A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  Stuff snoops sadly. Finds a clean sheet of paper, writes on it in red, in enormous letters:

  ‘BYE-EE, PAPA GEBHARDT. STUFF MOVES ON.’

  Puts it down on top of the empty desk. Takes another look at the scene, draws over the red with a blue pencil. Takes another look. He plucks a white aster and a red aster from a vase and lays them either side of the paper.

  ‘That’s better,’ murmurs Stuff to himself. ‘Nothing like a bit of class.’

  He leaves the premises with the light still burning clear and bright. Stuff potters on down to the station, downs three lagers and six schnapps, and piles on to the last train to Stolpe.

  ‘Bye-bye, Altholm,’ he says. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  III

  The Nazis always hold their gatherings at Tucher’s on the market, and that’s where Tredup bends his steps a little before eight o’clock.

  It’s the first political meeting he’s attended, hitherto Stuff has seen fit to send him only to the cinema or the market. Slowly Tredup walks through the dark streets, he wonders if it had any significance, Stuff sending him to the Nazis, or if it was just his bone-idleness.

  Anyway, tomorrow is the 1st of October, the day by which Stuff was supposed to be gone, and the day the trial begins. If nothing happens tomorrow, the charge will have to be made out and sent to the public prosecutor.

  Or will he try sending Stuff one more threatening letter?

  Trying and tormenting, these thoughts always on the same topic, till Tredup emerges from the darkness of Propstenstrasse on to the marketplace. The buzz of a large crowd, shouting, wild oratory from a hoarse, yelling male voice.—Tredup jumps up in the air and races towards the far end of the marketplace and Tucher’s.

  A dense crowd impedes his progress, the entire square is full of people, curious Altholmers. But the police are keeping the road clear, and it’s one of these policemen that Tredup makes for. ‘Officer! Tredup from the Chronicle here. Can I go through? I’m standing in for Herr Stuff.’

  He is allowed to go on another twenty steps, at the end of which he has to say his piece to the next policeman, and is allowed to go on again.

  Under the light of the arc lamps there is a vast crowd, half of Altholm seems to be here, pressed together and listening to the yelling. Tredup can see one or two red flags waving.

  A voice in the crowd calls out to him: ‘Oi, you! Tredup!’

  It’s his landlord, the greengrocer from the Stolpe Road.

  ‘Yes, what is it? I’m busy. I’m here for the paper.’

  ‘Then mind you give the police what for! It’s a disgrace! It’s a scandal!’

  ‘What’s a disgrace? What’s going on here anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do. But the Communists are being allowed to hold their incendiary speeches on the marketplace—’

  ‘I see.—Well, sir, thanks, I’ve got to be going on—’

  ‘Mind you give it to those policemen!’ booms after him.

  Bystanders, catching the conversation, hum in agreement.

  Another twenty steps, another policeman, and Tredup is getting close to Tucher’s. Here the pavement has been cleared too, it’s well lit and deserted in the light of the lamps outside the bar. In the middle of the street is a bunch of police, Tredup makes out Frerksen and some detectives in civvies. He spots Deputy Inspector Perduzke.

  At the entrance to Tucher’s are a couple of youths in Hitler uniforms, with the swastika armbands round their biceps. They look pale, with red slashes across their faces, a trickle of blood on the forehead of one of them. He wipes at it with a handkerchief.

  Right opposite, the whole marketplace under the trees is full of Communists. Secretary General Matthies is standing on an upturned market cart, haranguing the crowd.

  ‘What’s going on? What happened?’ Tredup charges up to one of the two National Socialists.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man replies dismissively.

  ‘Tredup from the Chronicle. I’m here for the press. Herr Stuff couldn’t make it tonight—’

  At the name of Stuff both the faces brighten. ‘Ah, if Herr Stuff had’ve been here, he would’ve stuck it to the police! It’s a disgrace –!’

  ‘What’s a disgrace? Everyone’s saying it’s a disgrace, but what is exactly—?’

