A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  Nor is it properly speaking a farm, it’s more a sort of croft with forty or fifty acres of very poor soil. Of the little bit of corn and oats that grow, most goes to the rabbits. The farmer and his family live on potatoes.

  There are no farmhands or maids. Farmer Banz and his wife and nine children do all the work themselves. When his wife goes into Stolpermünde four or five times a year with the children, she complains that they are so small. ‘It’s the hard labour from an early age, and the fact they never get enough to eat.’

  The farmer is big and broad, his wife is big and scraggy, but the children are broad and knobbly dwarves, silent dwarves with frightening hands.

  Sometimes the farmer has a horse, and sometimes he hasn’t. Then wife and children are put before plough, harrow and potato drill. That still happens.

  The children hardly ever go to school. Where’s the child that can walk ten miles to school? But once, a year and a half ago, an enforcement official made it out to Stolpermünde-Abbau: since then there hasn’t been a horse even some of the time. Back then the farmer disappeared for a few months, the confiscation hadn’t gone smoothly, and so he was given a few months to cool down in prison.

  When he returned, he put a sign up on the wall that read: ‘In Winter 1927, this farm was criminally robbed by militia and fiscal officials in the service of the German Republic.’

  A ridiculous sign, it hung there, no one saw it, who ever would have seen it?

  The next big event was a car recently making it all the way out to the Abbau farm, at night. The wife and children slept through it, but they saw the tyre marks on the sand track the following day. Were they people who were after something, well, it was the father who dealt with them. Come to think of it, the father has been away from the farm a lot of late, at night.

  Since that time, the barn has been padlocked. If that’s the farmer’s way, no one asks why. Ask a lot of questions, you get plenty of answers.

  ‘I need straw for the cow,’ says the farmer’s wife to the farmer one morning.

  ‘Make me up some sandwiches,’ says the farmer, and leaves the kitchen.

  After a while, he comes back. ‘Where’s my sandwiches? Is that all? I need food for the whole day.’

  ‘The cow’s going to calve today,’ says the farmer’s wife.

  ‘The cow’s not going to calve today,’ says Farmer Banz.

  ‘Unlock the barn. I’ll fetch the straw myself.’

  ‘If I find Franz nosing around the barn one more time,’ says the farmer furiously, ‘I’ll smash his head open.’

  The farmer goes back outside, and hammers the scythe straight. After a while the farmer’s wife stands herself in the way of the anvil. ‘What do you think you’re doing, padlocking up the barn?’

  ‘You’re to cut clover for the sow later,’ says the farmer, and hones the edge.

  ‘You’ll carry on for so long till they carry you back to the house dead.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a loss. If there’s ten of you starving, it’s easier than eleven.’

  ‘What have you got in the barn?’ asks the wife angrily.

  ‘Nothing that will bite you.’

  ‘I’ll break the door down with the axe.’

  ‘Anyone who sets foot in that barn is dead. Then the farm and all who live on it are gone.’

  ‘I don’t want you going back to prison, Banz.’

  ‘Do you remember in the Bible, where it says “honour and obey”, wife?’

  ‘You have to obey the law as well.’

  ‘That law is not the same as God’s Law.’

  ‘What will I do by myself here when you’re dead?’

  The farmer looks up, runs his tough thumb once more along the edge. ‘A cartload of clover for the sow, no more than that. And in the feed-chest there’s a sack of wheat. Mix up her feed for one day. It’s possible I’ll not be back till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I want to know where you’re going.’

  ‘Now come with me.’

  The farmer walks on ahead, his wife follows at a distance of two paces. He walks between house and barn, along the seam of the field, between the rye and potatoes. The children are weeding the potato field.

  The farmer counts them: ‘Nine.’

  When they get to the edge of the wood: ‘Look behind and check that none have come after you.’

  ‘Nine,’ says the farmer’s wife.

  They walk on. The ground is glib with pine needles, the sound of the sea gets louder. Under an old fir, the farmer stops.

