A Small Circus

by Hans Fallada

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Chief Adviser Meier back?’

  ‘As of this morning he’s been seated at his little chair again.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing. He didn’t want to say anything. He said he didn’t know anything. The government decision has been conveyed to the judge in a sealed envelope.’

  ‘That’s so Stolpe! That’s Temborius all over! Secretive to the last. Well, I can tell you what’s in the sealed envelope—’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Really, Mayor? That would make me so happy!’

  ‘I am happy. If the business with the secret orders was a trap, then it snapped shut before I got anywhere near it. They’re the mugs now.’

  ‘Are you really sure?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Berlin. The minister wasn’t in yet. But Government Councillor Schuster told me the decision had been taken: thus far and no further. They are displeased with the progress of the trial. Berlin doesn’t want the police to be in the soup. They want the whole peasant business cleared up. The secret orders will remain just that.’

  ‘But Schuster’s supposed to be a friend of Temborius?’

  ‘Precisely! I always said Temborius would be against it. So: no evidence!’

  ‘Thank God! What would you have done . . . ?’

  ‘Mneh,’ says the mayor, beaming, ‘I would have wriggled out of it one way or another, but this is ideal.’

  ‘This is ideal. But then I don’t understand why the Party—’

  ‘They’re barking up the wrong tree. The courtroom atmosphere has got to them. Bloodthirsty police. Whetted sabres. The bloodhound Frerksen.—No good Party heart is equal to that.’

  ‘You mentioned Frerksen. He turned up again today.’

  ‘I’m no longer interested in Frerksen.’

  ‘He asked for a chance to explain himself. He turned up with about seventeen by-laws in his hand. He justified the confiscation of the flag, the attack on the demonstration. Police by-laws from year such-and-such: One: Carrying naked scythes through the town is forbidden. Two: No sticks are permitted at demonstrations. Three: The procession organizers have failed to register the demonstration properly. Four: The procession used more than half the roadway, which is unlawful. Five to seventeen: Similar transgressions.’

  ‘Was it very effective?’

  ‘Absolutely—for Streiter. He asked him: “At the moment you had the flag seized, Commander, were you aware of all these by-laws?”

  ‘And Frerksen: “Not explicitly.”

  ‘Streiter: “But their gist?”

  ‘“Yes, most of them. More or less.”

  ‘Then Streiter: “In view of your phenomenal memory for detail, I am surprised that you, Commander, had forgotten the important stipulation that demonstrations are to be protected by the police under all circumstances.”

  ‘Frerksen was floored.’

  ‘I can imagine. Do you have any sense of whose catspaw he is at the moment?’

  The adviser reflects. He purses his lips, whistles a snatch of something. Stops. Then: ‘Irritating. The song has two verses, one about the lowlands, the other about the highlands.’

  He looks expectantly at his boss.

  ‘You mean to say?’ he asks in surprise.

  ‘Well, the highlands must get their act together sometime. But—’

  The telephone rings. Gareis picks it up, listens.

  ‘Well, Adviser, I’m being asked to appear. Will you come?’

  And, when they are out on the street: ‘It would be a strange sort of botched feeling if I didn’t know how come and why. If I go through with my testimony, step on a few toes, and then plonk myself between Meier and Röstel, and listen to the rest of it. Even if it takes another month, my brain still craves new proof that people really are that stupid.’

  ‘Thank God you telephoned Berlin!’

  ‘You can say that again: thank God!’

  III

  At the door of the court, Gareis and Stein part. Stein slips into the public gallery, while Gareis is kept waiting. Another witness is just being questioned. Stein listens, slightly bored. It’s always the same story: don’t they ever tire of it all!

  Then the judge announces: ‘We will now conclude the questioning of Mayor Gareis,’ and all heads turn alertly towards the door.

  The usher standing in the corridor is heard to call the name, and Gareis appears. For a brief moment he stops on the threshold and surveys the court.

  There he is. Mayor Gareis, police boss of Altholm, and also head of department for Welfare, Housing, and Town Development. A big man. He strides slowly and with dignity to the judge’s table, stops directly in front of the judge, and inclines his head to him. A greeting from a potentate, polite, warm, but still seeming to say: You know, I’m not really that happy with the way you’ve conducted this case.

  The gallery (with Stein) sees him from behind. A vast black back topped off with a massive well-shaped head. His left profile has been offered to the defendants, the defence and the government table, his right to the prosecution and the press.

  The judge returns the greeting with head and hand. Then he speaks a few sincere words: ‘We are sorry, Your Worship, to have kept you away from these proceedings for so long, when, as Commissioner of Police, you would surely like to have attended. But the decision from Stolpe on the matter of your permission to speak has only reached the court this morning. At ten o’clock this morning, to be precise. I had you called straight away.’

  Gareis inclines his head and waits in impeccable calm.

  ‘You were sworn in, Mayor, on the occasion of your first questioning here. Your oath holds still.

  ‘The issue of the degree of your freedom to speak arose from several questions put to you by the defence. On the morning of the demonstration, you were served with some secret orders by the district president, only to be opened as and when you made use of the militia.

