by Hans Fallada
‘I have told a lie.’
‘My father didn’t say anything about peasants being criminals.’
‘My father didn’t say anything about peasants being criminals.’
‘They don’t deserve to be shot.’
‘They don’t deserve to be shot.’
‘All that was just a lie.’
‘All that was just a lie.’
‘There.—Of course the headmaster can’t be expected to pardon you today.’
‘No, no. I’m even of the view—’
‘No. Don’t be too soft. I would like to ask to have him be punished severely in school as well. Probably I’ll send him to a different establishment. The Gymnasium is far too liberal for liars like him—’
‘Commander, please won’t you calm yourself. In the heat of the moment. And when there are so many things that can be said in such a matter. Liar . . . Liar . . . He’s only a boy. Hans, will you go and wait next door for a minute.’
‘No, he stays here. We have to go on to Mayor Gareis. I’m afraid he has a lie to confess to there. Hans, take your cap, we’re going—’
‘You can’t be serious, Commander. Look at the boy.—As I thought! Collapsed in a heap! Yes, you feel ill? Lie down there till you feel better.—Darling, will you get the boy a glass of water?—Sir, it may be better if you visit the mayor by yourself. And then send the boy’s mother round here to pick him up.
‘Now, please leave. I really don’t have any time for you right now, Commander. The boy is more important to me at the moment. Good day, Commander.’
In his muzzy, confused mind, the boy is thinking to himself: Daddy’s a liar, Mummy’s a liar, Daddy’s a liar, Mummy’s a liar.
Two days later in the Chronicle’s display case he reads that Police Commander Frerksen has been temporarily relieved of his duties for incorrectly applied police tactics.
But by then his father is already on holiday. Gone away.
XI
When Stuff wants to know something about detective work, he has to go and call on the gentlemen. They never come to him. The high-ups don’t like it. There’s always something faintly compromising about being seen walking into the Chronicle.
The one exception to this is Perduzke, the perennial deputy, who is still waiting for his promotion to come through, and who is incapable of wrecking things with the Reds for the simple reason that they’re thoroughly wrecked already.
Emil has come to see his mate again. They put their heads together over the big desk and they reminisce about the days when there was still a whole infantry regiment based in Altholm. Then they rant about the times, the awfulness of the world, for which the Reds are largely to blame, and the apprentice typesetter is kept crossing the yard, for cigars and beer, or schnapps and beer.
Today, though, Perduzke won’t cross the threshold, he pulls something white out of his pocket and opens it out.
‘I’m here on official business, Herr Stuff.’
‘Great. But you can still sit down. Or do you want to arrest me straight away?’
Perduzke grins. ‘Oh, they wish! They’ve really had it up to here with you and your mischief-making.—The endless back and forth today at the town hall.’
‘What back and forth was that?’
‘It’s as if you stirred up an ants’ nest with a stick. There are so many rumours going around. There was a letter on Gareis’s desk from the district president. And then, two hours later, Frerksen is going on holiday.’
‘Emil! Oh, sweet, lovely Emil! Frerksen’s going on holiday! Is being frogmarched off on holiday! The president gets involved. Police tactics not lawful.’ In deep earnest: ‘What did the letter say, Emil?’
‘I don’t know, I swear to God. I don’t know.’
‘Don’t be a coward, Emil. I swear, I’ll never betray you. Do you want a schnapps? Do you want a freshly tapped beer? Do you want three freshly tapped beers? Do you want seven cognacs! Name your price! What was in the letter?’
‘I said I don’t know. Also, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. How do you know there’s any connection between the letter and the holiday?’
‘Frerksen on holiday! That’s the beginning of the end! I tell you, Emil, he won’t be coming back. He’s finished. And I’ll find out every bit of what the letter said.’
‘But anyway, I’m here on official business. You published an open letter in issue 171 of the Chronicle.’
‘Yes? Did I? If you say so, Emil, then it’ll be true.’
‘The letter was signed “Kehding”.’
‘Kehding? There’s lots of Kehdings in these parts. What did the letter say?’
Perduzke grins. ‘Well, you’d better read it. Otherwise this’ll take me too long.’
