by Hans Fallada
‘Where is the issue of the Chronicle in question? May I see it, please, Herr Heinsius.’
‘If I can give you some advice,’ says Heinsius, suavely after Trautmann’s grumpiness. ‘I would send a boy to the court and have Tredup sent for. Let some of the shame drain from people’s faces.’
‘I still don’t even know what’s going on,’ growls the boss.
‘But I just told you. Gareis publicly in court protested against Tredup’s scribbling. Inaccurate, unscrupulous and untruthful.’
‘So we heard. And who writes for the Chronicle if we turn Tredup loose?’
‘They could run Blöcker’s report, couldn’t they?’
‘I suppose so. All right. Send someone.’
When Heinsius is outside, Trautmann says: ‘Why do we have to do what Heinsius wants? Gareis is forever coming down on someone or other, it really doesn’t count.’
‘It’s a good way of losing Tredup,’ says the boss, conciliatorily.
‘If you say so. But I’ll tell you this, Herr Gebhardt, if Heinsius is trying to give his nephew a leg-up, young Marquardt, that’s not a good idea. The fink is only twenty-two and lives in bars.’ In a whisper: ‘And they say he’s got syphilis too—’
Heinsius is back.
‘Now show me what Herr Gareis was complaining about. Remember, he’s not as important as all that.—All right. sensational development—refuses to answer questions. Is that everything? And what did Blöcker write? Pass me the News. mayor gareis refused to answer several questions.’ Gebhardt looks up. ‘Well, Heinsius, I mean to say, what’s the difference?’
Heinsius is a little taken aback. ‘But we didn’t give it the big wahoo! Tredup’s headline goes right across the page, with us it’s no more than the column’s width. Tredup has everything in bold, we have small caps. And anyway . . .’ his voice sounds tetchy, ‘it’s success that justifies itself. Gareis explicitly said we had fair and objective reporting, when he laid into Tredup. That sticks. Most people don’t compare newspapers when they read them.’
The boss growls: ‘Well, I’ve sent for Tredup at your insistence, what if he puts up a struggle?’
‘But, Herr Gebhardt, how can he? You just tell him what Gareis told him . . .’
‘Bah,’ says Trautmann. ‘Heinsius, I think you’ve gone and made a muck of things again. You’re as tightly strung as an old maid. You’re forever making trouble for the boss, and the only one who can straighten things out around here is me.’
Turning to the boss: ‘Leave it to me, Herr Gebhardt, I’ll take care of him—’
‘But I’d like to be the one who—’
‘No, don’t bother, Herr Gebhardt. You’re not made for this sort of thing. You’re too soft. You’re like a child. The instant someone has tears in their eyes, you’re dipping your hand in your pocket and slipping him another five marks. I’ll take care of it . . .’
‘Well, all right then . . .’
IV
A quiet knock.
Now Tredup is standing in the doorway, looking at the three gentlemen. He’s hurried, and is panting. The decision can’t come soon enough. Even though he’s frightened.
‘Well, hello, Tredup.’ Trautmann is the only one to reply to his quiet greeting, and looks at him hard. ‘You know what you’re here for. Your guilty conscience driving you on, eh?’
Pause. The boss stands at his desk, staring into space. Heinsius tries to make out the name of the artist on a picture on the wall. Only Trautmann is paying any attention to Tredup. He even manages to lay his arm avuncularly round the sinner’s shoulder.
‘Well, Tredup, your time as editorial nibs is up, I guess we all know that. Take comfort, Kaiser Friedrich only lasted ninety-nine days, and it wasn’t even his fault. You’re young, you’ve got time, I’d recommend you move somewhere else. You’ve made too much trouble for yourself here.’
Silence. Tredup stares. Tredup’s lips are trembling.
Finally he comes out with: ‘What if I were to go back to selling space . . . ? Would you consider taking me back as advertising manager . . . ? Herr Gebhardt . . . ?’
