‘It’s come to my attention that you’re planning on holding a great demonstration here. Public commotion. Ten thousand farmers. Resistance against State authority. Unrest. Revolution.’
‘Golly, Herr Mayor, what do you take me for? I’m a peace-loving man.’
‘But what about the others? The farmers? The movement?’
‘But them’s all people like me, Herr Mayor.’
‘But what are you after? Surely you must be after something? You wouldn’t go parading on the street for nothing at all?’
‘All we want is to show our support for Franz Reimers. See here, Herr Mayor, the man’s in prison now, and it’s all for those bloody taxes. It’s difficult with taxes, Herr Mayor, believe me.’
‘Oh, I know, I know, Cousin Benthin. I think it’s time we put on a nice exhibition again, like the two of us did last year. That spreads a bit of cheer.’
‘That were a good exhibition, Herr Mayor, there’s no doubting that.’
‘Well, and, er, Monday—will that be good too?’
‘Golly, why wouldn’t it be good? We’re peaceable folk. There’ll be singing, and probably some speeches. And you see, Herr Mayor, there be some young farmers among us, and some as are bitter, some are faring awful badly. Anyway, you needn’t listen to what they say. There’s some as always have plenty to say for themselves. But that don’t mean anything will happen.’
‘Let me tell you something, Benthin, the reason I’ve asked you to come and see me. You’re an old Altholm hand, and I’m thinking you have some regard for the place, even if it’s just an old industrial town these days. Cousin Benthin, we put on a fine exhibition together, and now will you look me in the eye and tell me to my face that there won’t be any agitation on Monday, and no trouble, and no breakage.’
‘Herr Mayor, it’ll pass off quietly, if I know my farmers.’
‘And you’ll promise me, Cousin Benthin, that you’ll come and see me on Monday morning with the leaders, so that we can talk about how and when and where you’ll march?’
‘I give you my word, Herr Mayor.’
‘And you’ll promise me by all that’s holy that you’ll come to me of your own accord on Monday if you notice that there’s going to be a shindig? It would be a pity if it turned out that the farmers had caused trouble in Altholm.’
‘I give you my word, Herr Mayor.’
‘Well, then all’s well, Cousin Benthin. And give my best to your wife. And let’s hope your son and heir arrives safely and soon.’
‘Thank you for that, Herr Mayor.’
‘And you’ll promise me that I can rest easy, Cousin Benthin, and without concerns?’
‘As easy as I wish my son shall sleep in his cradle, Herr Mayor, as easy as my son.’
X
‘I want to tell you something,’ Chief Adviser Meier is saying at this precise moment, with unusual emphasis. ‘It doesn’t even occur to me to take that pig-headed decision from Gareis back to Stolpe with me. You know how it is, Colonel. My respected boss would tear my ears off.’
Meier gets up, the pince-nez drops from the bridge of his nose and, hanging on its ribbon, bangs against his waistcoat once or twice. ‘My ears? I’d be finished, done for, if I go back to Stolpe with that decision. And I mean to tell your mayor in words of one syllable, Commander Frerksen: the demonstration must be banned!’
He stood there, his feisty face trembling, the hair hanging down into his brow.
‘I too am of the view—’ began the colonel.
But Meier was in the grip of some exceptional surge of energy, he saw his career under threat, he shouted: ‘This isn’t about views or opinions, this is about reasons of State. The demonstration must be stopped!’
‘Inasmuch as I know my boss—’ Frerksen begins with careful intensity.
‘I know my boss too!’ shouts the adviser. ‘Do you think he can just cast aside the bomb episode? You brought that on us! You, Herr Frerksen, and your wonderful Comrade Gareis. Does he take himself for Mussolini, or what? “I have no doubts.” Terrific, just as my boss—’
He breaks off, and stares into space, to begin again with renewed violence: ‘You’re responsible for sending us this picture man, this whole debacle began with the picture man. Without the pictures, there’d be no bomb. Temborius will never forgive! And he has connections in the ministry!’
The militia colonel clears his throat in deprecation.
The adviser, more quietly and sibilantly: ‘We are among ourselves. Herr Frerksen, even if you wear the uniform, you are a civilian person. In confidence: The district president told me before I left: “I demand an exceptionally ruthless treatment of those layabouts of farmers.”’
The colonel clears his throat again, louder.
And the adviser, even more urgently and sibilantly: ‘We are among ourselves, Colonel. Do you want blood to flow? The farmers are insolent . . .’—then slickly—‘they thumb their noses at
the State! Stopping the demonstration will avoid worse excesses. Two platoons of militia, under experienced leadership, and newly arriving demonstrators are efficiently dispersed. Commander!’