Stuff reads the letter with creased brow. ‘I see. But I’m not responsible for this being printed. This isn’t editorial matter, it’s an advertisement. You can tell that from the thick black border.’
‘Oh, so you weren’t aware of the letter?’
Stuff is happy. ‘I’ve nothing to do with advertising! I’m the editor, even a junior detective ought to understand that.’
‘And who is to do with advertising?’
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s anyone in particular. The secretary does it. Whoever happens to be around. If people bring them in early, and there’s no one else available, I think even the cleaning woman has been known to take receipt of them.’
‘No-o. Really? That I didn’t know. Is that the way they do it in the News too?’
Stuff gestures grandly. ‘In the News? That’s the way it’s done all over the world, in the biggest papers. Ads are like fly specks. They’re not something you give your attention to.’
Perduzke fixes his eyes on the ornament on the stove. ‘Then there’s probably no point in my asking if the original manuscript of the advertisment still exists?’
‘My dear Emil, I’m afraid that’s completely hopeless!’
‘They’re not . . . kept anywhere, the originals, the manuscripts?’
‘Kept?! Have you any idea what they look like once they’ve been set? They’re black, I tell you, from the typesetters’ paws, a Negro is snow-white by comparison.’
‘And you wouldn’t happen to remember where this Kehding, who seems to be a farmer, where he hailed from?’
‘Where he hailed from? Hm, hard to say.’ Stuff sighs. Goes over to the bookcase. ‘Here’s a copy of Niekammer’s Agricultural Estate Address Book for Pomerania. I’m sure he’s in here. You wouldn’t happen to know his first name, would you now, Emil?’
Perduzke gulps. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t, actually.’
‘But, then, you’ll know the place he comes from, Emil? With luck, the place might only have three or four Kehdings, and then it might be possible to track him down.’
‘But it was you, fellow, who were supposed to tell me the place!’
‘Ooh!’ yelps Stuff. ‘Sweetheart! Frerksen’s on leave! Frerksen’s got the chop. Frerksen is toast.’ He sings it and beats out a rhythm to it on the desk. ‘Are you finished officially, now, Emil?’
‘So you’re officially giving me the information that the original of the open letter no longer exists, and that you don’t know where that Kehding is from?’
‘Officially. What about him? Facing a charge?’
‘Yes. From the town administration. For threatening behaviour.’
‘Well, they ought to know. And you really don’t know what it said in the president’s letter? Unofficially, Emil?!’
‘Unofficially, upon my honour, I don’t!’
‘Then I’ll have to find it out some other way,’ reckons Stuff. ‘It must be possible.’
‘Do you have any idea why Manzow always gets away with murder with little girls?’ Perduzke asks.
‘Aa-ah!’ says Stuff, languidly. ‘You’ve heard about that too. But that’s an idea. Manzow is a big fellow, and a friend of the Fat Man.’
‘I never said anything, mind,’ says Perduzke.
; ‘No, no, quite the contrary,’ affirms Stuff. ‘And now we’re going for a swift half. And then I’m going to dig up the tomahawk and go on the warpath against Big Chief Manzow. How!’
‘You are a great big kid, you know that?’ observes Perduzke.
Stuff looks at him with melancholy, blinking eyes. ‘Froth, Emil, froth. I wish I was.’
XII
Bang in the middle of the town, Manzow has his really lovely garden, with fruitful trees, flowers, lawns and bushes—and sometimes he goes for walks there, even though the chances of seeing children making peepee can be no more than one in ten thousand.
Stuff spots him a long way off, without being seen. That way, he can approach with caution, because he knows from experience how the big Manzow, for all his amiability, sometimes ducks away from him. It dates from the time when the Chronicle used to be the Stahlhelm organ in town. And Manzow was a liberal even then. Stuff was going after big businessmen (he wrecked the Chronicle’s advertising income), but they took it against him that he had dropped a few hints about the child-friendly Manzow. A harmless quirk. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Such an eccentric. And the children don’t even know what it’s about.
Stuff is very near by. He quickly takes a dozen steps, leans over the garden fence, and calls: ‘Good morning, Herr Manzow. Lovely day, eh?’
