‘I’ve got my wife waiting for me with coffee.’
‘Who else is responsible but that pathetic Frerksen? The bastard is always plotting something.’
‘He won’t even visit his parents any more, that’s how snooty the scholarship boy has got. Because his father was a rag-and-bone man once.’
‘Not exactly. He used to hawk buttons and braces round the villages.’
‘How’s a man going to get some sleep with all this chit-chat? Can you keep it down?’
‘You’ll fall asleep soon enough when you see your old lady.’
‘Ssh! Enough!’
‘Quiet!’
‘You shut up yourself!’
‘Quiet!!!’
II
Commander Frerksen gets up. It’s a little after seven. His wife has put out his aftershave already. Sunday’s grey suit is back in the wardrobe, and the uniform is folded over a chair.
He is feeling sullen and irritable. He looks out into the sunshine furiously. When the children make a noise in the next room, he swears and hurls a shoe against the door.
Then he slowly starts to get dressed.
His wife walks in.
‘Why did you put out the uniform for me? I want my suit.’
‘But—’
‘How many more times do I have to tell you, I want my suit!’
It’s put out for him.
Frerksen starts shaving. He mutters to himself: ‘I’ve half a mind to call in sick.’
‘Sick? Are you sick?’
‘Why would I be sick? Rubbish. I said I’d half a mind to call in sick.’
‘What’s got into you today? Are you upset about something, Fritz?’
Frerksen throws down his razor and screams: ‘Don’t ask! Don’t ask me any questions! Go back to the kitchen!’ Frau Frerksen goes out without another word.
The birds are rowing in the trees, and now here comes a wretched bastard motorcyclist with a clattering exhaust. Too bad I can’t make out the number. I’d have liked to sting him.—God, if only I was on holiday!
Not a word is spoken at table. The little boy and girl, warned by their mother, sit there in silence, not looking up from their plates. The mother butters rolls and lays them on her husband’s plate. He eats absent-mindedly, his gaze directed out of the window, with a deep vertical frown line down his forehead.
The wife’s shy voice: ‘Would you like more coffee?’
‘What’s that? Yes, give me some more.—And I think I want the uniform after all.’
The woman gets up to do it right away.
‘No. It can wait. After.’—A pause.—‘By the way, today’s going to be awful.’
‘Awful . . . ?’
‘Yes, awful! I’m caught between two fires.’
‘Fritz . . . can you talk to me about . . . ?’
‘The mayor wants one thing, and the president wants the opposite. Whatever I do will be wrong.’
‘But don’t we owe everything to the mayor?’
‘Jesus Christ, that goddamned female tripe! That horrible syrupy gush with everything! Yes, go on, let’s have tears as well. Instead of a helpmate—’ Then, abruptly: ‘What are you sitting around for, you wretches! Get lost! Go to school!’ When they’re by themselves: ‘I’m sorry, Anna, please forgive me! My nerves are shot. And today, when the farmers come in . . . Perhaps I’ll have to use my sabre or pistol . . . The government is putting such pressure on me. I had nightmares about it. I’m not cut out for that kind of thing. No, I know you’re right. I’m going to do what Gareis wants. I’ve got no choice.’
III
The room of the district president is as cool and dimly lit as ever. There is no world outside these dark, book-lined shelves, these thick, sound-proofing carpets, this black-brown oak furniture.
Chief Adviser Meier has just chased off the cleaning women, and here comes Temborius, and it’s not yet eight in the morning.
‘What’s keeping Tunk?’
‘He’ll be along any minute. It’s not eight yet.’
‘It is. My watch says eight.—What’s the overnight intelligence say?’
‘Assemblies in every district. Lots of young farmers dressed in mourning, issuing a call to attend the Parliament in Altholm.’
‘This right of assembly for traitors is madness. I need to talk to the minister about it.’
Meier bows.
‘Well, go on! Anything else? Hasn’t the appearance of the letter in the Volkszeitung had any effect?’
‘The farmers don’t read the Volkszeitung. And if they do, they say it’s all a pack of lies.’