  ‘If I don’t come back, and they’ve arrested me, someone will come and tell you. Then you just live as before. You don’t allow strangers on to the farm. Whatever is in the barn will be collected by the man who brings you the news.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I don’t come back at all, then you’re to move away from here, and go and live in the city. You can sew or serve in a house, and the children can work as well. What’s lying here in the rabbit hole is not for you to spend. Not until you’re in the city. And slowly, so no one suspects anything. There’s nine hundred and ninety marks, all in tens.’

  ‘Where did you get such money from?’ asks the wife.

  ‘I found it,’ says the farmer. ‘It’s wrapped up in oilcloth. The rabbits brought it to light.’

  ‘You found it, Banz . . . ?’

  ‘It is as I say. Someone hid it here, perhaps for an emergency. It’s to stay here. It’s for an emergency. Only if you’re in dire need do you touch it.’

  ‘I don’t want money, I want you,’ says the wife.

  ‘And keep an eye on Franz. See that he doesn’t go in the barn—Franz is nosy.’

  ‘He won’t go in the barn.’

  ‘Go back right away, in case he gets ideas. I’m going to head off down the beach.’

  ‘Are you going now?’

  Farmer Banz disappears between the tree trunks, in the direction of the white dunes.

  His wife watches him go. Two minutes. She makes a move, a step. Then she turns round and walks slowly back to the Stolpermünde-Abbau farm.

  X

  Cousin Benthin has found Rohwer. He was standing by the bar at Auntie Lieschen’s, making cow’s eyes at the barmaid. He thinks all the things Benthin discussed with Gareis are nonsense.

  ‘Let me tell you, Benthin, what are we doing with the Socialist? Are we to do his job for him, or what? We’re allowed to demonstrate, it’s covered by law. And the way he deals with demonstration, that’s his job, that’s what he’s paid for.’

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ nods Cousin Benthin.

  ‘Come to him with the leaders?’ asks Rohwer. ‘I’ll tell you something else, Benthin, which of us is a leader? Is it you or me or the young fellow with the school cap from agricultural college?’

  ‘You,’ says Benthin quickly.

  ‘Nonsense. Why me? Has anyone elected me?’

  ‘No. You’re not elected.’

  ‘Or has anyone appointed me, then? Maybe Red Gareis? Or the paper pusher in Stolpe?’

  ‘Nor that neither.’

  ‘We’re no political party, Benthin, let me say, we’re no organization. And much less do we have any leaders.’

  ‘But when I shook hands with him, and promised to go and see him with the leaders? Do me the kindness, Rohwer, it’ll only be ten minutes.’

  ‘What did you promise him?’

  ‘That I’d go and see him with the leaders.’

  ‘What if there’s no leaders . . . ?’

  Benthin looks at him uneasily.

  ‘Then you can’t go and see him with the leaders, that’s surely obvious. And you haven’t broken your word neither.’

  ‘But what if he’s looking for me?’

  ‘We’ll think of something. What if he doesn’t find you? You stay here at Auntie Lieschen’s in the dark, behind the bar.—Young Farmer!’

  ‘Yes, Farmer?’

  ‘Go round the bars will you and leave word that if the police are looking for Cous
in Benthin from Altholm, they’re to say: He’s just popped next door. You got that?’

  ‘I’ll do that, Farmer,’ and with that the young farmer leaves.

  At the table by the door are a couple of men in plain half-town suits and no collars, maybe master craftsmen or something of that sort.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Perduzke asks Inspector Bering.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ he replies, ‘I’m just here for the beer.’

  ‘They’re wanting to make mugs of us.’

  ‘Leave them be. Then we’ll make monkeys of Fatty Gareis and Frerksen, when we give in our claim for expenses, and haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Perduzke. ‘A pestilence on that pig Frerksen. Auntie Lieschen, will you bring us two more pints?’

  The men go on drinking.

  The door swings open, and in stalks Commander Frerksen in full fig. His fair hair pokes out at odd angles under his cap, his face is flushed, his eyes peer out angrily behind his spectacles. His glance brushes his two detectives, and burrows into the knot of farmers, surrounded by a nimbus of pipe and cigarette smoke; he opens his mouth to speak, shuts it again. Finally he calls out: ‘Is Farmer Benthin from Altholm here by any chance?’

  A sort of silence descends, the farmers turn towards the policeman and stare at him. No one replies.