But Trautmann’s not having it. ‘You know yourself that that’s not on, Tredup. First there’s the chit-chat about the photos, and then there’s the time in chokey. All right, you were innocent, but something always sticks. People don’t like that sort of thing. And now this. I’ve always stuck up for you around here, Tredup, you know, it was me who told the boss to give you a try-out in place of Stuff. You were there yourself. So if I tell you it’s no good and you’d better piss off out of here, then I think you should piss off out of here . . .’
Tredup gulps. He moves his shoulders, a little. Then, piano, he says: ‘My pay . . .’
Here Trautmann loses his temper. ‘Your pay? Today’s the third, that makes two and a half days. You’re on two hundred a month. Say twenty-five working days, that’s eight marks a day. I make that twenty marks, all told.—What if we demand damages? Have you any idea how much you’ve hurt the Chronicle? No, Tredup, it doesn’t do to get cheeky. You should just be happy that Herr Gebhardt’s a merciful employer. Some other bosses I could name would take you to the cleaners. You’ve got money left from the sale of the photographs, apparently. What if we had your assets frozen . . . ?’
Tredup stands there a moment with face down and arms drooping. Then, perfectly quietly and unexpectedly, he says: ‘Goodbye,’ and turns and leaves.
The three gentlemen unfreeze.
The boss says quickly and emotionally: ‘Trautmann, go after him. Give him a hundred marks.’ Then after a pause: ‘Fifty marks.’
Trautmann says cosily: ‘Pish! Why throw away good money? It’s not as though we’ve got it to burn. But that’s you all over, Herr Gebhardt, as soon as someone squeezes out a tear or two, you go all soft. Tredup will make his way. Weeds are tough.’
V
As Tredup leaves through the door of the News, Elise is waiting on the street. She takes him by the arm, glances up at his face, and just says: ‘Let’s go, Max.’
They turn on to the Burstah, walking along in silence, and then they go down the Stolpe Road. They walk slowly, he’s looking ahead, she’s quiet.
Only, she’s slipped his hand under her arm, and is holding it in hers, stroking it quickly and encouragingly. They walk slowly along, it’s clear that she is expecting.
Then Elise knocks open the gate with her foot, they cross the yard, mechanically he lets go of her arm, reaches for the key in his pocket, and opens the door. He heads straight for the table, and sits down just exactly as he is, in hat and coat, and stares into space.
She says: ‘Hans is still at gym class. And Grete will be at her friend’s, their thoughts are just beginning to turn to Christmas.’
He doesn’t say anything.
She says: ‘The best thing is if we move to Stargard. My sister Anna’s there. And my parents aren’t far either. Let them do their bit to help. All those years we never came to them for anything.’
‘Those farmers!’ he says angrily. ‘Those farmers will fall over themselves to help us.’
‘Then we’ll try and find a business we can run. I’m not so much in favour of cigars, it seems to me people smoke less when money’s tight. I think some kind of food shop.’
‘With our shekels!’ he mocks.
‘All right, so we’ll start small. The wholesalers will give us a bit of credit. I’m sure we’ll make a go of it. We just need to make a start.’
‘No. No. No!’ he shouts. ‘I’m not making another start. I’ve made a hundred starts, and the only thing that’s happened is I’m deeper in. I’ve hoped so many times, and tried, and nothing’s worked. Nothing we try is going to work, Elise. There’s no sense in making the effort.’
She strokes his hair. ‘Of course you’re sad now. And it’s mean of them, of all of them, to abandon you now, when you’ve gone out of your way to be helpful.
‘But you shouldn’t exaggerate either, Max. The children are growing up, Gret
e helps me a lot, and Hans is a sensible boy as well. They’ve enjoyed a good childhood, both of them. You made it possible, Max.’
‘No, Elise, you did—’
‘Max, it was you! Think of other families where the father is on the booze or chases after women, and beats the children or terrorizes them. You’ve always been nice to them, and helped them with their homework, and you build toys for them. Do you remember how you ran everywhere when Hans wanted fishes for his aquarium, and you ended up being given those four tiddlers? No other father would have done that. None. And that’s in the evenings when you’re exhausted!’
He listens to her. His eyes come flickering to life.
