A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘Let’s question the mayor tomorrow or the day after. If you get a positive reply. No, this afternoon I’ll just question a few small fry, unimportant witnesses. You can go with your mind at ease.’

  But Chief Adviser Meier did not go with his mind at ease. He sits in his second-class compartment and racks his brain how to tell his boss that Gareis has exposed the government on every point, up to but not including the secret orders.

  He really was in a quandary. Well, perhaps the orders were strong stuff. Temborius hatched them in concert with Colonel Senkpiel. So, one would have thought that was meat and drink to Gareis. I really don’t understand . . .

  ‘I’m a long way from giving up,’ Gareis declares to Political Adviser Stein. They are hurrying towards the town hall. ‘Why secret orders? Temborius will know why he called them that. He’ll never allow me to speak about them.’

  ‘I’m not so sure . . .’ says Adviser Stein.

  ‘That first instant I thought I’d had it. The judge is a decent man. The thing about clearing permission to speak was the only salvation.’

  ‘Salvation?’ says Stein doubtfully. ‘Don’t you have the feeling that this whole business with the secret orders is getting a touch mystical?’

  ‘You mean, it’s rigged? I think so. The bloody things disappear, no one knows the first thing about them, but at the right moment Streiter comes up with them. Very good, by the way, Streiter, the prosecution is looking a bit tired.’

  ‘I wasn’t that impressed. Anyone can shoot with pistols like that.’

  ‘But not everyone has pistols like that. Now it’s just a matter of whether the little angel Temborius will piss on the touch-pan or not.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘You don’t know that expression, little kidney-Stein? There’s a church somewhere that has a beautiful painting of the sacrifice of Isaac. Medieval. Isaac is tied on to a woodpile. Abraham stands there with a huge cavalry-pistol, about to pull the trigger. But up in a cloud there’s the little angel, pissing down on the touch-pan. And one of those scrolls unwinds with the legend: “O Abraham, your shot will misse, while the angel himself doth pisse.”’

  And the mayor croons to himself: ‘O Streiter, Streiter, your shot will misse, for Temborius himself doth pisse.’

  ‘I certainly envy you your peace of mind!’ says the adviser.

  Secretary Piekbusch steps out to meet them. ‘Herr Mayor, there’s just been a call from the court: you don’t need to go back for questioning today. The consultation with Stolpe is going to take a little longer. They’ll call for you when they want you.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ crows the mayor. ‘Temborius is peeing. It’s no bad thing if he lets a little grass grow over the story. Then today’s scene will be as good as forgotten.’

  He stares into space. ‘But let’s put the time to good use! Piekbusch, we’re going to look now! All three of us are going to look.’

  ‘And what are we looking for?’

  ‘The secret orders . . .’

  Piekbusch rolls his eyes. ‘Where have we still got to look, Mayor?’

  ‘All over. All over. All over. And tomorrow they’ll be on my desk.’

  Wenk is happy. The big headlines have done their job. Two hundred and ten extra copies of the Chronicle have been sold.

  It’s never happened before. The man from the station bookstore had to send over four times for additional copies.

  ‘Really, Max, you ought to go out tomorrow morning before the court sits next, to get in a few advertisements, I’m sure you’d find some takers right now.’

  But Tredup doesn’t like to be spoken to like that. ‘You’ve got to be barking. I’m to go off hunting ads, when I’m the editor?’

  ‘Well, who else is going to do it? They’re not going to come here and order them.’

  ‘Did Stuff go after ads? No, he did not. You’ll just have to take on someone else.’

  ‘You try telling the boss that! Anyway, Gebhardt never said anything to me about you being the editor.’

  ‘Because it’s self-evident, that’s why. A child knows the editor doesn’t go hunting for ads. What would people think?’

  ‘They know it’s what you’ve always done.’

  ‘Well, now they know that I write court reports. Anyway, I’m far too busy.’

  ‘It’s six o’clock now. You could easily pull in three or four ads by seven.’

  ‘It’s six o’clock now, and I’m going home. All right, Wenk. Don’t get too jealous. Gebhardt bumped me up another hundred and fifty too!’