‘Do you think?’ retorts Manzow. ‘Good morning to you too, by the way. You must excuse me. Breakfast is over. Got to work.’
He’s in a bit of a rush today, thinks Stuff. So it’s true. There’s some complicity.
And aloud: ‘I have a question I’d like to ask you, Herr Manzow.’
‘Oh, really? I’m afraid I haven’t got the time.’
‘I’m sure your business can get by without you for a minute or two,’ pleads Stuff. ‘And this is important to you.’
‘I’m the best judge of what’s important for me. Dealing with my customers is important.’
‘And, in the meantime, you’re being officially dealt with, Herr Manzow.’
‘Don’t bandy words with me. I’ve no interest in secrets.’ But, even so, Manzow comes closer, and now leans on the fence from the other side. ‘What do you want to know, Herr Stuff? My colleagues are all on holiday.’
‘Know? Oh, nothing. I know everything. Even about a certain letter from the district president.’ Stuff pauses, and is happy to note that he’s scored a bullseye.
Manzow gulps. He really is gulping for air. ‘It’s just what I say! It’s just what I always say! No one can keep a secret. Now, how in all the world—?’
‘Oh, I know even more than that, Herr Manzow. There’s another letter, a reader’s letter. Or more precisely a personal delivery.’
‘No, tell me how you know that the district president wrote to Gareis . . .’
‘A worker brought it in. A certain . . . Matz?’
Manzow seems to be smacking his lips. There is a bad taste.
‘Yes, Matz. A very long reader’s letter. Not a pretty one, Herr Manzow. People will wrinkle their noses when they get wind of it.’
‘It’s incredible what certain people will say. They are real blackmailers.’
‘Did he want to blackmail you? He never said so.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ growls Manzow. ‘I didn’t say so either.’
‘Oh? No? I misunderstood you, then?’
‘I don’t know any worker by the name of Matz.’
‘But what about little Lisa Matz? Between you and me, I’ve looked her up in the registry office. Turned twelve this April, Herr Manzow. Twelve years old!’
‘Some girls are early developers. And anyway, nothing happened.’
‘No, no. Of course not. Would we be standing here otherwise? Would you be standing here otherwise?’
‘Herr Stuff,’ says Manzow in a sudden fury, ‘I don’t care for your methods. I won’t be roasted over a slow fire. You’re after something. What are you after?’
‘Maybe I just want to roast you over a slow fire, Herr Manzow,’ growls Stuff.
‘I’m not your plaything!’ Manzow roars. ‘Go to hell! Do what you want!’
He storms off back to the house.
Stuff watches him go, reaches into his pocket, fishes out a cigar, bites the end off and spits it out.
The back door slams shut.
Stuff gets his lighter out and slowly lights his cigar. Stands by the fence.
A maid comes running out of the house, a maid with stout red arms. Stuff rejoices silently to see the full bosom jounce up and down in the loose blouse.
The girl is blushing and confused. ‘Herr Manzow says to say he doesn’t want you leaning on his fence. The fence is newly dug and it’ll get skewed, Herr Manzow says to say.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ says Stuff, and flutters his lashes. ‘Tell Herr Manzow from me, sweetheart, that I’m happy to stand here till the fence has fallen over.’
The maid manages a little smile, only a very little one, because she’s not really supposed to, and she goes back into the house. This time Stuff is able to watch her bottom swinging from side to side under the blue cotton. It’s an extensive bottom; in his enthusiasm for it Stuff props his other arm on the fence.
Five minutes pass. Stuff smokes.
The door opens and out comes Manzow. He walks smiling down to Stuff. ‘I’ve thought about it, I’ll give Matz a hundred marks and a job in the municipal gardens.’
‘Good,’ says Stuff, taking one arm off the fence.
‘And you.’ Manzow reaches into his pocket. ‘I’ve got a copy of the president’s letter here. Wasn’t that what you were interested in?’
‘If you hadn’t been a Liberal, Herr Manzow,’ says Stuff with sincerity, ‘I think you could have been some man.’
He takes the other arm off the fence.