‘And it’s not true that we’re not getting anywhere either. We’ve managed to get quite a bit of clothing and linens in these last months. I don’t think we’ve ever had so many socks and stockings in our married life! And I’ve got three hundred marks hidden in the house, and there are the nine hundred and ninety of yours.’
‘You see, isn’t it good I didn’t bring them sooner?’
‘And I’m thinking you ought to go and get the money today. And tomorrow you’re on the first train to Stargard. I’ll give you a letter to take to Anna, you can stay with her. And she’ll feed you as well. That won’t cost anything, and we can make it up to her later.
‘And then you’ll look around for an unfurnished room for us, if there was a bit of garden with it that would be nice. Then tomorrow evening you write me a card with our new address on it, and I pack, and in three days we’ll all be together again, in Stargard.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’ll see how pleasant the people are in Stargard. They’re so different to those buttoned-up Altholmers.’ She laughs. ‘One day you’ll meet “Heaven-Forefend-Franz”. You’ll die laughing. Well, I’ll tell you stories about him—’
‘Elise,’ he says keenly, ‘if I’m to get to Stolpermünde tonight to fetch the money, I’m going to have to catch the ten past four train. I’ll have to run to the station.’
‘All right, Max, off you go then.’
‘Oh, Elise,’ he says, and stops. ‘To be away from all the squalor and the lies. To be an honest man again. Not to have a bad conscience.’
‘All right, Max, you’d better hurry.’
‘Yes, I have to go.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Ten fifteen. I’ll be here at half past.’
‘All right, Sonny.’
‘Bye-bye, Missie.’
She watches him jogging down the length of the Stolpe Road. She watches him till he’s gone round the corner.
VI
The witnesses due for questioning in court that afternoon include a series of Altholm’s finest.
But the defence counsel asks that a witness known to him, Farmer Banz from Stolpermünde-Abbau, be questioned out of turn. The man had been badly injured in the course of the demonstration, was still far from well, and couldn’t be expected to undertake two separate trips to court.
The prosecutor offers strong resistance: ‘The witness Banz is wholly unknown to the prosecution. In none of the statements taken at the demonstration was any mention made of any badly injured Farmer Banz. So far as the prosecution knows, there is no decision of the court even to have this witness from wherever he is. I move that the fellow be left out of account.’
The defence counsel explains that the reason nothing had been heard of him was precisely that he had been lying injured in his remote Abbau. He asks that he be called, because he had important testimony to offer.
The prosecutor asks that the judge make a ruling.
The court withdraws, and after three minutes the decision is announced that the witness is to be heard.
The door opens, and Farmer Banz from Stolpermünde-Abbau enters.
He is a large, dry man, always a little hasty. Now he plunges towards the judge’s table in such agitation that he stumbles several times. He drags a stick after him, in his left hand he is holding a paper bag. No sooner has he arrived in front of the judge’s table than he hurriedly begins to speak: ‘Your Honour, let me tell you—’
The other motions with his hand. ‘One moment. One moment. You’ll be able to tell us everything in a moment. First we just need to know who you are. Your name is Banz?’
Growly: ‘Yes. Banz.’
‘First name?’
‘Albin.’
‘Your age, Herr Banz?’
‘Forty-seven.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘With children?’
‘Nine.’
‘Your farm is said to be exceedingly remote?’
‘No one comes out there from one year’s end to the next. All I have is gulls and bunnies.’
‘I must now swear you in, Herr Banz. You must swear that what you say is true. The sacredness of the oath you swear . . . Prosecutor, yes, what is it?’
‘The prosecution is opposed to the swearing-in of this witness. As we have just heard from the defence, the witness claims to have been hurt by the police. If that were true, then there is the urgent suspicion that the witness has committed a criminal act, in the course of which he may have received his alleged injuries. We therefore move that the witness not speak under oath.’
The defence counsel has already moved nearer to the judge’s table. ‘There is not the least reason not to question the witness. He received his injuries while purchasing a glass of beer—not a punishable act in our view.’
The judge smiles benignly. ‘So far as I’m concerned, we could always swear in the witness after his evidence is concluded. Would the gentlemen be agreeable to that?’
They have withdrawn to their respective tables. In the middle is Banz, looking from one to the other, trying to grasp what is happening.