  ‘You made use of the militia, you opened the orders—’

  ‘Had them opened, in point of fact.’

  Pause, smile: ‘What did these secret orders contain?’

  Gareis says slowly: ‘I beg your pardon?!’

  ‘Yes. The government’s decision. You are given full permission to give evidence. On any matter put to you. Including the secret orders. Absolutely.’

  For the first time, Stein sees his lord and master lose his composure. The mayor stands there, he looks this way and that, he shifts from one foot to the other. Finally, in a quiet and strangely confused-sounding voice, he says: ‘I don’t understand. The government . . . No, there must be some mistake . . . Would you mind . . . ?’

  The expressions of those faces raised to him become tense, pinched, impatient. The defence counsel, leaning back in his seat a moment ago, has got to his feet and is coming silently closer, a step at a time. The two prosecution lawyers have put their heads together and are whispering animatedly. In the gallery you could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘By all means . . .’ says the judge, and passes the letter to the mayor. ‘See for yourself . . . The decision of the government . . .’

  Gareis reaches for it quickly, and then reads it painfully slowly and for a painfully long time.

  He lowers his hand.

  With slightly firmer voice, he says: ‘As I supposed. There must be an error. This morning I heard from the minister that I may not give evidence on the matter. Now I really don’t know . . .’

  The judge: ‘But here it is in writing, Your Honour . . . ?’

  The judge looks towards the government’s table, where Chief Adviser Meier slowly and reluctantly gets to his feet, slowly approaches . . .

  Meanwhile, the defence counsel, now standing right next to the witness, says: ‘I beg the court to set aside the concerns of the witness. We have here a clear, unambiguous determination from the government in Stolpe. The witness works for the Stolpe government, they are his legal superiors. Their decision is absolute.
’

  The judge says: ‘Perhaps Chief Adviser Meier, who brought the permission from Stolpe, could tell us something about the process by which it was arrived at?’

  The defence demurs: ‘In terms of the juridical process, the permission is completely . . .’

  ‘But if the adviser is in a position to enlighten us . . .’

  The adviser: ‘I don’t know who in the ministry will have given Mayor Gareis the minister’s decision. I may say that the permission to speak was not issued without detailed consultations with the minister.

  ‘The minister wishes the evidence to be brought forth freely.’

  All step back a little, Gareis stands alone.

  The judge says: ‘And who was it who gave you the decision, Mayor? Would you be able to say?’

  The mayor murmurs: ‘It was given me over the telephone.’

  ‘On the minister’s express say-so?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’

  The judge: ‘Well, Your Honour, then things look pretty clear to me. The government’s decision permits of no other interpretation. I must ask you to set aside your doubts and give evidence.’

  The mayor stands there full of tormenting unease. He looks across to the door a couple of times. The defence counsel remarks ironically: ‘Mayor Gareis has made us extraordinarily curious about these secret orders. Such unwonted hesitation on his part—’

  And Gareis, in a sudden fury: ‘Councillor Streiter is perhaps in a better position to know the reasons for my hesitation than anyone else in this room.’

  To which the counsel: ‘If you mean by these words to insinuate that I know the contents of the secret orders, then I reject that.’

  The judge takes a hand: ‘Gentlemen, please!—Herr Mayor, if you would be so kind as to carry on with your evidence, you had the secret orders opened . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the mayor absent-mindedly. ‘Yes.’

  He is standing quite alone. The others have stepped away from him. The light dribbling through the windows is grey; the mob of onlookers recedes into the grey distance at the back of the hall.

  The great figure of the witness, troubled just a moment ago, composes itself. ‘Yes,’ says Gareis once more.

  He turns towards the gallery, he is looking for a face. His eye meets Stein’s, the two look at each other. The mayor raises his hand.

  Then he turns to the judge. His voice is clear, his speech uninhibited, as he says: ‘I was in my flat, busy with preparations for my holiday. The telephone rang. A man who addressed me as “Comrade” told me that there had been bloody clashes between the farmers and the police. The farmers were rampaging through town, armed with pistols. First I called the town hall guardroom—’

  ‘One moment, please,’ says the judge. ‘Who called you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I tried to establish the identity right away. I was told by someone at the post office that a worker in blue working clothes had called. This worker proved impossible to trace.’

  ‘And that was the first report you had of any clashes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A somewhat exaggerated report, it would appear.’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘And on the basis of that you took your decisions?’

  ‘Not only that. The town hall guardroom confirmed to me that some clashes had taken place.’

  ‘And you have no suspicion who the mystery caller was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘After a policeman confirmed to me that there had been some violence, I called my office and told my secretary to have my car pick me up at home. I had already told the telephone switchboard to connect me with the militia commanding officer in Grünhof immediately after the first call. When my secretary had ordered the car, I instructed him to open the secret orders from the government, which were on my desk, and read them out to me over the telephone. My secretary opened the envelope. But then the conversation was accidentally interrupted without him getting a chance to read a word of it to me, and I was put through to the militia in Grünhof. I ordered their officer, Lieutenant Wrede, to have his men advance to the proximity of the auction hall and await further orders from me in person.’

  ‘So, if I understand you correctly, you deployed the militia before you knew the contents of the secret orders?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then what did you do? Call your secretary back?’

