by Hans Fallada
‘What’s going on? Reading the paper? Now?!’
Then Temborius’s eye is caught too, and he reads.
Meier stands half a step behind, waiting. Once he hears him laugh aloud, mocking, sardonic, angry. ‘Me, Jewish? I think I owe that to you, Meier.’
Then the district president smoothes out the sheet.
‘If the gentlemen would kindly return to their seats, so that the meeting can continue.’
The gentlemen oblige him. Most of them conceal the paper shamefully in their pockets, only a few have the gall to spread it out on the table in front of them.
‘Gentlemen! Respected company!
‘Our positive and conciliatory meeting has been disrupted by a harsh discord. From some unqualified side, soon to be identified and severely punished, a newspaper has been distributed, a sheet . . . well, in a word, the Bauernschaft!
‘I have seen it being held in many hands here, but to demonstrate the spirit which animates that group called the Bauernschaft, which sets its face against all State authority, to incriminate this spirit, which bears the sole responsibility for the events of the 26th of July, I propose to have this bit of mischief read aloud.—Chief Adviser, if you will!’
The adviser trembles. Shakily, he begins:
‘Open Letter.
Brave Comrade Temborius,
You have invited us to a discussion of the events in Altholm. Your endeavour is to transmute a police scandal into the tepid wash of a discussion, in the hope that peace will return after a few high waves.
This Judaical method of taking an adversary and leeching him dry, whose outstanding exponent you are, is well known to us. Your blood qualifies you particularly well to expound this system. With their rubber truncheons your servitors have decorated wealth-creating tax-payers with the blue badge of the free Republic. Instead of punishing the guilty parties, you send them on recreation holidays. Sadly enough, not to Jericho or Jerusalem.
What are you even trying to do? You have no existence for us, you and your clique! The leeched-out and trampled people decline to sit down round one table with its enemies.
You, Herr Temborius, don’t help us by negotiating but by taking yourself off, the sooner the better, and your administrative apparatus with you! The practical German people will be able to help themselves.
The Knights of the Rubber Truncheon and the Blue Bruise.
The Bauernschaft.’
Chief Adviser Meier has finished. Deathly silence.
Temborius gets to his feet again: ‘Gentlemen, we have listened to what they had to say. We have listened, with probably more than a mite of disgust. I propose we carry on with our talks. We have now reached point two of the agenda for the day: the resolution of the boycott.
‘Before the administration comes forward with its proposals, I should like to ask whether there are any suggestions from the floor?—Yes, please, Herr . . . er, Agricultural Councillor Päplow!’
‘Pardon me. I actually have no suggestions at the moment. But pursuant to the letter we have just heard, I should like to ask: Are there representatives of the farmers here among us?’
Temborius laughs a quiet, slightly irked laugh. ‘But, gentlemen, you are all of you representatives of the countryside! I see in front of me at least twenty men who could with every right describe themselves as representative of the countryside.’
But Agricultural Councillor Päplow remains obdurate. ‘Forgive me, President, those are two completely different things: farmers and countryside. The farmers in this sense are a movement. Are there representatives of the farmers here?’
He doesn’t even ask the president, he looks around the company. All the heads are looking back at him, but none nods.
Agricultural Councillor Päplow gestures with his hands. ‘Then, gentlemen, I don’t see what we’re doing here. I’m sorry, it wasn’t us that imposed the boycott, and by the same token we’re not the ones that can lift it either.’
‘But, gentlemen! Esteemed gentlemen!’ calls the district president. ‘We’re in danger of losing our way here. Of course you didn’t impose the boycott, that was the work of people I don’t want to have here. But you are prominent figures from the countryside and agriculture. You are important men. If you say: The boycott will end—then the countryside will listen to you. Then the boycott is over. That’s what we want. A resolution against the boycott from prominent figures like yourselves.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says the agricultural councillor. ‘I haven’t been authorized to adopt any such position by my chamber. I am here purely to gather information.’
‘So am I.’
‘Me too.’
‘Same with us.’