Frerksen inclines his head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I have no influence, Chief Adviser.’
‘You are not without influence. I know exactly how things work around here! You are the man of his choice, of his trust. He has made you commander, against the wishes of the Right, against the Oberbürgermeister, against the magistracy, practically against his own comrades. He will listen to you.’
‘He will only listen to himself.’
‘I want you to tell him: the local force is too weak. Tell him you can’t accept the responsibility. Put the pistol to his chest, go on holiday—whatever you do, stop the demonstration. Gareis needs you to carry out his commands. Deny him your assistance, and stop this crazy, treasonous demonstration.’
‘It exceeds my power—’
‘Who, after all, is Gareis? A chance elected representative of a chance locally elected majority. There are fresh elections due in autumn. The connections of the president—’
‘Gentlemen,’ says Colonel Senkpiel, who abruptly gets to his feet. ‘This isn’t on.’
The other two stare at him.
‘Moreover, Gareis is on close personal terms with the minister.’
‘We are among our own, Colonel, you need have no worries, we are among our own. What, after all, is a mayor? Am I right, or am I right? You want to make a career, don’t you, Commander? Stop this demonstration!’
‘Gentlemen,’ the commander begins hastily and whisperingly, and looks anxiously at the door. ‘I understand your point of view, I would almost say, I share it. But your assumptions are wrong. I have neither power nor influence. If you try to convince him, Chief Adviser, I will be happy to try and back you up, as far as my job allows. That’s the most I can do.’
‘As far as your job allows!’ The adviser sounds scathing. ‘Sometimes, my dear Commander, a man has to make a choice. Sometimes he has to make a sacrifice in the interests of some greater objective.’
‘Even so! Even so! My job here. I am not well liked in the town.’
Senkpiel drums his fingers on the windowpane. ‘Are you nearly finished, gentlemen? None of this sounds very nice. Anyway, Gareis may be back at any moment.’
The adviser jumps up, runs agitatedly back and forth. ‘And you want things to stay with this decision? Not possible! Completely out of the question! There has to—’ He stops, his features brighten. ‘Come closer, gentlemen. You too, Colonel, please. I have another proposal. The demonstration takes place. We allow it. How’s that, gentlemen? Surprised? Yes, we permit the farmers’ demonstration, we are magnanimous. But . . .
‘But you, Commander Frerksen, you are in charge of the local constabulary. You oversee the demonstration. You keep an eye on things, an exceptionally sharp eye.’
Very slowly: ‘And the instant you notice anything, anything offensive, provocative, anything against the State—it can be as little as a shout, perhaps, or a song—then you step in, and you break up the demonstration.’
The adviser looks round in triumph, the colonel remarks drily: ‘With forty local constables? Congratulations on your assignment, Frerksen.’
The adviser smiles. ‘Yes. I hadn’t got around to that yet. I would think dear Herr Gareis will agree to the following little concession, seeing as I have gone so far to meet him. We keep a couple of platoons in readiness, without anyone knowing. Behind the town hall, in the Marbede School, which is handy. He’ll agree to that, wouldn’t you think, Herr Frerksen?’
‘I don’t know . . . Possibly . . . But I wonder . . . ?’
‘They’re not there to be used, you understand. Only in an extreme emergency, Commander; he will surely agree to that!’
He turns quickly to face the returning Gareis; ‘Well now, Your Worship. We’ve talked it all over once more. Herr Frerksen has made some valuable points: our doubts are not dispelled, but we will try to minimize them. It’s true you may have an outstanding line to the farmers, ever since your wonderfully successful exhibition. Well then, the demonstration can happen, it has been sanctioned.’
‘I already told one of the local farmers’ leaders as much.’
Meier looks as though he’d just bitten into something unpleasant tasting. ‘Well. Anyway. That’s fine, then. You will just have to make the one concession to us. In case of dire emergency, we lay by a couple of platoons of militia, in the town hall courtyard, in a school.’ Very quickly: ‘No, no, no one will get to hear about it, the men will be brought in overnight. It’s just so that you will have reinforcements to hand, in case they are required. I would even, if you’ll allow me, place them under your personal command.’
The colonel grunts.
The chief adviser smiles uneasily.
‘Our dear Colonel Senkpiel seems inclined to protest. But you do understand, Colonel, tricky as the case is. We’re really all of one mind, isn’t that right, Mayor?’