  ‘I asked,’ Frerksen repeats, ‘whether Farmer Benthin from Altholm is here?’

  More silence.

  Then a very high voice cries: ‘There’s no Benthin here.’

  And another growls slowly: ‘Cousin Benthin’s slipped up in the Banana Cellar.’

  ‘I’ve just come from there!’ Frerksen replies angrily.

  ‘Then he must be in the Red Cupboard!’

  ‘Nah, he’s at Tucher’s!’

  ‘You mean Krüger’s!’

  ‘He’s here at Auntie Lieschen’s!’

  ‘He’s with his sweetheart in the Grotto!’

  ‘His old lady’s just given birth to twins!’

  ‘Quiet!’ roars a voice. There is silence.

  Frerksen cranes his neck and looks into the tangle of people. He has turned pale. Then he turns on his heel and stalks out.

  Bering says into the buzz of renewed conversation: ‘Jesus, Perduzke, this time we’ve really done it. We shouldn’t have made our boss go through that.’

  ‘What are you saying! We’re here on a secret assignment to observe. How can we possibly get up and talk to a uniformed copper?’

  ‘Did you see how pale he went? The farmers have taken a scunner to the police.’

  At the bar, Rohwer says to the agitated Benthin: ‘That was very good, Cousin Benthin, you did that very well.’

  ‘That was mean of them,’ pouts Cousin Benthin. ‘Frerksen’s a good Altholmer too.’

  ‘That’s because you’re used to the blue soldier’s uniform. Us from the country, who are proper farmers, it makes us see red when we see the blue.’

  ‘The fellows should leave my wife out of it! My boy is mine!’

  ‘We know, Cousin Benthin. You’ve got a good wife. And now come with us to Tucher’s. We’ve got a leaders’ meeting.’

  ‘Leaders’ meeting?’

  ‘Well, that’s what they call it. They’re not proper leaders. So come along!’

  XI

  Rohwer and Benthin walk slowly and silently along, their heavy arms dangling down clumsily at their sides.

  ‘You must own a stick,’ says Rohwer.

  ‘No, actually I—’ begins Benthin.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’ve done now,’ Rohwer carries on, ‘did I take mine with me this morning or not? Then it must be hanging in a bar somewhere. But which one?’

  ‘I didn’t bring one, because—’

  ‘A farmer without a cane is like a girl without a brain. Let’s go into Zemlin the umbrella-makers, and buy us each a stick.’

  ‘We’re not permitted to carry sticks on the march.’

  ‘Really? The things you come out with. Who says we can’t?’

  ‘The administration. The police. Sticks on the march are forbidden.’

  ‘But not for farmers, surely? If a worker takes a stick, it means he wants to beat someone up. If a farmer has a stick, it’s because he needs the feeling of carrying something in his hand. Come in with me.’

  ‘I’m not buying one.’

  ‘Suit yourself. You go on ahead to Tucher’s.’

  And Rohwer walks into the shop.

  Benthin wanders up and down outside. He looks at the farmers walking past: almost all of them are carrying sticks. We’re not allowed to, he thinks. But what if everyone does it? It doesn’t feel right, walking empty-handed.

  He wants to buy one too.

  ‘Why there you are, Herr Benthin,’ says a voice behind him, and Commander Frerksen holds out his hand.

  Benthin has an almighty shock. ‘Er, yes, here I am . . . I was just . . .’

  ‘With your wife? With the baby?’

  ‘No. Not. No, I was . . .’

  ‘Now, Herr Benthin, why didn’t you go up and see the mayor in the town hall?’

  ‘Because there are no leaders.’

  ‘No leaders?’

  ‘No. None. Reimers has been locked up.’

  ‘So Reimers is your leader?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t say that, Officer. Reimers isn’t our leader either. We don’t have one.’

  ‘But you just said . . .’

  Cousin Benthin is very agitated. ‘You mustn’t try and set a trap for me, Officer. That’s not fair. Trapping don’t count.’

  ‘No one wants to trap you. I’m just asking. Who’s set the time and place?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re just all setting out when you feel like it? On impulse? A few of you now, and a few more later?’

