A Small Circus

  Constable Zeddies stops and stares. He can’t go on. If there’s someone hiding, every step he takes will warn them of his approach. And there is someone, by the fire, a small fire of sticks.

  He remembers something from his boyhood, when he still used to read about Red Indians—Karl May books, and Sitting Bull and the Last of the Mohicans. He goes through his pockets, but all he can find are half a dozen bullets, which would be a waste. They are tightly controlled, and he has to account for each one. But what can he find to throw in a swamp that offers nothing more solid than soft mud?

  He takes a bullet and lobs it towards the fire. It makes a sound like someone rustling in the bushes twenty yards away.

  He listens, but nothing stirs.

  He throws a second bullet a couple of yards closer to the fire.

  All quiet.

  Three is a waste. The fellow has a sound sleep—well, he’ll just have to wake him and chance a beating, if he’s a real tramp. But wait? He doesn’t have much time, he has to get to the Parliament.

  So he makes his way through the bushes as quietly as he can, but it still makes a sound like twenty men, enough to waken any sleeper.

  But there is no sleeper when he gets there, to the small, round, cleared space. The fire is all but burned down. The man who set it must have been gone for at least half an hour.

  But not completely.

  He’s coming back. Look at the nest he’s made himself.

  A woven mesh of willow twigs, two blankets spread on top, dry moss packed underneath, a good kip for a man these rainless summer nights.

  And board too. On a flat stone beside the fire is a half-eaten ham. A box of condensed milk. A pile of clothes. A bicycle. More food, and there, hanging on a strap from a branch, a hunting rifle.

  Zeddies thinks hard: Are there any break-ins he’s read or heard about in the last few weeks? Where does this booty come from?

  He really ought to go back right away, wake his colleague in Lohstedt, and try to apprehend the thief. But he can’t do that either. How is Zeddies going to be able to explain his wandering around at night, in civvies, in his colleague’s patch—without mentioning the Parliament?

  The man’ll still be there tomorrow, he decides. And once I’ve been to the Parliament, I’ll know better what to say and what not.

  He takes the rifle off the branch, cocks it, and strikes it hard several times on the flat stones. Then he tries it out, and grins with satisfaction. You won’t be shooting me with that tomorrow.

  He hangs the rifle up and goes on his way.

  III

  It’s almost eleven as Zeddies finally nears his objective. The moon is high, but the going is harder and harder: here at the rim of the elevated heath is where swampy water and stream have their source.

  Zeddies has heard voices in the distance for some time now. First there were incomprehensible scraps of sound flying past him out of the trees and bushes, then there was a sort of murmured, unbroken monotone, and now . . .

  Twenty yards ahead of him is a broad thicket of willow, which he intends to use as a hiding place.

  He gets there, pushes himself a long way inside it, and all but leaped straight back out again. The other man’s hand clamped itself on his shoulder.

  ‘Easy there, mate!’

  He’s a very young man, unshaven, his pallor exacerbated by the moonlight, dressed only in trousers and shirt.

  ‘Easy, mate,’ he says. ‘It’s the defence speaking now . . .’

  The place offers a decent enough view, the two of them are standing maybe thirty yards from a large boulder at the edge of the swamp. Beyond the rock, the land starts to climb, with a couple of umbrella pines, the twisted splotches of juniper and an army of people, whose faces make one single, indistinguishable blur.

  But on the front of the rock there are a couple of people standing; and at the rear, turning their backs to the listeners, a few farmers standing close together, he counts six of them, one of them has a full beard.

  ‘Who is that?’ he asks the man sharing his hiding-place.

  And he replies: ‘Count Bandekow.’

  Sure he’s the fellow who’s sleeping rough, Zeddies thinks again. But he’s not your normal tramp or journeyman. Well, he too seems to have his reason not to want to be seen by the farmers. For the moment, we’re both secure and in the damp, whatever happens next.

  Zeddies can’t see the speaker for the defence, the jurors are in the way. He hears an old, high, squeaky voice, increasingly emphatic now in the peroration.

  ‘Yes, my fellow countrymen, what the prosecutor said about Altholm was true enough. But what is Altholm? I too am Altholm. And Altholm means artisans and shopkeepers. Altholm is women and children. Altholm is doctors and bishops.

  ‘I don’t know what the judge and jury will decide in their wisdom about Altholm, but consider, my fellow farmers, that the guilty are few in number, and that there are many many people living in Altholm.

  ‘There are only a handful that are guilty. On the marketplace, the man stood and shook my hand and said: “We’re both from Altholm, and we’d hate to see injustice happening here.”