The mayor smiles. ‘I am long since of one mind, namely with myself. I’m not having the militia in Altholm. Everything you say about things happening “secretly” and “unbeknown to anyone” is, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Chief Adviser, so much rot. About a hundred windows face on to the town hall square, quite apart from the fact that even in Altholm people are sometimes awake at night, and might see the militia moving in.
‘No, all of that is out of the question. There won’t be any clashes.’
‘Mayor, please, the district president—’
‘The district president can’t change my decision either.’
‘We will issue you with an order!’
‘Then I’ll turn to the minister.—But, my dear Chief Adviser, what are we doing getting hot under the collar? I’ll bear the responsibility on my own. That’s all there is to it.’
‘That’s not all. It cannot and will not be settled in this way.’
‘And I tell you, it’s settled.’
‘In that case,’ cries the adviser in desperation, ‘in that case, we have no alternative but to call the militia to Grünhof and Ernsttal. Into the suburbs.’
‘I can’t prevent things from being done outside my district. But I’m not happy about it, because the militia will be seen there too.’
‘And I predict that you will use those militia, Mayor. I prophesy—’
‘No prophecies, Chief Adviser, prophets never have credit in their own country.—Another question, though, while I have you. Do you know if Tredup got his thousand marks?’
‘Yes he did,’ replies the adviser ill-humouredly.
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘I was standing there while he took it.’
‘Took the money—I like that. But it’s strange . . .’
‘Well, Mayor, my work here is finished. I won’t keep from you the fact that I’m leaving with a heavy heart. The district president will be extremely unhappy.’
‘On Tuesday you’ll know I was right.’
‘I hope so, but I can’t think so. Goodbye, Mayor.’
‘Goodbye, Chief Adviser. Always a pleasure.’
The adviser and the commander shake hands. ‘Goodbye, Herr Frerksen.’ Sotto voce: ‘We’re relying on you.’
The government deputation takes its leave.
The mayor, very sharply: ‘On what matter is Stolpe relying on you, if I might ask, Herr Frerksen?’
Frerksen is all aquiver. ‘Oh, they were just banging on at me to stay on your case about the militia.’
Gareis takes a long look at his police commander. ‘Whatever you say, Frerksen. I think the business about the militia is taken care of. No, please, don’t start. But . . .’—and very sharply—‘remember it’s my orders that count here.’
And then in a sudden transition, with seraphic smile: ‘And if you learned anything from the episode with the photographs, surely it’s about the sort of thanks you get from Stolpe. I’m only a little horse�
��—he moves his giant bulk—‘but at the moment I feel I’m making the running.’
XI
The province’s principal prison lies some way outside Altholm. With its red-brick construction, the whitish-grey of the cement cladding, interrupted only by the monotonous rows of window bars, it makes a dispiriting sight, even on the most radiant July afternoon.
This Mayor Gareis knows, having been there often enough. When a guard answers his ring and unlocks the gatehouse door, he says curtly: ‘I’ve come to see Director Greve. I can find my own way.’
The guard watches him go, heavily and unhurriedly stepping out of the gatehouse, crossing the yard into the sunshine. This is the place for him all right, the Red bastard, he thinks, and he slides the heavy bolts back.
Twenty square metres of lawn, two beds of geraniums and four rose bushes constitute a shy attempt at creating a park-like atmosphere, but it remains a prison yard, a chill agglomeration of granite, brick, cement and iron. To the left the remand prison, to the right the young offenders’ wing, straight ahead the management block, atop which, crowned by a golden cross, is the prayer room, the prison chapel.
When he sees the flashing golden cross, Gareis is unable to keep from thrusting out his lower lip, shaking his shoulders, and mouthing a silent ‘Ha!’
Loud, threatening voices, a noisy exchange of words, and his attention is drawn back from the cross to a car, a locked private vehicle, parked in front of the remand prison. Beside the car are two uniformed guards, a civilian in whom he recognizes his own Inspector Katzenstein, and a second civilian who is being loudly talked to by the other three men.
The civilian is supposed to do something, perhaps get into the car, but he stands where he is, his back pressed against the wall, his hands extended in front of him in self-defence. The guards are telling him off; patient, calmer, more in the background, is Katzenstein.
For a moment, Gareis stands there uncertainly, then he suddenly remembers who the civilian is. He crosses the yard, hurries up to the man in trouble with the law, and holds out his hand. ‘Hello, Herr Reimers. I’m pleased to see you. Are you going on an outing?’
