by Hans Fallada
Reimers eyes him coldly, but not altogether dismissively. ‘Is this a chance meeting, Mayor, or is there more to it?’
Gareis laughs. ‘You get a little suspicious, don’t you, if you’re locked up in a cage, day in day out, all by yourself? All the people outside are in cahoots against you.’
‘Would you be talking from experience there?’
‘Are you asking me if I’ve done time? I have indeed, I have indeed. An infraction of the press laws once. But they couldn’t prove anything against me, and so I ended up as Mayor of Altholm.’
‘You were lucky. They’ve got proofs in my case.’
‘But you have mitigating circumstances. It won’t be so bad. And it doesn’t seem you’re cut out to be a mayor anyway.’
‘I’m a farmer.’
‘The best thing to be,’ avers Gareis. ‘By the way, how’s the Holstein steer that won first prize at our agricultural show?’
Reimers smiles, he actually smiles. ‘We showed him at the great agricultural fair in Stettin, and he won the special prize from the Chamber of Agriculture.’
‘Well, then,’ says Gareis. ‘By the way, our running into each other really is pure chance. I’m on my way to visit someone else, though, come to think of it, he may have some connection to you. One Tredup.’
‘Tredup . . . ? The son of a bitch who passed on the photographs? You’re on your way to see him?!’
‘That’s right! I’m on my way to see him. You see, he’s under suspicion of having planted the bomb the night you were arrested.’
‘Him . . . ?! The police—’
And that’s as far as Reimers gets. One of the guards has been listening to the conversation between the mayor and the prisoner with waxing anger. Now he almost explodes: ‘It’s forbidden to talk to prisoners without special permission. Go away!’
The mayor beams. ‘Quite so. A conscientious official. Tell me, did the man over there, Katzenstein, did he show you his special permission?’
‘That’s none of my beeswax. He’s a detective.’
‘Right. And I’m that detective’s superior. So . . . ?’
The other guard, seeing his colleague standing dumbstruck, comes in: ‘That’s something else. Herr Mayor, please, that’s something else, isn’t it? A formality?’
‘Correct. A formality. So I would like to ask you and your conscientious colleague to go along to Director Greve, and report that I am here, speaking to a remand prisoner.’
The guards exchange glances, whisper something. The lad goes out. In the meantime, the mayor has returned to the prisoner. ‘What was the argument you were having about?’
In place of the prisoner, who won’t say anything, Inspector Katzenstein replies: ‘I’ve been instructed to take Herr Reimers to Stolpe, for questioning over the bomb. He refused to get in the car.’
‘Questioning me over the bomb is ridiculous. They’re trying to make sure I’m out of here when the farmers have their demonstration.’
‘That would be my feeling too,’ says Gareis sensibly. ‘They’d prefer you to be somewhere else. Do you think that’s such a bad idea?’
‘No, they’re sharp. But I’m pretty sharp too.’
‘Remember,’ the mayor begins slowly, ‘they could always force you to go. There are a lot of them, and only one of you. You could shout, but they’re used to that here. I always think it’s stupid to resist when the odds are stacked against you.’
‘But it’s wrong just to give in, you should fight back.’
Suddenly Gareis becomes animated. ‘Of course you should fight back, Herr Reimers. Fight for your farm, for the farmers, against the State if you must—that’s the struggle. But one man taking on twenty in a brawl—that’s just stupid.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ says the farmer stubbornly.
‘Of course you are,’ says Gareis mildly. ‘Of course you’re going. This prison,’ he looks up the walls, ‘houses eight hundred to a thousand inmates. On Monday, there’ll be a demonstration under these windows, with bands playing, and people giving speeches and yelling—do you think I’m stupid enough to allow all that, so that eight hundred prisoners can spend the night beside themselves, wailing and raging and yelling and wishing they could get out? Just because it tickles your vanity?’
‘I’m not vain.’
‘In that case you’re stupid. Did you really think people would come demonstrating under your windows?’
‘Are you banning the demonstration?!’