‘Where did it come from anyway?’
‘From Gareis.’
‘From Gareis? Not possible!’
‘I know it from Pinkus. Gareis took him the letter in person.’
‘Can you make any sense of that? He allows the demonstration, and then tries to stir up feeling against it?’
‘Maybe he is feeling a bit uneasy. Taking steps to keep it manageable.’
‘Uneasy? The fellow’s a swine, I say! Seventeen wardens of every political stripe don’t worry me as much as one Gareis, who’s even in my Party. He’s the farmers’ friend!’
Detective Inspector Tunk is announced.
‘Have him come in.—You’re late, Tunk. It’s five past eight.’
‘The presidium clock hasn’t struck the hour yet.’
‘It’s five past eight.’
The presidium clock strikes.
‘Chief Adviser, will you tell the janitor to set the clock accurately. It’s an incitement to inefficiency and sloth. Yes, right now . . . Inspector, have you been told what your task is?’
‘At your orders, sir. I have been told to take the nine o’clock train to Altholm, and observe the farmers.’
‘Observe . . . ! You’re to mingle with them. Meet their leaders. Learn their names. Make a note of what they say in their speeches. All of that. All of that. You can always discreetly go out to jot something down. You join in the demonstration. Go to the hall. Remember the speeches and speakers. Most important, whatever happens in front of the prison.’
The detective inspector bows.
‘But all that is secondary. Of crucial importance . . . are you familiar with the views of Mayor Gareis?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Gareis is of the view that the farmers are not involved in anything seditious; my view is—they are. I’ve offered to put some militia at his disposal, he’s declined them. As of ten a.m., two platoons will be in Grünhof.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are an experienced policeman, Herr Tunk. You’ve worked in the political section for many years.’
The detective looks expectantly at his boss.
‘You have judgement. You can tell when a situation becomes dangerous. The State, listen carefully here, the State must not experience a humiliation. Detective inspector, I want you to be responsible for the militia not standing idly by in Grünhof, should the situation become dangerous.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you fully taken my meaning?’
‘I’ve fully taken your meaning, District President.’
‘You are not to liaise with Commander Frerksen or with anyone else in Altholm. You are there as my personal observer.—Well, Chief Adviser, is the clock right now?’
‘Yes, District President.’
And the district president, smiling amiably: ‘Don’t you think, Chief Adviser, that our detective inspector looks every inch a farmer in his green loden with his top-boots and the chamois brush on his hat? How much are a dozen eggs, farmer?’
And the three gentlemen laugh heartily.
IV
In Bandekow-Ausbau everyone is up early this morning. They are sitting at the open window facing on to the garden, a small, almost frivolous farm garden with yew tree, berry-patch, gladioli and Cross of Jerusalem. In the middle is a sort of shelf, covered with thatch, with about twenty woven beehives on it. The bees teem in and out of the wind
ow, drawn by the fragrant smell of stewed apples and sugar-beets.
‘The bees are flying high,’ says Farmer Rohwer. ‘That means a fine day.’
‘Don’t bet on it,’ says Henning. ‘That’s all we need, on top of this botched demonstration.’
And Rohwer: ‘If the bees are flying high, what is there to bet on?’
‘Are we talking about the weather,’ asks a clearly nervous Padberg, ‘or taking a decision on whether Henning is coming with us or not?’
Rohwer: ‘I say he’s coming.’
And Rehder: ‘He comes.’
And Henning: ‘Of course. I’m going to carry the flag.’
And Count Bandekow: ‘Who else could possibly?’
‘I seem to be outvoted,’ says Padberg. ‘Well, I’ll go on anyway. What you’re proposing is stupid. Bound to be stupid. If there’s a punch-up, if there’s blood, we’ll lose the support of the farmers. You remember the effect on them of that one ill-judged bomb.’
‘There’s a chance there may be a punch-up—’ begins Count Bandekow.
‘You see!’ crows Padberg. ‘Will you pass the eggs, Rehder?’