‘I,’ says a rough-hewn fellow, getting to his feet, ‘am from the Bauernschaft—’
‘Well, then!’
‘Why not say so sooner?’
‘So they are represented here.’
‘—let me talk, people! I’ve been invited as chairman of the local farmers’ union in Stolpe. That’s why I’m here. But I’m also with the Bauernschaft. I sympathize with the movement, I mean, it speaks to me.
‘I can only say that my local union doesn’t give a damn about the goings-on between the Bauernschaft and the town of Altholm. We have nothing to say on the topic. Forgive me, President, if I’m unmannerly, but it’s nothing to do with the president either. Let the Bauernschaft sort it out with the people of Altholm. If Gareis had been here . . . but as it is there’s no one present who has a dog in this fight.
‘That’s what I have to say. Thanks.’
The president stands there stiffly.
‘I should like to thank the previous speaker for apprising me of my duties. The only ones who can tell me what my duties are are my legally instituted superiors, the Ministry of the Interior, and my conscience. But I should like to ask the previous speaker a question.—Were you present in Altholm on the 26th of July?’
‘Yes. I was there.’
‘And did you take part in the meeting afterwards that was dissolved?’
‘I did indeed, Herr President.’
‘I see.—Well, what do you say to the letter that was just read out? Do you find yourself in agreement with it?’
‘What to say, Herr President? I didn’t write the letter now, did I? It’s a bit sharp, I think. Having met you, Herr President, I can say I find you quite personable . . .’
‘Thank you. I’m flattered.’
‘Well, you are. Personable. But, Herr President, couldn’t you see your way to doing what you ought to do? I don’t know what that is, but all the books and files you have here . . .’
He looks around, a little uncertainly.
(Manzow whispers to Dr Hüppchen: ‘You know, he’s no fool! He’s making a bit of a monkey of old Temborius.’
And Hüppchen, surprised: ‘Do you think? I took him for naive.’
‘No, there’s only one person who’s naive around here.’)
‘Yes, quite. I lost my thread: couldn’t you leave us farmers to ourselves? You know, we’re not murderers, we’re not robbers, we’re not rapists—can’t the government leave us be? You have your fine stone palace here—’
‘Thank you! No, really, thank you very much, sir! Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sitting down now. Thank you. Telling me my business—’
‘Well, then, I’ll be going. You coming with me?’
Three get up to go with him, friends, colleagues from his committee. By the time they go through the door, there are eight of them, a dozen.
Stricken, the president watches them go. ‘Well, I think we’d better pick up where we were . . . Was there something else, Councillor . . . ?’
‘Forgive me for interrupting once more, President. I didn’t want to be like those farmers and leave without thanking you. We all here understand and honour your good intentions. But it’s probably still too soon. We need to wait. There are still injured men lying in the hospital in Altholm. The farmer can still feel the blow that struck him. Perhaps it was rig
ht to strike him, even though your decision, Herr President, to suspend the police chief from duty, doesn’t exactly speak for that.
‘At any rate, it’s too soon, Herr President, none of us who represent farming and the country round this table is entitled to say “yes” or “no”. We can only view the chasm between town and country with deep regret. We hope that time and your efforts will one day manage to bridge it. But for now, it’s still too soon.
‘Herr President, call off these hopeless talks.’
The president says slowly: ‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid I don’t understand you. You turned up, the talks were going well, the atmosphere was encouraging. The negotiations bade fair to come to a constructive conclusion. Then this wild, ugly letter from the Bauernschaft, and suddenly everyone is panicking. What’s it all about? Who are the Bauernschaft? You’re running away from a ghost. For the sake of our province, pass the resolution—which, only half an hour ago, you would have passed easily—that the country organizations disapprove of the boycott, and all will be well.’
The agricultural councillor answers with head lowered: ‘Very well. I’ll be quite open with you. Half an hour ago, I might indeed have sided with the resolution. But when I read the Bauernschaft letter, I thought: What am I getting mixed up in? Is this any business of mine?