  With that Tredup is out the door, and laughing to himself all the way home for the way he stuck it to Wenk. Even if the bit about the hundred and fifty isn’t yet true, it’s bound to be true by the 1st of November.

  He tells the story to Elise and the kids. They’re sitting round the table, and he relates the whole trial. He shows where they all sit, the judge and the jurors, the prosecutors and the defence counsel.

  ‘This is where Gareis was standing, and he kept turning more and more till he was directly facing the prosecutor. He’s some fellow, I tell you! Very calm, but a fox. “What was in the secret orders, Mayor?”—And Gareis is reduced to a stammer: “I refuse to give evidence.” He was really in trouble.’

  ‘Papa,’ calls Hans. ‘Papa. In the Volkszeitung it says the mayor is only waiting for leave from the government to give the evidence.’

  ‘That comes to the same thing, Hans. That’s what I wrote too.’

  But nevertheless, an uncomfortable feeling comes over Tredup. Right away: ‘I’ve got a ticket for you too, Elise. For tomorrow. I scrounged one off the usher.’

  ‘But I can’t go in the morning, Max.’

  ‘Well, then you’ll just have to go in the afternoon. It’s just a pity because tomorrow morning Mayor Gareis will probably be on the stand again. It’ll be a sensation.’

  Gareis already knows that he won’t be on the stand tomorrow.

  But he has been requested to keep himself available.

  And the mayor says that he is firstly always contactable at the town hall, and would also like a word with the judge tomorrow.

  The gentlemen agree on a lunchtime meeting.

  Gareis, on the face of it, has more time to look, but he’s not looking any more, and he doesn’t make Stein and Piekbusch look either.

  ‘The business with the secret orders is so much hokum,’ he says grumpily, slumped in his armchair. ‘It’s already clear that Temborius isn’t going to go any further down that road.’

  ‘What if the minister agrees, though?’

  ‘If Temborius is taking it so hard, then the minister isn’t going to say yes.’

  ‘I’m not so sure—’

  ‘Oh, Stein, stop bleating, will you? I’ve had it up to here with your bleating. The whole of Altholm does nothing but bleat! But that prick Tredup is going to catch it from me for that shameless report of his.’

  For the tenth time the mayor casts his eyes over the newspaper, where he has already been to work with red and blue crayons.

  ‘You wait, my boy,’ he says. ‘Just you wait. I was probably the only soul in Altholm you hadn’t betrayed yet. But wait, because tomorrow you’ll find out what it means to betray Gareis.’

  ‘Tredup is a prick, all right,’ says Stein calmly. ‘You should never have got involved with him.’

  ‘If I’m going to restrict my dealings to gentlemen,’ says the mayor, ‘then I couldn’t be in politics. But just because I am, it doesn’t mean I’ll let any old dog piss on my leg.’

  3

  The End of Tredup

  I

  After lunch the next day, Tredup takes his spouse by the arm, and they go along to court. They’re in plenty of time. Tredup had thought Elise would be walking much more heavily by now, but in actual fact her walk is quick and light-footed as a girl’s.

  So they go for a walk in the park. They don’t often go out together, and it’s a fine day. The October sun means well, the sk
y is a deep blue, the trees look terrific in their gaudy finery.

  They walk up and down, for a while they talk about the kids. Then Tredup makes plans for everything they’re going to do once he’s on three hundred and fifty marks. Maybe Hans will be sent to a grammar school, he has a good brain. But above all, they need to establish a reserve for bad times.

  ‘Fifty marks in the savings bank every month. Then we don’t need to be so worried the next time Gebhardt gets a bee in his bonnet. And we should treat ourselves to a radio.’

  Elise laughs. ‘All those plans, from just three hundred and fifty marks, Max! But remember you need a suit for yourself, and some new shoes.’

  Tredup is umm-ing and er-ing. It hurts him in his heart. Now that things are going well, he has to be good.

  ‘Elise,’ he manages to blurt. ‘Elise!’

  ‘Yes, Max?’ she says, and looks at him.

  There’s silence for a moment, and the two of them just look at each other.

  ‘Elise . . .’ he begins again, and he gets stuck again.

  But she’s understood him already. ‘I’ve always known, Max. There’s no need to say any more.’