‘Let me tell you something, Reimers. People have come to me from all sorts of different quarters, calling on me to ban it. I’m allowing it, because I know you farmers. I’m allowing you to assemble in the market square, to march through the town, I’m allowing speeches in your auction hall, but—I’m not having any farmers standing under the walls of this prison, I promise you!’
‘They won’t allow you to keep them away! They’ll come whatever you say.’
‘They won’t. On Monday morning I’ll have word put out that you’re no longer here. It doesn’t greatly matter to me whether you are here then or not.’
‘That’s mean!’
‘Mean to you, maybe, but it’s a kindness to the other seven hundred and ninety-nine. Be sensible, man—fight, slap me in the face, I’m just another one of those officials you hate. I’ll hit you back, and I’ll fight you. But don’t be a fool, don’t be a numbskull.’
Gareis stands there a moment longer, as though thinking about something. Then he doffs his hat, surprisingly shakes hands with the farmer, says: ‘Good day to you, Herr Reimers,’ and goes off in the direction of a man who a few moments before had emerged with the warden and stopped a little way off to listen.
The farmer watches him go, then he turns his eyes heavenward, and then looks at the faces nearest him.
‘Well, let’s go,’ he says, and he gets into the car.
XII
Prison Director Greve and Mayor Gareis shake hands with a sort of cool intimacy.
The director says with a smile, ‘Wherever you show up, Mayor, bristles are soothed, and the rough is smoothed over. You’ve certainly done me a great favour, I would not have liked to use force on the man.’
‘How is he getting on?’
‘What to say after just a few days! All these people are a problem. Whichever way you treat them, they become martyrs. In the end, I don’t treat them.’
‘But he’s not intractable?’
‘No—not yet.’
‘What will you do with him once he’s been sentenced? Have him glue paper bags? Weave mats? Knot nets?’
The director hesitates. ‘I don’t know yet. You’ve covered most of the options.’
‘But you have some prisoners doing gardening, do you not?’
‘Yes, I do, my dear fellow, but there are rules. The only prisoners who are eligible for gardening duty are those who have already got through six months with good conduct. Gardening work is a reward.’
‘I’d be tempted to make an exception, no?’
‘Not me. Thank you for your views, though, Herr Gareis. Early on in this job you might make exceptions, but you soon get out of the habit. Not only because no one resents them so much as the other prisoners, but the wardens are also unhappy about them, they are the first to complain. Especially people from your Party, Mayor.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. There are always some zealots. But that reminds me . . .’
The gentlemen stop walking. Gareis dips his hand into his jacket pocket and fishes out a piece of paper, a letter as it transpires.
‘Some eager beaver left that on my desk, anonymously of course, and it comes from your establishment, Director.’
The director opens the letter. It’s written on the prison letter-form complete with cell number and sender. The sender is none other than remand prisoner Franz Reimers. It is a not-unimportant document, in fact it is a letter of keen interest to the director. From prison, Reimers is giving a certain Georg instructions for the demonstration due to take place on Monday. ‘Camer
as. Collections. Don’t allow yourself to be intimidated. Cold contempt. We must gain power, this government is impossible.’
‘Hmm,’ says the director. ‘An interesting letter. Still more interesting would be to know how it came to land up on your desk.’
‘It seems to be an original,’ says the mayor. ‘Which means it never reached the person for whom it was intended. It would be up to you, Director, to find out where in your establishment it disappeared.’
‘There’s no censor’s mark on it. It never got as far as the Clerical Department, therefore. Either a warden confiscated it, or another prisoner stole it. Those are the possibilities. Perhaps it would be easier to establish who left it on your desk.’
‘It came in the post. In an ordinary envelope, addressed personally to me. This morning.’
‘And the envelope? Did you happen to bring it?’
‘No. It was typed. Nothing to be gleaned from it.’
A pause ensues.
‘Anyway, I’ll have to look into the matter. It’s yet another fine piece of skulduggery. I tell you, this place, full of people, is a veritable hell of lies, envy, betrayal, licentiousness and resentment. Here,’ he says, with a mournful smile, ‘is where we improve human nature.’
