by Hans Fallada
‘I believe so,’ says the textile man cagily.
‘And you don’t take me for a bloody fool?’
‘Herr Stuff, please—’
‘Yes or no!’
‘No. Of course not. Herr Stuff—’
‘Did you hear what I asked you a moment ago? Do you understand . . . ? I want to know who “we” is. Not “we” formed a committee, “we” took the decision . . . That one part of “us” is the Franz Braun Textile Emporium, that’s something that “we” here have hoisted in, but you’re not a committee of one, are you . . . ?’
‘Herr Stuff, can’t we deal with each other calmly? You make things so difficult for me. And at bottom, the fact is that you weren’t invited, and the negotiations were confidential. I’m really not sure I can name names.’
‘Really not sure? And you’re foolish enough to think that in response to some titbit of yours I would revise the news section of my newspaper?’
‘Yes, in a word, I am that foolish. If you want to talk like that! You will change your news section.’
Stuff is becoming increasingly friendly. Something of concern sounds in his voice. ‘Really? Can you remember exactly which door you came in at?’
‘You will change it, because others have promised on your behalf. Yes, I may as well tell you, your colleague Herr Heinsius has assured us of your discretion.’
Silence. A long silence.
‘I see.’
Stuff gets up with a jerk and walks over to the window, turning his back on Tredup and Braun.
‘I see.’
And Braun, sweetly appeasing: ‘Ah, Herr Stuff, I am sorry . . . We know, now . . . Heinsius let us into the secret. I certainly won’t hold it against you, what you said to me just now . . . I’ll go on taking space . . .’
‘I think you’d better go, Herr Braun,’ says Tredup.
Braun hesitates. ‘I’d still like a solemn and binding declaration from you.’
‘Seeing as you’ve got it from Heinsius, why exactly do you need mine?’
Stuff turns round, red-faced. ‘Throw him out, Max! Throw the worm out. Or I’m afraid I may end up hurting him.’
And Braun, measured, hat already on head: ‘Thanks. I’ll find my own way out, Herr Stuff. I don’t know what’s so special about you. I could have spilled the beans about the reader’s letter that’s in my name . . .’
He’s talked himself out.
Stuff is gawping. Then: ‘It’s the funniest thing, how mean stunts you pull sometimes come back and bite you. Or they do me anyway.—Turn the radio on, for Christ’s sake! Berlin on record. No, forget it, I’ll make a phone call. Get out, you, I don’t need an audience when they cut off my balls.’
In dispatch, Tredup beholds Miss Heinze.
‘Hello there, Heinzelmann. Any idea where Wenk is?’
The lady declines. ‘You’d best ask him that yourself.’
Tredup performs the familiar drinking-from-a-bottle mime. ‘This?’
‘Could be.’
‘You too look somehow begloomed.’
And Miss Clara Heinze, suddenly indignant: ‘Well, why wouldn’t I? When you go around doing such horrible things!’
‘Me? Like what?’
‘With the farmers, what do you think?’
‘But, Clarabelle, what do the farmers have to do with you?’
‘You think they don’t? My beau was going to the agricultural college, and now he’s having to stay home!’
‘You poor thing! No, really, truly, you poor thing! But take comfort, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and townies are more generous with their money.’
‘Money! As if I cared!’
‘Golly, if it isn’t true love that’s touched her heart! But take comfort, a farmer would probably have got you pregnant.’
‘Don’t you worry yourself about that, I can look after myself. If I may say so, Herr Tredup, you’ve become a really horrible man since you got out of prison.’
Suddenly he’s all confused. His flippancy is shot to hell. ‘Do you think?’ he asks worriedly.
‘You were dirty-minded before. But you seemed to know that you can be in a bad way, and do lots of bad things, and remain somehow decent.’
‘And now?’ he asks.
‘You know how you are. You saw me perfectly well the other night, when you were so drunk. And you with a woman like that. Yuck, Herr Tredup, when you’ve got such a sweet, pretty wife.’
‘My dear girl—’
‘I’m not your “dear girl”. You say that to your wenches. To crooked Elli, that bitch!’