  Suddenly he’s mad keen. ‘Elise, it’s not that I wanted to be bad. It’s just I was so frightened of the future. I thought we would just fritter away the thousand marks, and have nothing left for when things get really bad. Oh, that’s not quite it either . . . I don’t remember what I was thinking . . . I just couldn’t—’

  ‘It’s all right, Max. It’s all right. Calm yourself.’ She strokes his hand again and again. ‘You’ve told me now. It’s all right.’

  And he, keen as anything: ‘As soon as I have some time, as soon as the case is over, I’ll go and get it for you. You’re to have it all. It’s nine hundred and ninety marks. Imagine!’

  ‘We’ll put it in the bank. And then we’ll maybe see about getting a nice shop, ideally not here, but in Stargard or Gollnow or Neustettin.’

  ‘But I can’t leave here if I’m the editor.’

  ‘But maybe you’ll give that up if we have a nice business to run instead? You know, Max, I don’t think it agrees with you. Don’t be cross with me.’

  ‘What do you mean, “it doesn’t agree with me”? Oh, Elise, that was only when I was running around selling advertising. Now—’

  ‘Max, the mayor!’ she exclaims.

  Suddenly Gareis and Stein have appeared from behind some shrubbery and are making straight for them.

  Tredup barely has time to pull off his hat. But a mere two feet away, Gareis walks straight past them, talking away to Stein as though he doesn’t see them.

  ‘My God, what’s got into the mayor?’ says Elise. ‘It was almost frightening the way he seemed to look right through you, Max!’

  ‘What do you think’s the matter with him?’ says Tredup. ‘He’s hacked off about my article.’

  ‘That’ll blow over. This afternoon I’ll flatter him a bit, and then the sun will shine again.’

  But Tredup is very pale. He shivers.

  II

  Tredup has got his wife a good seat in the third row, and on the aisle, so that she can dash out if she feels sick. Then he sits down at the press desk and fiddles around with his papers. He’s showing off a bit, but there are so many people watching, it would be almost unnatural if he wasn’t.

  Gradually the usual business sets in again: the usher carries in stacks of files, two policemen bring in the defendants, the defence counsel runs in, only to run out again.

  Tredup and Elise exchange glances from time to time. He signals every new development to her with his eyes. And then they smile.

  The judge appears, as ever, without warning, along with the associates and the jurors. The defence follows. All are upstanding. Then the two prosecutors rush in, and after them the doors are closed.

  The judge says quickly, and with an expression of some displeasure: ‘Before we resume proceedings, Mayor Gareis would like to make a personal statement.’

  Tredup’s heart starts to race.

  The mayor approaches from the door, dark and massive, he stops in front of the judge’s table, but half facing the press desk.

  Tredup lowers his head. Something unstoppable is coming towards him.

  ‘I have . . .’ begins the mayor. He is holding a half-folded newspaper in his hand, which he is scowling at . . . ‘I have requested the opportunity to make a personal statement. In a local daily newspaper, let me spell that out for you, in the Pomeranian Chronicle for Altholm and Environs, a report has been printed on yesterday’s proceedings, specifically on my testimony, against which I am moved to protest.

  ‘Here are headlines the full width of the page: ‘sensational development in farmers’ trial—mayor gareis refuses to answer questions . . . !

  ‘Let me remind you that I did not refuse to answer questions. There is a difference of opinion as to what I am permitted by the government to say. Once this point has been cleared, then I will either give evidence or not, according to the instructions of the government. Refusal to answer is a flat-out lie.’

  Tredup sees the fat, white face with the angry, glinting eyes looking straight at him. To the side he catches the judge shake his lowered head.

  ‘Since there was no refusal to answer questions, there is no sensational development either. The second lie.

  ‘I would like to protest against this dishonest and unscrupulous style of reporting. Of course I have no complaints against the other gentlemen of the press. Their work is meticulous and conscientious, and I hold it in high regard.

  ‘But all the more do I seek protection against the wild scribblings of an outsider. I ask that the court afford me some protection against it.’

  Gareis looks at the judge, whose head is still lowered while he writes something. The mayor makes a bow, and leaves the court.

  ‘Ooh, that must have hurt!’ says Pinkus from the Volkszeitung. ‘Biff! Bang! Wallop! Rather you than me!’

