Tales from the Underworld

by Hans Fallada

  Like all stories – not just stories from small provincial towns – this one starts with nothing at all, and like all stories it comes to be enormous – especially for small provincial towns.

  Pumm, a young unemployed schoolteacher, who earned a few shillings on the side as a reporter for the Social Democratic Volksstimme – this Pumm was stood up one fine Sunday afternoon by his girl of the time, and was dawdling a little aimlessly across the market square of his home town of Neustadt. At the end of the market on a wooden platform stood Sergeant Schlieker, directing the traffic, which was distinctly lively today. All the vehicular traffic from Hamburg to the Baltic resorts goes through Neustadt. Perhaps that was why, behind Sergeant Schlieker, a second sergeant by the name of Weiß had been put there, with a notebook.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’ asked Pumm. ‘Are you a speed trap, Weiß?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ wheezed Weiß. ‘We’re not short of money. I’m compiling statistics.’

  ‘What are you doing? Statesmanship?’

  ‘Statistics,’ the policeman Weiß loftily corrected the schoolmaster. ‘Statistics, Herr Pumm. Your comrade Mayor Wendel wants to know how many cars come through Neustadt on a Sunday.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ asked Pumm. ‘You can tell me. There’s a cigar in it for you too.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Pumm. Honest. No idea.’

  Pumm reflected, asked what the score was so far, exclaimed, ‘That many,’ and stopped, to help him count. Till midnight. Sometimes they took turns so the other could get a drink, but most of the time they stayed there together and kept a most scrupulous and exact count.

  As I say, that’s how it all began.

  The next day, in the Volksstimme the local news page came with a long lead from their special correspondent, more or less as follows: ‘Between six in the morning and midnight, no fewer than 13,764 cars drove through our beautiful town. Enquiries at the hostelries on the market square established that just 11 (eleven!) visitors stopped in Neustadt. That’s a rate of less than one in a thousand! … We present these figures to our generally so proactive traffic spokesman, Mayor Wendel. Something must be done, some attraction must be created here to make this extraordinary stream of moneyed visitors from the city useful to our town … We suggest the erecting of a modern petrol station on the market square.’

  The article appeared at one in the afternoon on Monday. Officer Wrede spent the rest of Monday looking for Herr Pumm. The population of Neustadt is forty thousand, so it should be possible to track down a single individual. It was seven o’clock when Wrede finally nailed Herr Pumm in Gotthold’s café. Gotthold’s is renowned for its pastries and its back room. Herr Gotthold, who serves his customers personally, never enters the back room unasked, and even then he clears his throat loudly.

  Pumm was there, converting the fee for his article into coffee, cake and dalliance. He was making amends for the lost Sunday.

  ‘The mayor wants to see you,’ said Officer Wrede.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Pumm in a bate. ‘Stop staring like that, man, it’s a girl! Don’t tell me you haven’t seen one before?!’

  ‘I’m to take you there, Herr Pumm,’ said Wrede, continuing to stare stonily at the lady’s legs. ‘I’ve been looking for you since three o’clock.’

  ‘If you say one more word—!’ yelled Pumm, and then recovered his self-possession. ‘What do you say to a drink.’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Wrede.

  The mayor was still in his office at a quarter past seven.

  ‘Something about an article you’ve written, Comrade Pumm.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Pumm.

  ‘You shouldn’t have written that article, Comrade Pumm.’

  ‘No?’ asked Pumm.

  ‘That article has caused some bad blood. The publicans and restaurateurs on the market place resent the imputation that they can’t attract customers from the big city.’

  ‘But—’ began Pumm.

  ‘You should have raised it with me first, Comrade,’ said the mayor earnestly.

  ‘But, Mr Mayor,’ began Pumm pleadingly, because what was at stake now was more than an article, it was his future in Neustadt. ‘I’ve often written pieces for the Volksstimme …’

  ‘I know,’ said the mayor, ‘I know. But this one’s different. This is an idea!’

  ‘An idea?’

  ‘The thing with the petrol station, yes. A new idea. You can’t release something just like that. No one knows what to say, and everyone has to take a position. Have you no idea of the chaos you’ve created!’