  ‘But we have the Stahlhelm band from Stettin,’ says Benthin, offended. ‘And then we’ve got a banner, and when the banner is unfurled, that’s the signal to go.’

  ‘So you’ve got a banner too?’

  ‘A fine, proud banner. The Altholmers will stare.’

  ‘Then your flag-bearer will be your leader? Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t ask me that, Officer, I don’t know anything. You’ve brought me along to the town hall, but I’m nothing, and I have nothing to tell you about the farmers.’

  ‘Too right you don’t,’ says Farmer Rohwer, standing right next to him.

  ‘Perhaps you do, then?’ suggests Frerksen. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You can ask me that when the cock’s laid eggs. I didn’t ask you your name either.’

  ‘Weren’t you standing by the bar a moment ago, when I asked if anyone had seen Herr Benthin?’

  ‘I don’t turn my head when a copper shouts something. I look the other way, and I might walk the other way too.—Come on, Cousin Benthin, let’s be having you.’

  Farmer Rohwer walks slowly off. Frerksen forces a smile. ‘Excitable people, your new friends, Herr Benthin. They’re no friends of ours.’

  ‘They’re farmers. They don’t mean it that way. And they’re not too fond of a uniform.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything to hurt them!’

  ‘You?! All uniforms have hurt us. The whole State hurts us. Earlier, we used to have a living off the land, now . . . I’d like to know how you’d feel if someone turns up in uniform and takes the cows out of your byre.’

  ‘I’ve never yet taken anyone’s cow away.’

  ‘No, but you asked what his name was on the public street, and that’s something no decent person does.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Everybody’s so excitable today.’

  ‘You’re excitable, Officer.’

  ‘Me? Not a bit of it. I’m going on holiday tomorrow, I’m not thinking about anything except my trip.’

  ‘That’s not how you seem to me, Officer.’

  ‘But that’s how I am.—Now, Herr Benthin, we’re a couple of old Altholm ha
nds, and we don’t either of us want anything to happen to the dear old place, do we?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘Well then, Cousin Benthin, come, let’s you and me shake on doing all we can to make things pass off safely.’

  ‘I can promise you that all right. We farmers aren’t going to make any trouble.’

  ‘And if you happen to hear anything about things not passing off safely, Herr Benthin, and there are some people who do want trouble, then please come and see me. Then we’ll take care of it quietly, so that it doesn’t get any worse.’

  ‘I’ll shake on that too.—If I can find you.’

  ‘Well now,’ says Commander Frerksen, drawing a deep breath of relief, ‘now we’ve given each other our promises as citizens of Altholm, let’s aim to keep them. For the sake of the old place.’

  ‘That’s right, Officer. And now don’t you go running around in the sun, because that doesn’t agree with you. Better to sit down and drink a cool beer in the shade somewhere. My God, man, you’re running with sweat!’

  ‘All the best then, Herr Benthin!’

  ‘Goodbye, sir!’

  XII

  It’s the quiet hour after lunch in the central prison in Altholm. The iron walkways along the vast five-storey wells in the four wings of the prison are all deserted. The sergeant is sitting in his glass box writing, not raising his eyes. At this hour there is nothing to look out for in all the passages you can see from his eyrie. The prison is asleep.

  From the guardroom at Station C4 a guard comes striding softly along. He stops briefly at the rail of his walkway, looks down the well in the direction of the sergeant. Nothing stirs.

  He stands there, grimly resolved that even if the sergeant should look up, he will go into Cell 357. Auxiliary Prison Warden Gruen walks another ten steps, stops outside the door of 357. He cuts a lamentable figure, a herring with the rosy face of an infant, pale blue prominent Basedow eyes, a much-too-blond little chin beard, and his skull as bald as an egg. The sergeant bawls him out about his ratty uniform every day, with split shoes, and string for laces, only partly disguised by boot blacking.

  There he stands, auxiliary warden in the services of the Prussian Minister of Justice, recipient of one hundred and eighty-five marks a month, on which he has to feed himself, his wife and three children, temporary overlord of Station C4, comprising forty inmates. Among them is the remand prisoner Tredup, whom Gruen takes to be a bomber. He has been removed from the remand prison into the penal wing, so as to cut him off from the outside world completely.