‘Don’t get obsessed with the ugly tone of the letter, which will have been composed by some journalist or other. Composed, yes, but thought and felt in the hearts of thousands of farmers. They’re excited, they’re offended, they’re hurt. It’s not a question of passing resolutions, but of passing time. And a very deft and careful touch.
‘Herr District President, we hope you will have this touch. I hope you have the patience to go with it.’
Agricultural Councillor Päplow, a fat, white-haired gentleman with a veined drinker’s nose, stands there a moment with lowered head. Then he walks out of the room. Three or four gentlemen follow him.
The district president smiles. It’s a feeble smile. ‘Gentlemen, as you see . . .’
He gestures. ‘I would have liked to be of assistance to you, gentlemen of Altholm. But, for the time being, I’m afraid I see no possibility.’
Very quickly: ‘The conversation is hereby at an end.’
III
Newspaper proprietor Gebhardt is received by Mayor Gareis, directly, without recourse to the outer office. He counts as an important visitor. He is an important visitor. Piekbusch is charged to intercept him in the corridor and lead him straight into the inner sanctum.
And the mayor is quite canny about it: he never allows his guest to become aware of the physical contrast between the two parties. It might after all upset or irritate the little magnate to confront someone so much bigger than himself. No, Gareis would rather risk seeming impolite, barely bobbing up out of his chair, briefly peering at the frizz-grown neck, and already both are comfortably installed.
‘I’m happy,’ Gareis says with a smile, ‘to have some news for a newspaper man. Herr Oberbürgermeister Niederdahl is on his way back now.’
‘Now?’ repeats the magnate. ‘When he left, if I am not mistaken, the talk was of a silver wedding.’
‘Silver wedding is sometimes the waiting to see where the more powerful forces are lined up.’
‘So that you can join them.’
The mayor confirms: ‘So that you can join them.’
It’s a start, an encouraging start. The two men meet in their antipathies, which is generally more important than where your sympathies are.
Gareis picks up the ball and runs with it. ‘As of now, there’s no saying which the more powerful forces are. I fear the conciliation meeting today at the president’s will fail.’
‘I’m more hopeful there myself.’
‘Well, let’s wait and see. Perhaps we won’t have long to wait.’ And he gestures at the telephone.
‘And you, Mayor, aren’t attending?’
‘No. I am here.’ And, to soften the impact: ‘I wasn’t directly invited.’
But Gebhardt is annoyed. ‘At least Frerksen is finally out of a job.’
‘Not so,’ says Gareis. ‘He is temporarily relieved of his command of the police executive, which is rather different.’
‘His leave reminds me a bit of Niederdahl’s leave.’
‘Again, not so. I just sent him away for a while to make him a little less visible.’
‘Well!’
‘That’s neither weakness nor an admission of guilt. But, my dear Herr Gebhardt, we’re doing too much talking. What is the 26th of July? What is a boycott? Nothing at all. If no one mentions it, nothing at all. It’s all talk, you see. It’s not the farmers out in the sticks talking it up, it’s you people here in town, you especially. My suggestion: Let’s have an end to all the talk about the 26th of July. I will instruct the Volkszeitung not to have anything more about it. Not another word. Now you promise me the same with the Chronicle and the News.’
‘The situation is so unpredictable.’
A pause.
The mayor starts again. ‘You are doing the business of the Oberbürgermeister, you’re opposing me. Let’s be frank. You don’t want him any more than I do. The only way you’ll get rid of him is if you make me stronger. At the moment you’re weakening me. What’s the point of all the chit-chat about the 26th of July? It’s criticism of me.’
‘Of you! My dear Herr Gareis, who is criticizing you! Frerksen, yes, but you—’
‘You’re mistaken again. Frerksen is neither here nor there. This is about me. Carry on along your present path, and one day I hear you crying: Gareis must go!’
‘Not possible.’
‘Perhaps then you’ll remember this hour.—But why do you persist? Is it only the pleasure of offering sensations to your readers? There are others, you know . . .’
‘For instance?’