  ‘No. The car was waiting outside, I thought there was a pitched battle being waged, I drove directly to the station, to question Commander Frerksen.’

  ‘So when did you finally clap eyes on the secret orders?’

  The mayor says: ‘I have never seen the secret orders.’

  ‘What?!’

  A ripple of surprise runs through the gallery.

  ‘I have not seen them to this day.’

  ‘Mayor!’

  ‘Never. Not a line. Not a word.’

  ‘Mayor, I remind you of the oath you have sworn.’

  The mayor says curtly: ‘No one is more aware of that than I am.’

  The judge collects himself, shakes his bell, to silence the murmurs that are becoming louder and more intrusive by the second.

  ‘But then you were at least made acquainted with the contents of the secret orders?’

  Gareis says: ‘To this day I have not the least idea of what they contain.’

  The noise erupts. Almost everyone is standing. The members of the press have forgotten to write. Prosecution and defence counsels are standing next to the witness. Chief Adviser Meier at the government table keeps taking his monocle out, rubbing it clean, and screwing it back in with shaking hands.

  The judge calls out: ‘I want complete quiet, please. Otherwise I have no option but to have the court cleared. Ushers, militiamen, the gallery must sit down. Gentlemen of the press, your desk is there . . .’

  Calm gradually returns.

  The judge: ‘Your Honour, would you expand a little on your statements? They are so astonishing . . .’ His polite voice sounds needling, even surly. ‘Perhaps you would suggest witnesses to what you’ve . . . ?’

  The mayor has become perfectly calm. ‘I drove to the station, and heard reports from the superintendent and commander. Then I went on to the auction hall. Things were pretty wild. I had no more thought of the secret orders. Nor did Lieutenant Wrede remind me of them.

  ‘That day I didn’t return to my office. Similarly, over the next few days, there was so much to do that I didn’t think of the envelope. By the time I remembered it, it had disappeared. I had people looking for it for weeks, but it didn’t turn up. My secretary, Piekbusch, assures me that he returned it to my in tray. It disappeared from my in tray. Perhaps it was mislaid in some file, perhaps it simply—disappeared. I asked my secretary several times, he has read the orders, but is unable to remember a single thing in them.—That’s really all I have to say.’

  Silence. A long, unhappy silence.

  ‘Mayor,’ the judge begins slowly and cautiously. ‘You will understand that your remarks today have given rise to a profound—well, let’s just say, profound surprise. I must ask you why you didn’t tell us what you’ve just now told us, two days ago. Why take refuge behind that permission-seeking?’

  ‘No one,’ the mayor says slowly, ‘enjoys confessing to errors of omission or commission. I genuinely believed the government would not favour the making public of its secret orders. That they would save me from publicly admitting my mistake.’

  ‘Effectively,’ says the judge, ‘you have gambled at the court’s time and expense.’

  The mayor makes no reply.

  ‘You have,’ the judge continues, ‘falsely given the impression that these secret orders were of especial importance, and may have contained specific instructions with regard to the peasants.’

  ‘That may yet be the case.’

  The judge says sharply: ‘That is a conjecture, Herr Mayor. We don’t wish to hear conjecture
s from you, but facts. Among the obligations of your oath are the promises not to pass over anything and not to add anything. The court will have to consider whether you are not in violation of your oath.’

  The mayor gently inclines his head.

  ‘For the time being, we’re finished with you. But I would like you to keep yourself available for further questioning if called upon.’

  ‘You can get me in my office at any time.’

  ‘That will do.’

  The mayor is about to move away when Legal Councillor Streiter says: ‘One word, if I may, Your Honour. The witness insinuated that I might be apprised of the reason for his unusual reluctance to talk about the secret orders. Would you kindly ask the witness what he meant by those words?’

  The judge: ‘Your Worship, would you say . . . ?’

  And Gareis: ‘If I said something of the sort, which I don’t remember doing, then please put it down to my agitation. I meant nothing by it. It was intended purely as self-defence.’

  And the defence counsel, with all the asperity of which he was capable: ‘Would Your Honour point out to the witness the quite inadmissible nature of such insinuatory behaviour. I reserve the right to bring charges against the witness.’

  Gareis lowers his head.

  The prosecuting counsel gets to his feet: ‘We too announce that we are considering bringing charges against the witness.’

  Silence. Gareis looks for Stein, but when he finds him, he sees his friend has lowered his gaze.

  ‘That will be all for now, Witness,’ says the judge.

  IV

  Mayor Gareis walks out into the hallway.

  There are witnesses waiting to be called, a couple of policemen, the cloakroom attendant. All stare at him. Then, with an eagerness that’s half concern, the attendant helps him into his coat.

  So that’s how they’ll look at me from here on in in Altholm. Sheepish and eager.

  But only a few steps later, he corrects himself: No, only for the first few days. Then they’ll become impertinent. Where there’s carrion, there are crows.

  He heads for the Burstah.

  Tredup must have felt a bit like this when I tore him off. Poor wretch. If you have power and can look after yourself, you forget how defenceless a little man can feel when he’s being kicked. Poor wretch.