A SMALL CIRCUS
Hans Fallada was born Rudolf Wilhelm Adolf Ditzen in 1893 in Greifswald, north-east Germany, and took his pen-name from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale. He spent much of his life in prison or in psychiatric care, yet produced some of the most significant German novels of the twentieth century, including Little Man, What Now?, Iron Gustav, Once a Jailbird, The Drinker and Alone in Berlin, the last of which was only published in English for the first time in 2009, to near-universal acclaim. He died in Berlin in 1947.
Copyright © Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin 1994
First published by Rowohlt, Berlin 1931; first published by Aufbau Verlag, Berlin 1964 in: Hans Fallada. Selected works in single issues. Edited by Günter Caspar.
Translation and editorial material copyright © Michael Hofmann, 2012
Translation is published and licensed to Skyhorse Publishing courtesy of Penguin Books Ltd., London
First published as Bauern, Bonzen und Bombern in Germany by Rowohlt, 1931
First translation published by Penguin Classics, 2012
First Arcade Publishing edition 2015
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
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Print ISBN: 978-1-62872-432-5
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62872-476-9
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Dramatis Personae
A SMALL CIRCUS
Prologue: A Small Circus Called Monte
Part I: The Farmers
Part II: The Townies
Part III: Judgement Day
Epilogue: Just Like at Circus Monte
Notes
Appendix: German Parties and Elections in the Late Weimar Period
Acknowledgments
Dramatis Personae
The Fourth Estate
Stuff, Hermann: editor, local-affairs reporter, film reviewer and sportswriter on the Altholm Chronicle.
Wenk: lanky managing editor of the Chronicle.
Tredup, Max: chronically hard-up ‘advertising manager’ of the Chronicle, freelance photographer and aspiring writer.
Heinze, Clara (a.k.a. ‘Clarabelle’ and ‘Heinzelmann’): receptionist and typist on the Chronicle, and (towards the end of the month) freelance beauty.
Schabbelt: proprietor of the Chronicle, negligent husband and hobby inventor.
Heinsius: editor-in-chief of the Right-ish News (a Gebhardt paper), oracle, stay-at-home, nationalist and (last and least) belletrist.
Blöcker: reporter on the News and a friend of Stuff’s.
Pinkus: reporter on the Volkszeitung, an SPD-supporting paper.
Gebhardt: ever-acquisitive but enduringly small, the ‘little newspaper magnate of Pomerania’.
Trautmann: Gebhardt’s business manager and prompter.
Padberg, Heino: writer and editor on the Bauernschaft, the farmers’ paper (based in Stolpe).
Law and Order
Gareis: Chief Commissioner of Police (also Head of Welfare, Housing and Town Development) for Altholm, and Social Democrat (q.v. Politicians).
Frerksen, Fritz: Police Commander and Social Democrat.
Kallene: Police Superintendent and returned Social Democrat.
Bering, Katzenstein and Hebel: Police Inspectors.
Perduzke, Emil: long-time Deputy Inspector and surprisingly good egg.
Maak and Hart: Police Sergeants.
also Maurer, Schmidt, Soldin, Meierfeld, Geier, Erdmann, lower ranks and constables.
Colonel Senkpiel (q.v. Politicians) and Lieutenant Wrede (both militia).
Kalübbe and Thiel (q.v. Troublemakers): both bailiffs.
Greve: Prison Director.
Rural Constable Zeddies-Haselhorst.
Detective Inspector Josef Tunk: political section and provocateur (Stolpe) (q.v. Troublemakers).
The Politicians
‘Fatty’ or ‘Red’ Gareis: the big man, Mayor of Altholm (q.v. Law and Order); prodigious walker and conciliator (q.v. Law and Order).
Stein: Gareis’s (Jewish) political adviser and close friend.
Piekbusch: Gareis’s secretary.
Niederdahl: man of the Right, Gareis’s titular superior, the Oberbürgermeister of Altholm; for the most part a valetudinarian and an absentee.