  In the end Pumm went home, profoundly shaken. He had promised the mayor – and shaken hands on it – not to have any ideas without permission, no new ones at any rate.

  But such a private agreement was unable to halt the march of events. Things happened, for instance this:

  In the Neustadt General-Anzeiger a statement appeared from the restaurateurs’ and publicans’ guild, indignantly repudiating the notion that their utterly contemporary bars and restaurants were unable to attract the motorists of Hamburg. The General-Anzeiger itself in an editorial begged leave to question the accuracy of the quoted statistics.

  The apothecaries Maltzahn and Raps and the bicycle-seller Behrens, who kept petrol tanks on the public pavement on the approaches to the market place, objected that the town, their own landlord, was proposing to put them out of business by commissioning a large petrol station.

  Derop and Shell, businesses hitherto unknown in Neustadt, put in bids for the running of the petrol station.

  Ilona Linde, a worker in Maison’s stocking factory, had a lot to endure from her parents and co-workers, to do with Gotthold-related gossip. (The drink hadn’t silenced Wrede’s mouth.) Was it true that she had fastened her stays in the presence of Officer Wrede?

  As far as Pumm was concerned, he lost his little sideline at the Volksstimme. ‘Your wretched column landed me in so much hot water!’ scolded the editor, Kaliebe.

  The official policy towards the large petrol station was silence. But the odd publican and restaurateur thought to himself: 13,764 cars … I could use the trade! But … is anything else possible after that decision? Presumably not, but someone else …

  Silence. Till Puttbreese, the builder who walked off with the contracts to almost all the buildings that were put to tender in the town, brought in a bid to the Economic and Traffic Subcommittee to petition the council through the town’s traffic spokesman, whether a new petrol station wouldn’t in fact positively boost the amount of traffic in the town. Think of the sums the town might hope to gain from issuing a lease!

  Mayor Wendel, as Chairman of the Economic and Traffic Subcommittee, invited Mayor Wendel, in his capacity as traffic spokesman, to work out a proposal to be submitted to the full council and the committees … Carried unanimously!

  Carried unanimously! ‘Commitment to Petrol Station on Market Place’ blared the Volksstimme. ‘Town Hall Bosses Accept Our Suggestion of New Petrol Station’ boasted the General-Anzeiger.

  Pumm was allowed to write for the Volksstimme again. ‘That was just a storm in a teacup,’ said editor Kaliebe.

  Pumm had a meeting with the mayor. ‘Perhaps a temporary supply teaching post at the gymnasium. We’ll see,’ said the mayor. ‘Your proposal is not bad. Though of course I had something in mind along those very lines when I commissioned the survey in the first place.’

  The municipal board of works was given the task of elaborating the specifications for the garage. The situation was as follows: town surveyor Blöcker was Stahlhelm,* if not worse. At any rate he had voted in the plebiscite in favour of abolishing the council. On the other hand, one had to concede that the market place, divided by Grotenstraße, fell into two halves. In one half is the town’s sole public convenience, built in 1926, with a loan from the community. Cost at the time was 21,000 marks. In the other half is the 1870–71 Franco-Prussian War memorial. Cast-iron railings (Gothic) over six foot high, four red slabs of polished
granite, then a few grey and black tumbled cubes of granite, with bronze eagles, a few stray artillery pieces, all decked with laurel, and on top of the lot a man with a cast-iron flag on a broken iron spike.

  ‘So as to guarantee,’ thus surveyor Blöcker’s preliminary report, ‘so as to guarantee unimpeded access to the planned petrol station, either the public conveniences in the northern half of the market place would have to be levelled, or the war memorial in the southern half. Before I submit the final plans, I request a decision from the town planning authority.’

  ‘That’s the dilemma,’ said Mayor Wendel.

  Playing possum didn’t help, progress had to be made. By a canny indiscretion on the part of the mayor the preliminary report of the planning authority landed in the office of the General-Anzeiger, which positioned itself as follows: ‘Here we have yet more proof, if proof were needed, of the chronic lack of forward thinking on the part of our Red administration. If the convenience – the vastly expensive pet project of the Social Democrats – had been put up at the northern end of the market place, instead of slap bang in the middle of it, there would be no threat now to the generous traffic plan. Relocating the memorial to our forefathers, a source of inspiration and quiet solace to so many of our citizens in these times of national humiliation, is of course out of the question.’