  The court experiences some commotion. While Gareis was speaking, everyone sat glued to their chairs. Now they shuffle about.

  Tredup can distinctly feel them taking their eyes off him, now they are looking at one another, holding whispered conversations: ‘Yes, it’s the pale, thin one. He’s the one he was talking about.’

  But still Tredup doesn’t dare look up, he feels this is the end for him. First the disgrace over the photographs, then the arrest for the bombing, now this—he won’t recover from this.

  Finally he does look up, he has to. He meets his wife’s eyes, and Elise is smiling. She is smiling at him with her eyes, giving him courage, promising not to abandon him. She has, as he once said, turned up all the lights in her eyes, and the whole Christmas tree is ablaze.

  Tredup looks down. He feels wretched. He would ten times prefer it over Elise’s supportive look if Stuff said across the table: Don’t get your knickers in a twist about it. Your turn today, mine tomorrow. Just grin and bear it.

  But Stuff is writing away like there’s no tomorrow.

  III

  Right at the back of the gallery is where Herr Heinsius—the great Heinsius of the News—is seated. Heinsius is here incognito, Blöcker is manning the press desk and writing the report.

  Heinsius doesn’t want to be spotted, so he has pulled his broad-brimmed hat way down over his eyes and put up his collar. He sits there hunched between Altholm’s citizens, listening to what they say to each other, hearing the voice of the people, and forming his own opinion accordingly.

  Tredup is one of those people who just have no luck. Heinsius, who is present just twice during the twelve days of the farmers’ trial, happens to catch Gareis’s attack on the Chronicle.

  Heinsius can’t get out of the court quickly enough, this time there is no reason to wait for vox populi to make up his mind for him.

  While he hurries along the streets to the News, he keeps repeating to himself: Untruthful, unscrupulous reporting. Scribbles of an outsider.

  His fury increases,
because of course the other two clinched Tredup’s hire without consulting him. He’ll show Trautmann and Gebhardt, he’ll bring it home to them what folly they do when left to themselves. Presenting him with a fait accompli like that: Guess what, Tredup will be doing Stuff’s old job for the time being.

  And this when Heinsius has a nephew, a nice, literate young man. He always scored ‘A’s in essay-writing at school. Wild scribblings of an outsider. They’ll have to acknowledge their mistake.

  He doesn’t bother to knock, the normally obsequious Heinsius barges into his boss’s office. ‘Herr Gebhardt! Has no one called you yet? Haven’t you heard? Just as well you’re here too, Herr Trautmann! I’ve run so fast, I’m quite out of breath!’

  They both stare at him in astonishment.

  ‘What on earth is the matter, Heinsius?’ growls Trautmann.

  And the boss: ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Well, the best thing is probably to shut the Chronicle down right away. I don’t know what you paid Herr Schabbelt for it, no one tells me these sorts of things. But it’s money down the pan, Herr Gebhardt, money down the pan.’

  Gebhardt has stood up, puts the press guide down on the left, puts it down on the right. ‘Herr Heinsius, if you could bear to tell me, in consecutive sentences . . .’

  Heinsius is very surprised: ‘Didn’t Herr Tredup tell you, then . . . ? That’s what you get when you put outsiders in such posts. I don’t often find myself in agreement with Gareis, but I have to agree with him on this, when he calls Tredup an unscrupulous, sensation-hungry outsider. In a public court of law, Herr Gebhardt! With the whole of Altholm in attendance! In front of the judge and counsel! Within hearing of the entire German press corps! Mendacious, skewed scribbling!’

  Trautmann says ill-humouredly: ‘Let him chatter away, Herr Gebhardt. If we don’t listen, he’ll get to the point in about five minutes.’

  But Gebhardt, very agitated: ‘Tredup seems to have put his foot in it again. Hiring the fellow was your idea, Herr Trautmann!’

  ‘My idea! Don’t come the raw prawn with me, Herr Gebhardt! Not you! Who made the deal with Stuff? Who then wanted to be rid of Stuff at any price? You make your bed, you lie in it. Anyway, we only promised Tredup that he’d get Stuff’s job. I wouldn’t have given it to him, Herr Gebhardt, not me!’