Town Councillor Geier, Party Secretary Nothmann, Reichstag Member Koffka: all SPD, troika of ‘men in dark suits’.
Temborius: District President, quiet-lifer and ineligible bachelor (‘the gelding in Stolpe’).
Meier: Temborius’s (Jewish) chief adviser and quondam emergency treasurer.
Colonel Senkpiel, Government Councillor Schimmel, Revenue Councillor Andersson: Temborius’s kitchen cabinet.
Gehl, Klara: Temborius’s housekeeper and cook.
(unnamed) the Minister, in Berlin.
The Pillars of the Community
Textil-Braun and Emil Rag-Meisel: local businessmen and council members.
Manzow, Franz: local businessman, council leader and ardent paedophile.
Revenue Councillor Berg and Bishop Schwarz: council members.
Medical Councillor Dr Lienau: council and Stahlhelm member.
Dr Hüppchen: accountant, teetotaller and vegetarian. An incomer.
Toleis: chauffeur and specimen.
also Rehfelder, Besen, Gropius, Severing, Plosch, Röstel, Hempel, etc.
The Farmers
Päplow: aggrieved owner of confiscated cattle in Gramzow (not to be confused with Agricultural Councillor Päplow, at Temborius’s staged meeting in Stolpe).
Reimers, Franz: Headman of Gramzow and leading figure in the Bauernschaft movement.
Bandekow, Ernst, Count: younger brother to Count Bodo Bandekow, and farmer (Bandekow-Ausbau).
Padberg, Heino: leading figure in the Bauernschaft movement and editor of the newspaper of the same name.
Benthin, ‘Cousin’, ‘Father’ or ‘Moth-Head’: Altholm’s only resident farmer: public-speaker and expectant father.
Banz, Albin: dirt-farmer (Stolpermünde-Abbau), paterfamilias and man with a grudge.
Kehding (Karolinenhorst): farmer and writer of letters to the press.
also Rehder, Rohwer, Feinbube, Henke, etc.
The Troublemakers
Henning, Georg: ‘presently travelling in mineral oils and lubricants’ (or is it ‘milking-machines and centrifuges’?); flag-designer, flag-waver and all-round dasher.
Thiel: ex-Revenue official, gone over to the farmers’ side.
‘Bonkers’ Gruen: Auxiliary Prison Warden; lost the balance of his mind in the course of a mock-execution by Spartacist troops in November 1918.
Matthies: sword-stealer and Moscow-line Communist.
Farmer Megger: from Meggerkoog (‘near Hanover’) (q.v. Detective Inspector Josef Tunk, Law and Order).
Padberg, Heino: (q.v. Fourth Estate, q.v. Farmers).
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Stuff, Hermann: (q.v. Fourth Estate).
Tredup, Max: (q.v. Fourth Estate).
Gareis: (q.v. Law and Order, q.v. Politicians).
etc., etc.,
Michael Hofmann, 2012
A Small Circus
Prologue:
A Small Circus Called Monte
I
A young man is striding rapidly along the Burstah. As he walks, he darts furious sidelong looks at the shopfronts, which—here on the main street of Altholm—are rather plentiful.
The young man, who is in his mid-twenties, married and quite nice-looking, is wearing a threadbare black coat, a broad-brimmed black felt hat and black-rimmed spectacles. Factor in his pale face too, and ignore the unseemly haste, and he might be an undertaker, with a ‘rest in peace’ or ‘the dear departed’ never far from his lips.
The Burstah is Altholm’s Broadway, but there’s not much of it. At the end of three minutes, the young man has reached the last building on it, on the station square. He spits forcefully, and after this latest manifestation of his mood, disappears into the home of the Pomeranian Chronicle for Altholm and Environs, news-sheet for every class.
Behind the dispatch counter sits a bored typist, who hurriedly starts to put away her romance novel. Seeing that it’s only advertising manager Tredup in front of her, she doesn’t bother.
He tosses a scrap of paper on the counter. ‘There! That’s all there is. Give it to the setters.—Are the others inside?’