  ‘Listen: our meeting was set for eight o’clock. At quarter to, there were just about a score of us present. Suddenly the Communists turn up, three hundred of them with fanfare. Stop outside the bar. Their leader, Matthies, says something—’

  ‘“Smash the Nazis!” is what he shouted,’ says the second National Socialist.

  ‘They all come charging down the corridor to the door of the hall. A sudden swarm of them, I tell you. Me and my mate here, we’re standing by the door, taking entry money. “Twenty-five pfennigs,” I say to the first man up. He smashes his fist up through the plate and sends all the money flying. I give him an upper cut. Next thing I know, there are about ten of them on top of me. By the time I get to my feet, the whole horde of them are all over our bar—’

  ‘Pretty much the same thing happened to me—’

  ‘And? What happened then?’

  ‘All our people in the hall were knocked about. One or two were able to run out the back and call for help. Then the police arrived. As they went in the front door, the Communists left by the back, and then they stopped under the trees, and they’re holding their meeting there now.’

  The speaker gulps: ‘So much for police protection!’ he spits out in a fury.

  ‘What about you? Are you holding your meeting inside?’ asks Tredup.

  ‘How are we supposed to hold a meeting now? You can see how the police are keeping people away! Anyway, the mayor’s banned our meeting.’

  ‘Really? Banned it?’

  ‘Get your head around that! Those scum are allowed to talk outside. Nothing happens to them. But us—’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Tredup eagerly. ‘I’m going to take this up with the mayor . . . You have to have your meeting . . .’

  Tredup scoots over to Deputy Inspector Perduzke. ‘Herr Perduzke, can you tell me where the mayor is?’

  ‘Where do you think he is? He’ll be at the town hall guardroom. Taking his ease, while we take the humiliation.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘“How do you mean”? Stuff wouldn’t be asking “how do you mean”! It’s obvious. Matthies the troublemaker, who ought to be taken in right away for theft and assault, stands there speechifying, and we are put out on patrol to make sure no one disturbs him.’

  ‘But what’s it all for? Herr Perduzke, I don’t understand it—’

  ‘I believe you. Why don’t you ask your friend Frerksen. He’s having a high old time, strutting about like a stork in lettuce.’

  Tredup dashes up to Frerksen. ‘Commander, could you explain to me . . . I’m here for the Chronicle, in lieu of Herr Stuff. I don’t understand . . .’

  Commander Frerksen politely touches two fingers to the brim of his cap. ‘Good evening, Herr Tredup. Here for the Chronicle, are you? That’s good. In that case we can hope for balanced reporting . . .

  ‘The situation is pretty straightforward. Over there—the National Socialists, and here—the Communists. The police in between, keeping them apart, avoiding clashes.’

  ‘But the Communists raided the others, so I heard?’

  ‘That’s been rumoured. It’s not quite the moment for a full investigation.’

  ‘But the Nazi meeting has been banned?’

  ‘Only for the time being. Perhaps for another fifteen minutes. The fact of the matter is: our strength is too weak, Herr Tredup. I have thirty men here with me. What am I going to do with them? The militia’s expected from Stolpe at any moment. Then we can disband the Communists and allow the Nazi meeting to go ahead.’ He looks sweetly at Tredup.

  Tredup is vanquished. ‘That seems perfectly right to me. Of course you and thirty men can’t just—’

  ‘Out of t
he question.’

  ‘And could you tell me where I might find the mayor? Perhaps he has some instructions for me?’

  ‘The mayor is in the town hall guardroom,’ Frerksen says curtly.

  ‘Don’t you think I ought to see him too?’

  ‘Oh, why ever not?’ says Frerksen coolly. ‘On your way. And, now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  And the commander resumes his march down the middle of the road, just exactly halfway between the warring parties.

  In the town hall the only light on is a single yellowish bulb in the landing.

  Tredup feels his way to the door he knows to be marked with a sign: police guardroom. no entry.

  He knocks once, but no one answers.

  He knocks a second time; again, silence.

  Cautiously he opens the door.