‘—not,’ the count finishes his sentence, ‘because we have Henning as flag-bearer, but because the government is nervous. I’ve listened around: there’s no suspicion of Henning, because they’ve arrested Thiel and Tredup.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I know it. Our dear damned government would like the bomb not to be from the farmers, because then Germany might wake up. It’s some bunch of chancers, can’t be anything else. Therefore, so long as Henning is with us, he stays beyond suspicion.’
‘Why should there be blood?’ asks Farmer Rohwer from Nippmerow. ‘We’re not out to break heads.’
‘That’s just it,’ affirms the count. ‘We’re not breaking any heads. So why should the others break ours?’
Henning says: ‘Listen, there won’t be any fisticuffs. Fat old Gareis is far too comfortable. Old Father Benthin in Altholm has told me that Gareis is afraid of just one thing, that something could happen.’
‘I don’t see how you can speak for three thousand farmers!’ mocks Padberg. ‘Three quarrelsome individuals, and there’ll be blood.’
‘That’s right. We’ll call them to order,’ says Rehder.
‘Oh, really. You’re children. You’ve just got no idea of all the unforeseen things that could happen.’
‘Oh, stop your gloom-mongering, Padberg.’
‘All right. Whatever you say. Whatever you say. I’m not saying anything else. I just want you to promise me, Henning, that you’re not taking a weapon, and that you won’t defend yourself.’
‘What do you mean, “no weapon”? Am I to hold out my face and let them punch me?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘I’d rather eat a broomstick.’
‘This time I agree with Padberg,’ says the count. ‘If you have a weapon, give it here, Henning.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘I want your word. Otherwise you’re staying here.’
‘You’re all cowards,’ says Henning. ‘I’ll do it and I’ll not do it.’
‘We want obedience here,’ says the count.
‘Why would you want that? I thought we had no chiefs?’
‘In the name of the Bauernschaft, I demand your weapon,’ says Rehder.
Henning sticks his hands in his pockets and doesn’t say anything.
‘What would you be wanting with a pistol, anyway?’ says Farmer Rohwer. ‘The banner’s big and heavy as it is. Are you proposing to throw it down and start banging away?’
‘That’s right,’ remarks the count. ‘A flag-bearer stands and falls by his flag. A weapon would be useless to you.’
‘Well, then,’ says Henning, and chucks his pistol on the table, ‘there you are. But I promise you, if anyone touches me, I’ll skewer him on the flagpole.’
‘Which is why I wanted your word.’
‘There’s absolutely no question of my giving it to you.’
‘Leave him be. He’ll have both hands full with his flag.’
They leave. The countryside is quiet and peaceful.
‘Not much traffic.’
‘Most will be coming by train.’
‘How many farmers can afford to keep a car these days?’
‘Oh, plenty. But they’re afraid of the drive home when they’re plastered.’
The four men laugh, only Henning is still sullen. But then, as they come through Grünhof, it’s his turn to be electrified. ‘Did you see that? Militia! Four lorryloads!’ And leaning back in triumph: ‘There you are, then! They’re going to make mincemeat of us!’
The others are excited as well, but in the end the count says: ‘Why is the militia in Grünhof and not in Altholm? Tactical reserve. Just in case. Thank God we’ve taken your pistol off you. And now I do after all want you to promise me that you won’t get violent.’
V
Mayor Gareis is in his office, in festive mood. He is going on holiday tomorrow, going on a cruise to Rügen.
Today . . . : ‘The demonstration is fizzing out. I just spoke to Feinbube, the agricultural councillor, and he’s in despair that Reimers has been taken away.’
‘But the farmers don’t know that,’ Frerksen objects.
‘They’ll get to hear about it soon enough. The Volkszeitung and the News are both carrying the story.’
‘Shame it’s not in the Chronicle, which is the earliest to come out, and the one the farmers read, if they read any of them.’
‘I’ll have a word with Stuff. I think I’ll be able to pull him round too.’
‘Stuff is a dangerous individual.’