‘And you will deliver the letter to the intended recipient?’
‘Of course. Seeing as it came into my hands intact.’
‘There remains the possibility that the thief took a copy.’
‘What would he do with it? Is there much point in that? The addressee is one Georg Henning of Bandekow-Ausbau. Wholly unknown to me.’
‘Probably a farmer,’ hazards the mayor.
‘Certainly a farmer. Well, I owe you a second round of thanks.’
‘You can make it up to me very quickly, Herr Greve. I would like to speak for a few minutes to one Tredup who was brought into remand last night.’
The director pulls a face. ‘You know I am not authorized to do that, Mayor. Remand prisoners can be seen only with express permission of investigating magistrates.’
‘It’s a matter of excess of zeal on the part of one of my detectives. A mistake that can be cleared up in a sentence or two. And in human terms it’s an unfortunate case. The detainee’s wife and two young children are consumed with anxiety.’
The director: ‘Why don’t you apply to the investigating magistrate?’
‘It wasn’t in my authority to urge Reimers to get in the car. It wasn’t in my authority to give you this letter back.’
‘I know. I know. I’m very grateful to you too.’
‘That’s a word. But you are no man of fine phrases . . .’
‘No. But you have no idea of the way that stupid bomb has ruffled feathers all the way to Berlin and beyond. I’ve had to vacate all the cells around Tredup’s. He has a sentry standing underneath his window.’
‘I’d have nothing against your witnessing the conversation, Director.’
‘No. Not even then. My mind is made up. It’s not possible. No.’
‘Well, then, I’ll have to forgo the pleasure. Poor Tredup, he will spend an uncomfortable few days.—Well, it remains then for me to say goodbye, Director.’
‘Goodbye, Mayor.—As I say, I’m sorry.—Wait, I’ll walk you to the gate.’
‘I don’t want to put you to the trouble.’
‘No trouble, Mayor.’
XIII
Back in his office, the mayor sits down at his desk for a moment to think. He props his head in his hands, and doesn’t move. The whole building is deathly still, office hours are long over. He thinks and thinks.
There are things he wants, and things that get in his way. He replays the scenes to himself: the exchange with Reimers, then Greve arriving on the scene. Greve has a solid bourgeois background. He has made his own way up. If you’ve come up in the world, you can’t afford to be too sensitive to dirt.
The mayor goes to a built-in cupboard, lets water run into a basin. He lets it run for a long time. The noise does him good. It lulls his thoughts, he no longer needs to think. Then he drinks a glass of water, and after that he paces back and forth, back and forth, and thinks some more.
He never unconditionally believed the proposition that the end justifies the means, today he is close to thinking it can never be true. Whatever, he’s too old to be changed. What’s worse: he no longer wants to be.
He goes to the telephone and picks up the receiver.
And then he puts it down again and goes back to pacing, for a long, long while.
The sky outside is becoming a sheer green, and the birds have ceased their noise in the treetops.
Then he picks up the receiver and asks for a connection. ‘This is the mayor speaking.—Is Pinkus there, from the Volkszeitung?—No?—But he’s expected?—Very well. Would you let him know he can print the letter tomorrow after all. On the front page.—The letter.—Yes.—Just say “the letter”, he’ll know what I mean.—And if he could come and see me at home, tonight.—I’d like to discuss the presentation.’
The mayor puts down the receiver.
It’s grown quite dark in his office.
5
The Bolt of Lightning in the Cloud
I
It was Sunday, and now it’s Monday, even in Altholm. The sun rose at four fourteen, the sky is pale blue. It promises to be a lovely day, even in Altholm.
For Stuff, Monday is a bad day, not just this one, but every Monday. It always gets later than he thinks on Sunday, and his heart can’t really take the drinking any more. Even so, it’s only just past six in the morning when he shuffles down the Burstah, first to the station to buy the Stettin papers, from which with the help of his ‘Solingen assistant’ he puts together the sports section of the Chronicle: a cut-and-paste job.