‘Where else would they be?’ the belle replies, naughtily answering the question with a question. ‘Do they need an invoice?’
‘Of course they don’t need a flaming invoice. Have you ever known any of those monkeys pay for space?! It was all of nine marks. Has the owner come down?’
‘The owner has been up inventing since five this morning.’
‘God protect him! And his wife? Sozzled?’
‘Not sure. Think so. Fritz had to go and get her a bottle of cognac at eight.’
‘Then everything’s as it should be.—Oh, Jesus, how I hate this place!—Are they in there?’
‘You asked me that once already.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that, Clara, Clarabella, Clarissima. You know I saw you come out of the Grotto at half past midnight.’
‘Well, if I’m to live off what he pays me—’
‘I know, I know. I wonder if the boss has money.’
‘No chance.’
‘And what about Wenk—is there any in the cashbox?’
‘The Baltic Cinema paid yesterday.’
‘So I’ll get my advance. He is in there, is he?’
‘I think you asked—’
‘—you that already. Change the reel, won’t you, sweetie. Don’t forget the copy.’
‘My God. And what if I do.’
II
Tredup pulls back the sliding door to the editorial office, walks in, and slides it shut behind him. The lanky managing editor, Wenk, is sprawled across an armchair, fiddling with his nails. Editor Stuff is scribbling something or other.
Tredup slings his folder on to a shelf, hangs his hat and coat up by the stove, and sits down at his desk. Indifferently, seemingly unaware of the questioning glances coming his way, he pulls out a card index file and begins sorting the cards. Wenk stops trimming his nails, examines the penknife blade in the sunlight, wipes it on the sleeve of his rayon jacket, shuts his knife and looks at Tredup. Stuff carries on writing.
Nothing happens. Wenk pulls one foot off the armrest and asks benevolently: ‘Well, Tredup?’
‘Herr Tredup, if you don’t mind!’
‘Well, Herr Tredup?’
‘I’ve had it with that bloody “well” of yours.’
Wenk turns to Stuff. ‘He’s got nothing, I tell you, Stuff. Nothing.’
Stuff shoots a look at Tredup from under his pince-nez, sucks his greying moustache through his teeth, and affirms: ‘Of course he’s got nothing.’
Tredup jumps up in a rage. The card index file clatters to the ground. ‘What do you mean, “of course”? How dare you “of course” me! I’ve been round to thirty businesses. I can’t make them take space, can I? Pull the advertisements out of their noses? If they won’t, they won’t. I’m reduced to begging them . . . And the scribbler says “of course”. Ridiculous!’
‘Don’t get het up, Tredup. What’s the point?’
‘Of course I get het up about your “of course”. Why don’t you try collecting copy? Those monkeys. Those grocers. Those swivel-eyed idiots. “I’m not advertising for the moment”—“I’m not sure about your paper”—“Is the Chronicle still going? I thought it had folded long ago.”—“Try again tomorrow”—It’s sickening.’
Wenk murmurs from the depths of his armchair: ‘I ran into the master mechanic on the News this morning. They’re coming out with five pages of ads today.’
Stuff spits contemptuously. ‘Wretched rag. Big deal. Their circulation is fifteen thousand.’
‘They have fifteen thousand the way we have seven thousand.’
‘Excuse me. We have an audited confirmation of seven thousand.’
‘You’d better rub out the spot where the date is. It’s completely black from where you’ve kept your thumb over it for the best part of three years.’
‘I don’t care about any audited confirmation. But I’d love to give the News a black eye.’
‘You can’t. The boss won’t have it.’
‘Of course. The boss borrows money from those Charlies, so we need to let them badmouth us.’
Wenk begins again. ‘So, you’ve got nothing, eh, Tredup?’
‘An eighth of a page from Braun. For nine marks.’
Stuff groans. ‘Nine marks? We’ve hit rock bottom.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘I could have got the closing-down-sale announcement from the watchmaker who’s going bust, but we would have had to take payment in kind.’