‘I know for a fact that you—’
‘Yes, I know, me too! If I’m supposed to be able to feed and clothe and house myself all on fifty marks a month, then it’s no wonder that come the twentieth of the month or so I go and see a couple of gentlemen. It’s too bad none of you has the gumption to go and tell Herr Gebhardt that that’s what he’s driving me to. And you compare me to a cow like Elli, who is a slattern who does it with everyone and checks herself into hospital every other month—’
Stuff calls: ‘Tredup, come here, will you!’
Tredup casts a sidelong glance at Miss Heinze. ‘We’ll talk more—’
‘You get lost. I’ve had enough.’
Stuff has flushed cheeks. ‘Well, Tredup, I managed to get it out of Gebhardt. It seems they really did form a committee. They want reconciliation with the peasants. I tell you, they’re in for a shock!’
‘What about us?’
‘Oh, we have to keep our traps shut. The boss told me so in no uncertain terms: until I get the all-clear I’m not allowed to carry anything at all.’
Tredup: ‘And what if a bomb explodes at Gareis’s . . . ?’
Stuff stares at him. ‘Did you just think of that as well? Yes, if, if. He can have it as far as I’m concerned.’
He mops his brow. ‘Nonsense. The bombs are finished. There are no more bomb-throwers. But something else: if we had the letter from that farmer, Kehding, now . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d give fifty marks for it.’
‘But why? You just said you’re not allowed to run anything.’
‘I’m going to spit in his beer for all that. Do you think I’d let that insect, Textil-Braun, walk all over me? What if Kehding gave it to us in the guise of an advertisement? The readers’ letters have been banned, but surely we can’t turn away advertisements?’
‘No.’
Pause.
A little louder, Tredup says ‘Yes.’
Another pause.
‘What did you say? A hundred?’
‘All right then.’
‘Give me twenty up front.’
‘All right. All right.’ Stuff pulls the note from his wallet and stares at it. Then he draws a cross on one corner of it. ‘There you are. Twenty. On account.’
Tredup grins cheekily. ‘You don’t need to sign it. You know you’ll get it back.’
Stuff ignores him. ‘When the farmers go drinking, it’s usually in the back room at Auntie Lieschen’s.’
Tredup says grumpily: ‘I wish I knew why I have to keep tidying up after you.’
‘Because you need money, my boy. Once you’re rich, the others can tidy up after you.—Watch yourself. You’re not exactly flavour of the month with the farmers.’
‘Bye-bye, Comrade.’
Stuff stares after him. I must stop doing this. It’s the last time. Definitely the last time.
He twiddles with the radio buttons.
A hand taps him on the shoulder.
‘There.’
Tredup lays farmer Kehding’s open letter on the table. And twenty marks with it. In two ten-mark notes.
‘It’s to be in the form of an advertisement. Quarter page. Thick black edge. He didn’t want to spend any more money than that.’
Stuff stares at the money and the paper. Then at Tredup, who is pale.
And who murmurs: ‘You can always claim you thought advertisements were OK.’
Stuff says
slowly: ‘How is it that the cowards are always the brave ones.—Was it very hard?’
‘I stood out in the yard for a couple of hours, you can see through the window into the bog. Waited till he was drunk enough. Then I held his head for him while he puked. The piece of paper was in his pocket.’
‘Did he recognize you?’
‘I don’t think so. Hope not.’
Stuff counts up money. ‘Eighty. Is that right? Well done, my lad. I’d like to go out on the town with you tonight. You look to me as though you could do with some guidance. But I’ll probably go straight over to Auntie Lieschen’s now and carry on drinking with the fellow. He mustn’t remember anything tomorrow.’
‘Are you taking the piece of paper with you?’
‘Type it up and give it to the setters, there’s a good fellow. Leave the place name off, there’s plenty of Kehdings in the area, and he shouldn’t have to bear too many consequences of this. In judicial terms it is a case of menaces.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘No, just menaces. It’s less bad.’
‘What do we care about him anyway. Let him go to prison!’