‘Now, Herr Banz, could you tell us what happened in Altholm that Monday. Are you comfortable standing, by the way, or would you like a chair?’
‘I’ll stand, Your Honour. I would never sit down in Altholm!—So, I was coming from the station—’
‘One moment. What were you doing in Altholm in the first place? Had you heard or read about the demonstration?’
‘Someone told me about it.’
‘Who told you about it?’
‘I can’t remember. Everyone was talking about it.’
‘But you were telling us how terribly isolated your farm is, and how no one ever comes there?’
Banz stands still for a moment. Then he flushes pink. He leans forward, props his hands on the judge’s table, and shouts: ‘Your Honour! Your Honour! What are you doing to me! Your Honour, you’re driving me mad! I want my rights! I want my rights! I want my rights!’
He rips open the bag and produces a shapeless, slimy something or other. He drops it on the judge’s table.
‘That’s my hat, Your Honour! That’s my hat that was on my head! They smashed it into my head, it’s supped full of my blood, it’s supped full of the fact that I’ve become a sick man. That’s Altholm for you, Your Honour! That’s the hospitality of Altholm! When I saw the fat police pigs sitting outside just now, I saw red, Your Honour. And you’re asking me, Your Honour, who it was told me about the demonstration. Is that justice? Is that my rights, Your Honour? I want my rights . . .’
He is foaming at the mouth. Two court ushers have run up, the defence lawyer and the prosecutor have moved nearer. The gallery is on tiptoe.
The judge waves them all away. Gathering up his robes, he walks round the table to the maniac and pushes him down on to a chair. To an usher: ‘A glass of water, please.’
‘No, Your Honour, thanks all the same. I’ll not drink anything here in Altholm. I’d sooner die than drink anything here.’
The judge looks at him alertly. ‘Were you always so temperamental, Herr Banz?’
‘Before the demonstration, Your Honour, I was the calmest man on earth.’
‘Yes, Prosecutor, you have a question?’
‘The wit
ness referred to “fat police pigs” a moment ago. I move that such and similar expressions not be allowed to stand from the witness.’
For the first time the judge is truly agitated. ‘I will not stand for your interference with the way I manage my court, Prosecutor! Yes?’
‘In that case we have no option but to bring charges. We reserve the right to charge the witness for insulting a public official.’
‘Please yourself!’ And, more conciliatory already: ‘The witnesses should be allowed to talk in whichever way is natural to them.—Now then, Herr Banz, if you’re ready, tell us what happened to you. You were coming from the station. What time was that?’
‘You wanted to know who told me about it. I went to Stolpe to the Revenue. Everyone was talking about it on the train there. And in the Revenue and the Krug as well.’
‘And you wanted to participate? Did you know who Franz Reimers was?’
‘Of course I did, Your Honour, every child knows who Franz Reimers is.’
‘All right.—So you travelled to Altholm.’
‘It’s almost five miles from mine to the nearest station, Your Honour, and in the morning the cattle want their feed. So I was on the one o’clock train. I was at Altholm station just after three. I asked someone, not a policeman, if the farmers had been through yet. There weren’t any police around. No, he says, the farmers haven’t been through yet. Then I walked down the Burstah. And when I got to the square where the naked man is—’
‘The war memorial,’ says the judge, half under his breath.
Irked, Banz repeats: ‘That’s what I said, the naked feller. Then I saw what there was, Your Honour, and it was incredible, it’s beyond anything I could describe. The way the police were setting about the farmers is something your five senses couldn’t deal with.’
Banz is now talking calmly and respectfully, his words are coming out slowly and carefully. The judge looks at him attentively.
‘All right, and then?’
‘And then suddenly one of the blues comes dashing up to me, and yells: “You bastards, break it up!” And I reply: “We’re no bastards, you know, but you have to obey the authorities. I’m going to get myself a pint of beer.” And I turn round and I’m on my way to the Krug, and I’m standing on the steps to the Krug, when I get a blow across the skull. I’ve been bedridden eight weeks, and you can see me for what I am today. I used to be a strong man, Your Honour.’