  The Volksstimme was silent.

  However, the cinema-owner Hermann Heiß walked into the offices of the General-Anzeiger with a reader’s letter: ‘Why not in the field of honour?’ The writer, fired by local patriotism, suggested moving the 1870–71 monument to the military cemetery in the town park. ‘That is the place for it, among the fallen of the Great War!’ With gritted teeth the board of the General-Anzeiger printed this letter from one of their steadiest advertisers, even though they saw through the move: Heiß was a Reichsbanner* man.

  The following day, the Volksstimme printed a brief but forceful piece in which they made the surprisingly fair-minded and practical suggestion their own: ‘Put the monument in the marble orchard!’

  The General-Anzeiger responded with an announcement, first, that they took no editorial responsibility for the contents of their letters page. ‘Herr Heiß has come forward with an interesting proposal; however, it doesn’t seem to us that the terms of the issue are sufficiently clear for us to come down on one side or the other. We therefore took the decision to widen and deepen the debate by inviting Town Medical Officer Sernau to publish his views.’ And Sernau: ‘Are we trampling our cultural inheritance underfoot?’ – ‘Absolutely, we’re dragging anything and everything that reminds us of a time we were rich and powerful out of sight! Let’s wallow in our humiliation! Instead of a heroic monument, a great stumbling block, that’s us all over! I suggest Mayor Wendel first ensure that the paths to the heroes’ resting place are made passable in wet weather! The suggestion that recently appeared in these pages, masquerading as a reader’s letter, will cause every true German’s blood to boil! Are we to hide all memory of our victories? Wouldn’t that just suit certain gentlemen nicely! Never!!!’

  At the heroes’ monument a much-regarded wreath with red, white and black ribbon appeared: ‘Loyal unto Death!’ Meanwhile, at the toilet’s little cottage, there was an answering inscription, ‘Red Front Lives’.

  The people of the town racked their brains: who was responsible for the hard-to-remove inscription? The Communists? Or the Nazis? The Stahlhelm? Or the Socialists? They were all capable of having done it. No, none of them! Yes, the Communists! They’re not too stupid! Yes, I suppose you’re right there.

  The next plenary session was unusually well attended. Substantial issues were on the agenda: a new one-and-a-half-million sewage plant, Christmas money for the unemployed, the sale of four town properties, the long-awaited licensing of a bus line to Mellen – none of them aroused any interest. What’s happening with the petrol station? You mean the big fume-ument!

  Every party sent its chief orator to do battle. The German Nationalists were against. The German People’s Party, against. The Reich Economic Party,* divided: a free vote for party members. The German Democrats, ditto. Centre Party, not represented. Socialists, yes. Communists: oh, can’t you just feed the people. The vote: eleven in favour of the petrol station, five against. All others abstained.

  Outcry: swindle! Fisticuffs round the table. Keenly observed difference of opinion between Town Medical Officer Sernau and cinema-proprietor Heiß.

  ‘We know your sort, fraternity members!’

  ‘Corroding our daughters’ morals with your decadent big-city productions!’

  ‘Don’t presume to lecture me about morals, Medical Councillor!’

  ‘You have no idea!’

  Anyway, the result was that the petrol station was approved in principle, the town planning office was invited to submit blueprints for the site around the present heroes’ monument. Then a delay, a very long delay. Finally the blueprints started to come in. The removal of the heroes’ monument will cost 3,200 marks, the construction of a petrol station 42,375 marks. War, war in the trenches.

  Once again, Pumm is persona non grata at his newspaper, and Ilona is sure now that she’s up the spout. The mayor will not receive Pumm, who feels which way the wind’s blowing, and promptly joins the Nazi Party.

  The architect Hennies submits an alternative proposal, total costs (including the resiting of the monument) 17,000 marks.

  Furious quarrel between surveyor Blöcker and Hennies.

  One of the eagles on the monument loses a wing, and the following night the face of the flag-bearer is given a coating of red lead paint.