Stuff looks at Tredup. ‘You need to talk to your wife sometime, Max. This is all no good. And I swear to you that this is the last bit of skulduggery you’ll ever do for me.’
Tredup walks right up to Stuff. He whispers: ‘I’ll tell you something. I think dirty work is the only thing I’m good for.’
He leaves quickly, and Stuff has to type up the open letter himself.
V
Manzow has said: ‘Of course we’ll take the car. If the negotiations are successful, the town will foot the bill.’
Dr Hüppchen asks anxiously: ‘And what if they don’t?’
‘If they don’t! How can they fail! With Dr Hüppchen along for the ride.’
And Dr Hüppchen, puny, ascetic, gives an awkward but flattered giggle.
So there were six of them setting off at four o’clock to Stolpe in the large touring automobile: Manzow, Textil-Braun, Dr Lienau with Stahlhelm badge and duelling scars, Rag-Meisel, Dr Hüppchen and, finally, their driver and car-rental man, Toleis.
‘I took Toleis,’ Manzow explained, ‘even if he does charge five pfennigs a mile extra. If the farmers try to beat us up, at least we’ll have one experienced thug with us.’
Toleis has done time for assault and GBH—oh, six or eight times.
And Dr Hüppchen looked at Toleis admiringly and twittered out in his little birdlike voice: ‘You will show me your biceps later, as you promised?’
To which Toleis gruffed back: ‘You’re a pervy bastard, with all due respect, Doctor.’
The assembled company roared with laughter, Dr Hüppchen hiccupped, and the mood was excellent.
Dr Lienau sang barmaid rhymes into the fresh breeze, Manzow was talking smut with Textil-Braun, whom he rarely saw, and who knew jokes. Dr Hüppchen gazed at Toleis’s bull neck, and Rag-Meisel heard it all and made mental notes for subsequent retellings.
On the way, they stopped for a swift half, which turned into a few slow pints, with Dr Hüppchen sitting some way away with his lemonade, with which he washed down a banana he pulled from his pocket. Dr Hüppchen was teetotal and a raw-food man.
Whoever was told about this invariably said: ‘And it shows.’
Just before six, they pulled into Stolpe and parked in the market square.
It hadn’t been easy to get in touch with the farmers. Manzow had tried in vain. In the end it was Lienau with his Stahlhelm connections, some Nazis had been involved as well, and instructions had come down—no one knew who from, or through whom—to come by car and wait in Stolpe Market.
They came and waited. It was taking its time.
‘Shall we wet our whistles?’ asked Manzow.
‘No, better not. I’m sure the farmers will supply refreshments.’
‘I hope you’re right!’
‘We’ll end up meeting in some bar or other, I expect.’
And Manzow, alarmed: ‘You mean it might be dry? Anything but that. I can’t be doing with teetotal—forgive me, Doctor.’
‘That’s quite all right. I thrive on lemonade.’
‘You don’t exactly look thriving.’
A man or youth—he’s a bit far away to tell—comes swinging across the market, with dirty top-boots, dirty grey jerkin, freckles and a short yellow fringe of hair.
He’s coming straight for their car.
‘Surely it’s not him?’
‘No, it’ll be Padberg at least.’
The man stands next to the car, surveys its load, and says: ‘You’ll have to clear a space for me beside the driver, so I can give directions.’
‘Are you the one, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you come to get us?’
‘I’m to show you the way.’
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, let’s go, then. Meisel can sit at the back between us two fatties.’
‘You sure you’re the right man?’
The fringed simpleton has had enough and isn’t answering that question any more.
‘Is it a long way? You could at least tell us if it’s far, so we know if we need to fill up.’
The man glances at the fuel gauge and says: ‘That’ll do.’
The reshuffle is complete, the guide sits down beside the driver, has him turn round, and they drive the way they came.
A few protests are mooted, but somehow the atmosphere has gone a little flat. That peasant at the front, that dirty pig, has rained on their parade.
Halfway between Stolpe and Altholm, there’s a left turn along a field track.
‘Thank God,’ says Manzow. ‘I thought they were taking us back to Altholm.’
Field track, then sand path. Then a logging rut uphill, then a left, then right at a fork.