‘Pah, you just don’t like him because he’s laid into you in print the odd time.’
Frerksen gestures.
‘All right. Never mind. I don’t care for him myself. His feelings always run away with him. Anyway, I think we’ll be able to harness him. Especially now. Well, we can save that for later.—Did you hear when Benthin and his leaders plan on coming?’
‘No. Not a word.’
‘I’m here until one o’clock. In the afternoon I’ll be at home, but only in a real emergency.’
‘Very well, Your Worship.’
‘I want the police to keep a discreet eye on the bars and pubs. If anything looks dangerous, I want them to report straight away.’
‘Oh, Herr Gareis, there’s no relying on most of them, I’m afraid. They are just as far Right as most of the farmers.’
‘Well, I think they’ll do their job.—I want the demonstrators to be protected under all circumstances, got that, Frerksen? Under all circumstances.’
‘Yes, Mayor.’
‘Disposition of forces as discussed previously. Police to stay in the background, in a monitoring function. And I want no demonstrators assembling outside the prison.’
‘Yes—but how? My numbers—’
‘No police. We’ll do it like this: take six or eight people from Altholm, civilians, low profile. Put two or three in prison-warden uniforms, and have them happen to stroll out of the prison gates. Then they can tell the farmers as they’re gathering that Reimers isn’t there. A couple more can be let go as if they were prisoners, and they all tell the same story. New faces all the time, never the same people twice, I want no suspicion among the farmers.’
‘We’d need Greve’s agreement for that.’
‘That’s right. I want you to call him in half an hour, and tell him about the idea. The suggestion is to have come from you. I’ve been on holiday since Saturday. OK?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Do you want reasons why? Well, think of a certain letter that appeared in the Volkszeitung. Better?’
Frerksen smiles a little awkwardly. ‘Ye-es, a little.’
‘A little is good. So you half understand?—What’s the matter, Piekbusch?’
‘Lieutenant Wrede of the militia is outside.’
‘Wrede . . . ? Ah, yes,
good old Temborius. I tell you, Frerksen, he’ll have his militia in Grünhof by now and will be busy yanking on the chain back in Stolpe.’
The militia lieutenant walks in.
‘Ah, my dear Lieutenant Wrede, what gives us the pleasure?’
‘I first have to report to you that two platoons are at your disposal in Grünhof, Mayor.’
‘I hope it won’t be too boring for them there.’
‘Further, I have some secret orders for you. To be opened only in the event that you call on the militia.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Will you come for the billet-doux this evening?’
‘You mean, if it’s not been opened?’
‘It’ll be here. Just so you know. I’ll tell Piekbusch as well. I’m going on holiday this afternoon. That’s how rattled I am by this demonstration.’
Wrede bows and smiles.
‘Well, I’ll see you next when I’m back, I suppose.—What is it now, Piekbusch?’
‘Herr Stuff from the Chronicle is here to see you, Mayor.’
‘Stuff? Perfect timing. You’d best leave by this door, Frerksen. I don’t want Stuff’s mood to be spoiled by the sight of you.’
VI
‘Well, Herr Stuff, what’s happened that the Chronicle’s readers simply have to know about, and that can only be learned from me?’
Stuff says stroppily: ‘I’ve just seen your Herr Frerksen. Perhaps you could find time to tell the gentleman to treat the press a little better. Blöcker on the News says the same thing. When we want to learn something, it’s never the moment, he waves us away. Next time the police administration needs us for something, we won’t be anywhere to be found.’
‘You find Frerksen arrogant? I’ve never found that myself. He’s always been assiduous and friendly.’
‘Yes. To you.’
‘No, not just to me. But I understand that people in Altholm can’t forget that someone who leaves school at fourteen can become a police officer. They still think of his father, who must have been a town parks gardener.’
‘A pedlar.’
‘You see. It’s not forgotten.’
‘Other people have become better things, and that’s fine. Frerksen isn’t fine, because he doesn’t have the moral or technical attributes to become a police officer.’
‘He has performed all his designated tasks outstandingly well.’