  Inside, it feels just as dim and dusty and deserted. But Gareis is there. Sitting on a table, his feet on one of the police daybeds, in a grey loden coat, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

  In front of him is a worker, talking away rapidly and vehemently.

  Gareis raises his head and glances at Tredup. ‘Well, well, Herr Tredup, to what do I owe the pleasure?—I’m busy.’ And already somewhere else: ‘Please understand, Comrade, what am I supposed to do? I can’t go after the Communists with just a handful of men.’

  The worker is angry. ‘The Party will hold it against you, Comrade Gareis, the feeling against you from the grass roots is growing stronger all the time. It’s not on, allowing the Soviet sympathizers to hold their meeting on the marketplace, under our protection.’

  ‘Our protection . . . Our strength is insufficient. As soon as the militia turns up, they’ll be dispersed.’

  ‘You laid into three thousand farmers with just three men. And now your strength is suddenly insufficient. No comrade will accept that.’

  ‘Everyone with an ounce of sense will understand it perfectly well. Do you want us to follow the 26th of July with a 30th of September?’

  ‘Will you at least have Matthies arrested today?’

  ‘We have to listen to a couple of KPD people. Not everything the Nazis say is driven snow.’

  ‘You always think of the others, Comrade Gareis, never of the Party.’

  ‘I think of the others and the Party,’ says Gareis.

  ‘That’s just it! That’s just it! You want to please everyone.’

  ‘I want to do things right. That’s why I need to think of both sides.’

  ‘But still the Nazi meeting stays banned?’

  ‘No. No.’ And once again, with a lot of emphasis: ‘No. As soon as the militia arrives, the meeting is permitted.’

  ‘Comrade Gareis—’

  ‘Well now, Herr Tredup, what brings you here?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you . . . I’m here on behalf of Herr Stuff . . . If you had any instructions for me?’

  ‘Herr Stuff?’ asks the worker—his name is Geier—looking angry. ‘Not the fellow on the Chronicle?’

  ‘Allow me: Herr Tredup from the Chronicle—Council Member Geier.’

  ‘And you let him listen?!’

  ‘He’s one of us. He’s in the Party. It’s a good thing that he’s heard us now.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’m just not quite sure . . . Herr Mayor, the people are saying the police should step in—’

  ‘You hear that!’ says Geier.

  ‘Step in with what?’ asks the mayor, but just then the telephone goes.

  He listens, speaks, thanks. ‘The militia will be here in two minutes. They’re just entering Altholm now. Will you excuse me . . . ?’

  All three of them leave together.

  As they step out on to the top of the town hall stairs, they can already hear the sounds of horns and cars.

  The crowd has grown even larger, it stretches as far as they can see, a seething swarm under the arc lights.

  The cars seem to be very near.

  ‘From that side?’ Gareis suddenly exclaims. ‘From that side?! Dammit, those aren’t militiamen, those are Nazis!’

  Three motorbikes surge past, each bearing two men in Nazi uniform.

  They slow down outside the town hall and, hooting incessantly, push their way through the parting crowd.

  They are followed by lorry after lorry, each full of fifty or sixty Nazis. The swastika banner waves over each truck.

  The young thugs stand there upright, proud, gazing out over the people . . .

  ‘If the militia doesn’t come right now,’ says Gareis, ‘we’re looking at a battlefield with casualties in three minutes.’

  The speaker outside Tucher’s has ended with a loud appeal. A cheer echoes it. Another voice barks out an order.

  And like a torrent the mass of Communists pour on to the empty road outside Tucher’s. The handful of police are knocked aside, swept away by the crowd. Roars and cheers—‘Long live!’—‘Down with!’—‘Heil Hitler!’—red flags, swastika flags, blare of brass.

  Gareis has gripped Tredup’s arm. He clutches on to it. ‘Militia!’ he pleads. ‘Militia, please!’

  But the fanfares organize themselves into a marching tune, and a triumphant song rings out.

  The Communists are arrayed in rows of four, red flags fluttering overhead, they begin their march . . .