  ‘But the little people who cut felloes for wheel rims, who lay the fires in the parlour grates, who hammer the shoes for the horse, who sew the collar for the harness, who grind the rye, and sell the paints, who are kith and kin to us—spare them!

  ‘Farmers, spare them!

  ‘They beat us shamefully, they trampled us underfoot, but we will only beat those that beat us. Let the others go free!’

  Silence. The jurymen stand up on their rock, the moon is swimming overhead, so steep that people’s shadows are practically underfoot, a soft breeze momentarily rustles leaf and twig—then silence again.

  The judge speaks: ‘Accuser, you have the floor.’

  And Padberg steps up, right to the edge of the rock, and he stares out over the assembled listeners.

  ‘Peasants of Pomerania,’ he says, ‘who have come in the night-time, summoned to the due Parliament over the town of Altholm!

  ‘There were three thousand of you there on that day. We were guests of the town, we had spoken to the mayor and to the police; the streets, marketplace and auction hall, all were given over to us. We were guests of Altholm.’

  Padberg leans out on his rock, stares at the crowd, as though looking for one particular individual among them, one face in the mass.

  Suddenly he shouts: ‘Hey, oldster! Can you still feel the militiaman’s rubber truncheon? It was the first blow you felt since you were out of short trousers, that was Altholm conferring the blue badge of honour upon you!

  ‘And you, agricultural college student! Wasn’t that fun, when the town constables chased you out of the hall to the station, and then drove you out of the station into the outlying streets? They were staging a rabbit race with you. Wanted to let you know how the rabbits feel when your father hunts them. That’s the type of education they give you in Altholm.

  ‘And you there, peasant with six horses! Remember how they smacked you with the flat of their swords so hard that your wife sat up half the night, cooling the broken skin. The official report makes mention of two injured. Altholm! There were three thousand injured, three thousand immedicably injured!

  ‘The defence lawyer agrees: yes, they dealt harshly with you that day—but who dealt harshly? One man. One ambitious individual, seeking to ride roughshod over the farmers. But the mass of the people is innocent. So he said.

  ‘I, though, tell you this, farmers: the people are just as guilty. Who lined the pavements and watched? Did you happen to look up at the windows and see them all packed?

  ‘Yes, yes, they couldn’t have saved you, but could they not at least have gone away? Did they have to stand there watching? Did you hear so much as one person boo? We have the saying that “silence indicates consent”.

  ‘Well, Altholm consented!’

  The speaker pauses. The farmers are still silent, Zeddies can only sense them from back wh
ere he is, but nevertheless a feeling went through them like the first puff of warm wind before a thunderstorm. The moon is so bright, and it is so dark, and it were better he had stayed at home and known nothing about all this. The young fellow next to him has his face in his hands and is half lying on the willow twigs—perhaps he’s crying, perhaps he’s asleep.

  Padberg resumes:

  ‘The speaker for the defence said there are workmen, there are relatives, there are people in those buildings in town who may not be to blame in any way, and we should spare them.

  ‘Farmers! They are precisely the ones who are guilty! They are the ones you must punish! Not the police lackey, not the fat mayor, they are not the guilty ones, your relations are, your in-laws! The smith who shoes your horse, the carpenter who repairs your roof, they are the guilty ones!

  ‘Gareis is a Red, and Frerksen is a Red—we’ve known that for years. And for years too, ever since the Revolution, since before the Revolution, since before the War, we’ve known what the Reds bring into our lives: Expropriation! Robbery! Theft! Drudgery! Immorality! Godlessness!

  ‘But who gave those officials sway over us? Did they turn up one day and seize the mayor’s chair by force?

  ‘No, they were elected!

  ‘Elected by your kith and kin, by your artisans, your shopkeepers! That’s why they’re all to blame!

  ‘Did the poor townies not know what they were doing?

  ‘They knew. But that’s the townie for you: making deals with every Tom, Dick and Harry, always dickering, on terms with everyone.

  ‘Therefore, farmers, show no mercy! Punish them hard, the Altholmers, bring them to their senses so that they chase away their officials. Then take the punishment from their shoulders.

  ‘And so I urge you: farmers of Pomerania, find guilty the town of Altholm with all those who dwell in it, who go about their trade, with officials and workers, policemen and women. They are all guilty.’

  The crowd is silent.

  The judge steps forward. Count Bandekow stands at the front, with his high top-boots, the sweated sheepskin, the foot-muff. His hand slices the air.