  From that point on the monument has to be placed under police guard every night. That makes one hour of service more per man jack. The monument is cleaned off, the eagle wing is lost for ever, but its feet are still there for the Stahlhelm association to hold a celebration. That evening there are violent clashes between Stahlhelm and Communists, Reichsbanner and Nazis. Cause for the newest surge of bad feeling is the sight of the Nazis’ newest recruit: Herr Pumm. ‘Turncoat!’ – ‘Stinkers!’ – ‘Give him one in the chops!’ Someone does, end result: three serious injuries, one fatality. The President thereupon (at the town’s expense) orders a hundred special constables to Neustadt, since the local force had shown itself not up to the task of keeping the peace. The mayor gets a carpeting. The General-Anzeiger comes out with an (unsigned) article: ‘What happens when someone approaches the mayor with an idea.’

  The town is simmering, Neustadt is at boiling point.

  A thing once begun needs to be continued; an avalanche ends only when the snow has reached the bottom. Further meeting of the committee heads: surveyor Blöcker presents his estimate, code word ‘petroleum delivery point’, 42,375 plus 3,200 marks. Estimate from the architect Hennies, code word ‘modern’: 17,000 marks. With the votes of the Social Democrats, the German Democrats, part of the Economic Party and the Communists (sic! observes the General-Anzeiger), Hennies’ estimate gets the nod.

  The building of the petrol station is a done deal.

  Shouting. Jeering. More shouting.

  Factory-owner Maison (German Nationalist) rises and on behalf of his party requests the following rider: ‘The town government stipulates that the petrol station is to be built in such a way that every major petrol company is equally represented. Reasoning: it’s unfair to give any one firm an effective monopoly on petrol sales in our town. Also it would fail of its purpose to maximize the custom from all the big city motorists, who are known to favour different marques. The petrol station should be built so that five or six firms are able to offer and supply their products equitably and side by side.’

  Mayor Wendel loses it. ‘But gentlemen, that’s impossible. I appeal to your common sense! The only way a firm would be interested is if it had the petrol station to itself.’

  Maison: ‘I thank the mayor for the compliment. Abuse like that doesn’t do much to support his argument. My experience as an entrepreneur tells me this can
be done easily. I envisage something very attractive: a row of six or eight cabins with their various company inscriptions. Six or eight pump attendants, and we’ve found jobs for six or eight of our unemployed.’

  Shouting, jeering, abuse, or rather eloquence. A vote is taken.

  Maison’s rider is carried by seven votes. The equitable petrol station monument is at hand. The architect Hennies gets to his feet at the press conference. ‘In view of these proposed changes, my estimate of the costs no longer applies.’

  The Medical Officer begs to know what Herr Hennies is doing at the press conference. The mayor doesn’t know, Herr Hennies walks out.

  Amid the general tumult, senior councillor Comrade Platau gets to speak. ‘Gentlemen!’ he calls out. ‘Gentlemen!’ He gets a measure of silence, because Platau is of good standing with the Right as well, having traded in his arm for an Iron Cross. ‘Gentlemen, I don’t think it’s right to leave this matter hanging. Now, on the one hand we’ve agreed to have a petrol station—’

  ‘A fume-ument!’

  ‘Actually, I quite like the smell of petrol. On the one hand, we’ve agreed to build it, on the other hand it’s to be fitted out for six or eight suppliers. And that way we won’t find anyone to lease it.’

  ‘Quite right!’

  ‘Under those circumstances, I suggest we table the following resolution: a petrol station will not be built. That way, we’ll save costs to our town, we get rid of an apple of discord and we preserve the character of our beautiful market place. That strikes me as a positive outcome. Gentlemen, I move—!’

  General surprise. Serious, pensive expressions. Formally speaking, the motion has of course not been properly presented, but no one opposes going to an immediate vote.

  Tension. Breathless silence. More tension.

  Result: unanimous (unanimous!) acceptance. Full-spectrum unity: no great petrol station! Beaming faces. Peace breaks out all over Neustadt.

  A gravely discredited Herr Pumm walks out on both his home town and a bonny little baby boy. He is resolved never to have another idea as long as he lives.