  The Nazis jump down off the trucks. There too, commands ring out, there too men form up into ranks, they stand outside Tucher’s, four rows deep, facing the Communists . . .

  ‘Here come the militia!’ cries a relieved Gareis.

  They must have left their vehicles a little further away. They approach in two long files, push themselves between the Nazis and the Communists, the Communists and the onlookers, separating the foes . . .

  And now the KPD starts to march.

  The fanfares blare, the whistles shrill; towards the town hall, past the steps they march.

  They withdraw in good order, with laughing, triumphant faces. They have had their meeting.

  ‘What’s that?’ calls Tredup, pointing to a dummy in the procession, swaying between two flags.

  It’s a straw doll in a blue uniform with shiny buttons, with a cap on its round straw head, and horn-rimmed glasses on its turnip nose.

  ‘Frerksen,’ says Councillor Geier. ‘Our dear Comrade Frerksen . . .’

  There’s no doubt about it, everyone gets it, because in its raised broomstick arm, the figure proudly carries the celebrated sabre aloft.

  ‘Frerksen as a Communist scarecrow,’ says Geier. ‘Casts a wonderful light on our Party, wouldn’t you say, Comrade Gareis?’

  ‘Look!’ says Gareis.

  Six or eight militiamen suddenly appear next to the front of the march. With their rubber truncheons they wade in, towards the core of the procession, where the straw man is teetering along.

  And teeters no more. From the steps it is clearly visible: he suddenly collapses, dropped, under the feet of the marchers, who kick him aside, trip over him, knock him out of the marching line.

  Only the sabre . . .

  With its point towards the night sky, and its blade repeatedly catching the lamplight, it is passed from hand to hand in the march. Wherever the militia go in to try to take it, even think they have it in their grip . . . it suddenly appears ten steps away, winking, mocking, threatening . . .

  And now a figure pops up alongside the march, sweating, with rumpled uniform, skewed cap, crooked spectacles: none other than Commander Frerksen.

  ‘The idiot!’ scolds Gareis. ‘When he should be keeping a low profile. Dunderheaded idiot!—Frerksen, come here!’ he yells.

  But Frerksen continues to wobble after his sabre. It sparkles in front of him, disappears, shines again, a little further off . . .

  The music changes its theme. Suddenly everyone is singing, shouting, laughing and squealing. ‘Where d’you put my sabre? My sabre? My sabre? . . .’

  The procession disappears round the corner, and with it the commander.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s going to do himself a mischief to
night,’ says Tredup, with a shudder.

  IV

  The train from Altholm pulls into Stolpe a little before ten o’clock.

  Tired from so much drink, Stuff has had a little zizz. Now he’s standing rather crossly on the platform, wondering where he can find Henning. He may know Altholm like the back of his hand, but it’s all he knows, he’s been to Stolpe maybe a dozen times in the course of his life.

  Well, I suppose I’ll try the Bauernschaft first. I’m a bit of a donkey to have set out just like that.

  First, he needs a little refreshment, though, and when the waiter in the station buffet has served him his third treble, the foundation has just about been laid for a request for information.

  ‘Henning? No, no one of that name here.’

  ‘The man who works on the Bauernschaft, you know, Padberg’s paper?’

  ‘We know Padberg all right, but he’s—’

  ‘Disappeared,’ Stuff volunteers. ‘Bye-byes. That’s not new.’

  ‘Now there’s a young man filling in for him—’ the waiter recalls.

  ‘My! Yes! Wonderful!’ cries Stuff. ‘That’s the man I’m looking for. That’s Henning.’

  ‘I see, so that’s Henning? I never knew. Young fellow, blond, blue eyes? Usually goes around in a track suit?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. That’s him. And does he ever come here?’

  ‘No, he definitely does not come here.’

  ‘Where does he go, then?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. I just wait tables here. But he seems to be a one for the ladies. I only ever seem to see him in female company.’

  ‘And where do you take a lady here?’

  ‘To a café, sir, to one of the cafés.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Well, there’s the Café Koopmann, for starters.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘On the marketplace.’