‘Save us. What would I do with more alarm clocks? I’ve got one at home, and I’m buggered if I get up for that.’
‘What about the Circus Monte?’
Tredup stops his pacing back and forth. ‘I told you there wasn’t anything, Wenk. Now get off my case.’
‘But we carried ads for Monte every year! Did you even try them, Tredup?’
‘Let me tell you something, Wenk. Let me tell you something calmly and objectively. If you say anything to me ever again about “even trying” anyone, I’ll clock you one—’
‘But they bought space from us every year, Tredup!’
‘So they did, did they . . . Well, let me tell you something, they won’t be doing it this year. And I don’t care what you say, and I don’t care what the proprietor says, and I don’t care what Stuff says, but I’m not going to that effing circus ever again.’
‘What happened?’
‘What happened? Impertinence happened. I was cheeked by those wretched gyppos. The day before yesterday they got their advance billing in the News. I slog over there, all the way out to the playground. The circus wasn’t even there yet.’
‘In that case, their manager must have gone round to the News to give them the copy.’
‘And he gave us a miss. Exactly. Yesterday morning, I slogged out there again. They’re just setting up. Where’s the manager? In the countryside. Plastering cow-villages with posters. As if the farmers were in any mood for a circus just now. Expected back at one. One o’clock is when he likes to have his lunch. So I hang around for an hour. The manager, one of those nasty yellow gypsies, needs to talk to his boss. I’m to come back at six. I’m back at six. He hasn’t been able to see his boss yet, why don’t I come back this morning?’
‘Kudos, and all the way out to the playground each time.’
‘That’s what I think. So this morning I get to meet the big shot, overlord of one and a half apes, a spavined nag and a moth-eaten camel. Hat in hand, salaam down to the ground.
‘And that piece of shit says it’s not worth his whi
le advertising in the Chronicle! No one reads our fish-and-chip paper!’
‘So then what did you say?’
‘I wanted to smack him one. Then I thought of my family, and I exercised restraint. After all, my wife wants her housekeeping money on the first of the month.’
Stuff takes off his pince-nez and asks: ‘Were those his words? “Fish-and-chip paper”?’
‘As sure as I’m sitting here, Stuff.’
And Wenk puts in his tuppenceworth: ‘You mustn’t let him get away with it. Surely this is a case for Stuff. You should kick sand in his face.’
‘I would do too. I would. But the proprietor doesn’t want—’
‘But it would be a great way to put the frighteners on potential advertisers. If one gets it in the chops, the rest of them will be so scared they’ll buy space from sheer dread.’
‘But the proprietor –!’
‘Ach, never mind the proprietor. We’ll all three of us go to him and say something has to be done.’
‘Wouldn’t I love to stick it to him,’ muses Stuff.
‘I’ve got an idea!’ cries Tredup. ‘You tell him you want to lay into the Socialists, and then he’ll leave you Monte as a sop.’
‘Not bad at all,’ nods Stuff. ‘There a story just doing the rounds about the police superintendent . . .’
‘Well, what are we waiting for, let’s go up to the lab . . .’
‘Right now?’
‘Of course, right now. You have to trash yesterday’s gala opening.’
‘All right then, let’s go and see the proprietor.’
III
There was some hitch in the compositors’ room. Both linotypes were abandoned, and the machine compositors were standing by the window with the job-setters and the maker-up. They were staring out at the yard. There was an unusual feeling of bated breath in the room.
Wenk inquired: ‘Is it time for breakfast? What’s going on?’
A little reluctantly the cluster of people by the window broke up. The maker-up, with a stricken expression on his creased face, said: ‘She’s lying outside.’
The other three pushed through the group in front of the window, took a look outside, and then they too didn’t know what to say.
It’s only a small courtyard, ringed by other buildings, paved with tiles, and with a small patch of green at the centre. Round the thin grass runs a low balustrade, one of those low wrought-iron balustrades that offer no protection. The sort of thing you trip over when it’s dark.