‘Gareis got a letter too. It’s said to be even harsher than this. But I’ve nothing to go on.’
‘Fine. This one here will do me.’
‘I don’t want your word of honour, Herr Stuff. But see to it that you keep your lip buttoned. Otherwise I’ll find myself in a lot of trouble.’
‘I’ve never yet betrayed a source,’ says Stuff proudly. ‘At some point a man has to keep standards.’
‘That’s right,’ says Manzow. ‘I take a bath every morning myself. Good day to you.’
‘Good day,’ replies Stuff, and watches him go, at least as admiringly as he watched the cook’s arse. He is a bastard all right, but what a bastard! A hundred-per-cent-driven-snow bastard.
He pushes off in the direction of the newspaper. Today the Chronicle will show its competitors a clean pair of heels. Heinsius will burst! Oh, what the hell, he’ll just cut and paste it anyway. I’m just a coolie for the worms on the News.
XIII
The publication of the president’s letter in the Chronicle was like a bombshell.
The town was in a ferment, heads came together and flew apart. Gareis had to get his hand bandaged, he had smashed an ashtray in his fury.
It was in its way an exemplary letter, balanced and wise, distributing light and shade, giving unto each their just deserts, peasants and police.
For up in heaven Temborius thrones.
The government had been mild and gentle, in spite of its bad experiences it had allowed the peasants to protest.
The peasants had been wicked, they had packed a provocative banner with them, they had carried an open scythe through a built-up area (paragraph three of the police by-law from the year dot), had attacked the police, had held incendiary speeches, and in general had held little Father State in contempt.
The police had done right to proceed against them.
The police had not done right to proceed in such a way against them.
‘There are doubts on the tactical execution of the police action. I therefore relieve Commander Frerksen of his executive power until the publication of the inquiry report into his role.’
Amen.
Raging, whooping, grinning, sobbing.
/> And Gareis, after the first outburst of rage, closeted in his office, brooding: Where did Stuff get that from? Who gave that letter to Stuff?
He sends for Tredup, but Tredup is ignorant, and quite genuinely so. Gareis can see that he would all too willingly have said if he’d known.
Nothing, no, but he will listen out, and try to discover.
But there’s no need for Tredup to listen out, by that evening Gareis knows. Manzow didn’t give anything away, Stuff kept mum, but all the same, by evening Gareis knows who gave the copy to Stuff.
It was Manzow’s maid, the girl with the boobs, talking about what a nice fellow Stuff is. He winked and smiled at her. She was sure he would like to go out with her some time.
The man she does go out with, to whom she confides this, asks how she came to know Stuff.
Via Manzow. They had a terrific quarrel today, and she was sent to chase Stuff away from the garden fence.
Did he go?
No, the two men patched it up. Manzow went back out to see Stuff, and pretty soon they were talking again.
The man, the boyfriend, happens to be a comrade. An SPD member. When a comrade happens on some piece of information, he takes it to Pinkus, the reporter on the Volkszeitung. He pays fifty pfennigs for any item he can use.
This one he can’t use, it’s not printable, surely the comrade understands? Anyway, it might get the girl in trouble with her employer.
The comrade doesn’t seem to be too bothered.
At any rate, Pinkus flies in to Gareis with the news. Gareis is a first-rate politician, he is so well connected. Pinkus doesn’t intend to grow old as local-news reporter in Altholm.
Gareis listens, and Gareis puts two and two together.
For a moment, he wonders whether he should talk to the girl, but what he’s heard already is quite enough. When he’s alone again, he picks up the phone.
‘Herr Manzow please.—This is Mayor Gareis. I’d like to speak to Herr Manzow in person.—Hello, is that you?’
Very softly: ‘You gave Stuff the letter from the district president. Don’t deny it. I heard it from him. You will know what you’ve done. I am calling a Party emergency meeting tonight. I will move that the SPD breaks off its pact with the Liberals.—Good evening, Manzow.—No, no, it’s all right. Take care you don’t get any more charges filed against you. My wastepaper basket is out of commission.—Evening. Evening.—Ach, don’t talk rot. Bye.’