The mayor slowly says: ‘One would have to talk about it. There is impeccably dramatic material. All I will say . . . no, I won’t say anything just yet. I would like to hear you say you will forbear. Everything argues for it.’
Gebhardt is evasive. ‘But, Herr Gareis, think of all the things that might happen. I can’t promise—’
‘No, you don’t want to. That’s a pity.’
The phone rings. Gareis picks up, says who he is, listens for a long time, and hangs up.
‘A second piece of news for you,’ he says, turning to Gebhardt. ‘The conciliation meeting at the president’s has broken up in chaos. The Bauernschaft has crudely insulted the president. The representatives of agriculture left the venue with loud protests.’
‘That is . . . I really hadn’t expected that. So for now all bets are off.’ Gebhardt gets quickly to his feet. ‘I must try and find out some more details. We had someone at that meeting. Maybe Stuff will get it into the next issue. The News will certainly carry it. That’s a bit of a sensation.’
He stands there, all set to go.
The mayor stands up as well. He is enormous. His bulk is unbelievable. He has no more thought of sparing his opposite number’s feelings.
‘It won’t be a sensation. Because you won’t be carrying the story. I say no.’
‘Who would stop me?’
‘I would, for example. Only me, Herr Gebhardt, the Red mayor. The pol. I want quiet, and I’m going to get it.’
Gebhardt says coolly: ‘We’d better leave things right there. Crude threats may be the fashion in your Party, but—’
‘Threats are good wherever and whenever common sense fails. Herr Gebhardt, you can’t behave like a duck, setting off after the bait when a sensation is dangled under your beak. That’s all right for Stuff. But you . . .’
‘And for me too. How can I keep such news from my readers? My duties—’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ says the mayor. ‘Will you agree to keep the peace, let’s say, until the cases come to court?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Good day.’
‘One moment. I can’t let you go yet. I’m afra
id the police want to question you. A charge has been laid against you.’
‘A charge . . . ?’
‘Exactly. A criminal charge.’
Gebhardt considers. ‘If my driver has made a rickets of something, then he’s fired.’
‘Not your driver. Sit down again.—This is a charge of deception.’
‘Ridiculous!’ But Gebhardt sits down anyway. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game here, Herr Gareis. It can cost you more than your office as mayor.’
‘True. But I know my hand.’ He pulls a thin file out of his desk.
‘About two weeks ago, the cloth merchant Hempel went to the Chronicle to see about taking a fold-in leaflet. He spoke to your managing editor, Wenk. He wanted to know the size of the readership, in order to set up his printing order, and gauge the possible effect of advertising. He was quoted a figure of seven thousand one hundred and sixty.
‘Hempel queried this number. He had heard tell of the Chronicle’s dwindling readership. Whenever he spoke to friends and customers, he heard of people who had stopped taking the Chronicle.’
‘Surprising, really, that he didn’t give up his plan.’
‘Ah, you think so too?’ The mayor smiles. ‘There are eccentrics. People who spend their money without sense.’
‘A quick question, Mayor. Herr Hempel is an ornament of the Reichsbanner?’
‘An ornament. Yes, indeed. Even though questions should be left to me.—Well, Herr Hempel doubts, presses, finally Herr Wenk takes out of the safe a notarized certificate confirming the figure seven thousand one hundred and sixty. Hempel thinks: A notary, well, then everything’s hotsy-totsy. He gives the order. The order is put through. A bill is made out. The bill is paid. Then Herr Hempel hears that the readership of the Chronicle is more of the order of three thousand nine hundred—’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘Isn’t it just? With a readership like that, who would buy space, or commission leaflets?—So he heard the readership is about three thousand nine hundred, and that the other three thousand three hundred of his leaflets have been used to heat the stove. Herr Hempel feels damaged, and wants to press charges.’
Pause.
At this point Herr Gebhardt smiles. ‘Dear Mayor, I’m surprised. Frankly, I’m very surprised. I really would no longer mind not carrying the story of the meeting breaking up in acrimony, I have a very nice new story for my front page.