I hope there’s not too much happening, he thinks, as he unlocks the door to the Chronicle offices, and takes one last look back down the Burstah. The street is almost deserted, it looks so pitiful in the fresh light of morning. The posters on the shops look old and bled of colour. As if we’d all forgotten to die, thinks Stuff.
Police Sergeant Maak comes by from the station guardroom, where he’s probably been on night duty. Stuff gives him a wave. Maybe he’ll be good for one or two overnight stories, a juicy local column.
But Maak has nothing to report. Everything peaceful. Maybe the town hall guard-post?
‘I’ll be along there at ten o’clock. Bloody headache! What’ll happen today with the farmers?’
‘Nothing much. Maybe there won’t even be a demonstration. They took Reimers to Stolpe on Friday.’
‘Are you sure? What’s your source? Who moved him? Your pig of a superior?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure. Katzenstein took him there in person in his own car. And the mayor visited the prison on Friday, I happen to know.’
‘A good start to the week. Just when you think at last there’s a bit of life in the old place, the mayors get out and chase the ne’er-do-wells somewhere else. Well, it’ll be enough for a local item.’
‘Yes, but I never told you anything.’
‘No, of course not. I know. Morning.’
Maak dawdles off down the street. The traffic posts are not yet manned, the only vehicles on the road are a couple of milk carts. He is feeling wonderfully tired, and is looking forward firstly to his bed, and secondly to his morning coffee with fresh rolls and honey beforehand, and thirdly to catching the children before they go to school.
Stuff gets a fright when he walks into the office and finds a white-haired, shiny red dwarf sitting there: his proprietor.
‘Good morning, Herr Schabbelt.’
‘Rubbish. What’s going on with Tredup?’
‘He’s in the slammer. He’s charged with having set off the bomb in the president’s house.’
‘Rubbish. And what’s going on with the farmers?’
‘Nothing. They secretly transferred their leader to Stolpe on Friday.’
‘Listen, they want to stop giving us the magistr
ates’ announcements. They wrote to say it wasn’t worth their while, and they had to economize.’
‘Who signed it?’
‘Gareis.’
‘Is that certain?’
‘We might be able to appeal the decision. Go round and see him this morning, and tell him we’ll be good. Maybe he’ll let us keep the announcements.’
‘Couldn’t Wenk do that?’
‘No, he bloody couldn’t. That’s not a man, that’s a pissed hat-stand.’
‘I’m not keen to go, Herr Schabbelt.’
‘I don’t like having to sell this shit either, and I’ve still got to do it.’
‘What shit, excuse me?’
‘Well, this shit here!’ The gnome smites the desk with fury. ‘All this shit, editorial, print, the works!’
‘Herr Schabbelt!’
‘I know. I know. There are bonds, and the bastards cancelled my loans, it’s a conspiracy.’
‘Who’s the buyer?’
‘It could be Meier from Berlin or Schulze from Stettin or Müller from Pforzheim.’
‘A front?’
‘Of course it’s a front, on behalf of that intriguing shit Gebhardt, who owns the News, and reeks of money.’
‘Oh, Herr Schabbelt!’
‘I know, Stuff. It hurts being gobbled up by the competition, I know. You’ll have to crawl to them while you still can, so they keep you on. That’s why I thought I’d let you know. Morning.’
‘Christ, what a week . . .’ says Stuff, and stares into space.
The sergeant is in for a surprise as well, when he turns up at the station to clock off.
Superintendent Kallene is there to greet him. ‘You can’t go home today. State of readiness. Get a couple of hours’ kip next door in the guardroom if you can. The new roster will be given out at nine.’
He runs into more irked colleagues in the guardroom.
‘What’s it all about? Fucking outrage.’
‘Why do you think? It’s the Commies planning to march on the Labour Exchange.’
‘It never. It’s the farmers.’
‘It’s not the farmers, that’s for sure. Gareis sent Reimers off to Stolpe in person.’
‘Who’s responsible for this crap?’
‘I was going to dig potatoes in my allotment.’