‘That’s the way to the forest lodge.’
‘It’s never. The forest lodge is miles left of here.’
‘Toleis, do you know where we are?’
Toleis merely lets out a grunt.
Manzow begs—his voice now sounds completely different—‘Won’t you tell us where we’re going, sir?’
The grey jerkin doesn’t answer.
They emerge from the woods. A huge potato field, blue-green, as far as the eye can see, going up a slope.
The car slowly crunches over the sand.
Toleis turns round: ‘There’s a surcharge for roads like this!’
Manzow sighs. ‘For God’s sake, Toleis. Just take us somewhere we can get a drink.’
And Toleis: ‘All I know is that we’re somewhere between the Oder and the Vistula. But where . . .’
Another wood. A clearing. The blond fringe makes a sign to stop. Everyone sighs with relief. The blond gets out, stretches his legs, lights up a rollie.
The gentlemen stand a little awkwardly beside the car and look around. A recently made clearing, darkening forest all round, sinking sun. They’ve given up asking their guide questions, and talk among themselves. ‘The farmers had better be coming.’
‘Bastards they are to send us on this wild goose chase.’
‘Ssh! There’s something rustling.’
All look at the dark woods, but nothing emerges.
‘Probably some animal.’
Toleis finally asks the farmer: ‘Should I turn the engine off?’
‘Yeah, go ahead.’
So it’s here. They are relieved to be at their goal, however unpromising.
But the minutes tick by, ten, twenty, half an hour.
The gentlemen are by turns tense, bored, impatient, worried, done in.
Now Lienau tries his luck with the country boy.
‘It’s after eight. What’s going on? Is this a wild goose chase, or what?’
‘No,’ says the farmer.
‘What’s going on, can you tell me? Why aren’t they coming?’
‘It’s still too early. It needs to be
dark.’
‘Then why were we told to be here at six? Why are we being kept waiting?’
‘We’ve been kept waiting since the 26th of July.’
‘That, if I may say so . . .’ Dr Lienau bursts out. ‘That’s a typical farmers’ impertinence. That’s bottomless disrespect. We are the leading citizens of Altholm, do you understand? We’re not your navvies, all right? We—’
It’s deepening dusk, and they all see the farmer get up with a jerk and head off in the direction of the dark forest.
In confusion they call out: ‘What’s going on?’—‘What are you doing?’—‘Please don’t . . . !’
Dr Hüppchen rushes after him and lays his frail fingers on the farmer’s arm. ‘Please, sir, you weren’t going to leave us all on our own, were you? The medical councillor meant no disrespect.’
‘I’ll only take youse if you quiet down.’
They have to get over the ‘youse’, because Toleis explains that he’s lost his bearings. They pile back into the car, they chunter to themselves, a sort of dulled fatigue settles over their alcoholized brains.
All jump up when Toleis suddenly switches on the headlights. The motor hums, Toleis jumps on to his seat, the farmer sits down next to him.
The drive begins all over again.
But there is a tension in them all, the nervous expectation of something unpredictable.
Once, Dr Hüppchen whispers: ‘This is so wonderfully dramatic,’ but the others don’t understand. To them it’s just a mean trick. They try to see something of the scene as it slips by in the conical light of the beams, but it’s all just trees, grain fields, potato fields, wood, the occasional unlit farmhouse squatting between grain barns.
Field and forest tracks. Never a road. Wild tracks, taken at terrific speed, Toleis pulls out all the stops. A clock strikes eleven, suddenly many more clocks. A set of chimes.
‘Say, aren’t those the chimes of Altholm?’
‘No, there’s some like that in Stolpe too. We must be right by the sea, can’t you smell it?’
The guide turns to mutter something to Toleis.
Who starts swearing: ‘God dammit no! Not that . . .’
It’s a set of six frail planks across a rapidly flowing stream.
Hüppchen gives a little scream: ‘Oh no! Please not!’
The car accelerates. Hüppchen is thrown back on to the seat with another little scream. They feel the planks give way, crack and splinter—and they’re on a meadow. A few willows by a ditch. A pasture.