  Then he speaks: ‘Peasants of Pomerania, all those of you who live from the soil, if you have heard, then say: “We have heard.”’

  A dull, murmurous groundswell goes up: ‘We have heard.’

  ‘Peasants of Pomerania, if you have found guilty the police of Altholm of the crimes of Bloody Monday, then say: “They are guilty.”’

  A dull groundswell: ‘Guilty.’

  ‘Peasants of Pomerania, if beyond that you have found guilty the town of Altholm with all who live in it, then say: “It is guilty!”’

  And again: ‘Guilty.’

  The voices have become louder and louder, by now the peasants are yelling.

  The judge cuts through the air again and silence slowly returns.

  ‘Prosecutor, what is the penalty you demand for the town of Altholm?’

  The judge steps back, the prosecutor steps forward.

  Padberg takes a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it. Everyone can tell from the size of the paper: it is a newspaper.

  ‘You have all heard: the murderer has no peace, he returns to the spot, today or tomorrow, his conscience will give him no rest.

  ‘And if you hadn’t found it guilty, the town of Altholm, then you would be able to read a confession of its guilt. It is plagued by a dirty conscience.

  ‘It is written here in the Altholm Chronicle. I will read you two sentences:

  ‘“I am appalled, everywhere I keep hearing that the farmers are not going to hold their riding tournament in Altholm.”

  ‘And again:

  ‘“May God protect Altholm from the farmers’ boycott!”

  ‘Here, the guilty conscience has devised its own punishment. No God will come forward to protect it.

  ‘Peasants of Pomerania, I demand that the countryside impose a boycott on the town of Altholm, until it has been punished for its wickedness, until it has chased away its politicians and is at one with us again.

  ‘Let that be its punishment!’

  Padberg steps back and a vast noise erupts. All speak, shout, murmur, threaten, shake their fists, argue, dispute, shout ‘Hurrah!’, shout ‘Boo!’

  The judge vainly waves his hands, no one will listen to him.

  The young fellow in the bushes says: ‘There are too many farmers here who earn their living from Altholm.’

  And the rural constable: ‘It will break up in disagreement, I know my farmers.’

  A voice speaks up: ‘But the farmers don’t know you, whoever you are!’

  And two iron hands grasp at the two of them.

  Constable Zeddies-Haselhorst needs about five seconds to make up his mind. If the tall peasant with the thin lips and the cold eyes who has him in his grip succeeds in dragging him to the rock, three hundred—no, a thousand—peasants will know who he is, and he will be doomed.

  And even if they let him go without breaking his bones, he will still be lost. What will he say to his superiors, his colleagues at work, his farming in-laws?

  Five seconds—and the grip on his collar is iron. He has to free himself, and so he drives his knee up hard into the man’s groin. The man gives a stifled groan—he’s winded—and crumples over. But still holding the collar in his iron grip, which Zeddies is barely able to break.

  Zeddies looks at the man sprawled in the swampy water, half starting to run, when the other fellow, the young man in shirt and trousers, starts yelling at the top of his voice: ‘Farmers! Here! Traitor! Farmers, help!’

  At that, Zeddies delays no longer, he jumps into the water, which splashes up around his face, and runs as fast as he can with heavy, club feet. He can hear heavy sticks coming down either side of him, and stones splashing the water.

  Zeddies runs, but can hardly leave the spot. There ahead of him is the willow bush where he found the thief’s nest. What an idiot I am for bending the lock on the rifle! How good it would be to have that in my possession now!

  And he thinks about the young, unshaven burglar.

  Suddenly he cracks it. I could slap myself for not realizing that half an hour ago: that man is Thiel, the young bomber, I saw his picture on the wanted list. He escaped from the detention cell in Stolpe. Now I must get back and report him.

  Twenty paces further on: they don’t seem to be pressing me too hard. Or will I not report seeing him? I may as well forget about him, the farmers have got him again.

  He reaches the stream, whose bed is firmer underfoot.

  IV

  They raised the winded man on to the rock. There he sits, face in hands, still bent double with pain.

  Thiel is right at the back, with Padberg, he was lucky to be spotted by someone who knew him, if he’d fallen into the hands of the farmers, he’d be in a deal of trouble.

  Benthin leans over to the groaning man and talks to him. Then Bandekow, one of the jurymen, another, more.

  Confused rumours buzz through the horde of waiting farmers. Their leader has been set free, only to be murdered here in the swamp. The fellow in the dirty shirt is the police spy who was supposed to do it. No, he’s the one who saved his life. The son of a farmer from outside Stolpe. The flag-bearer Henning, who’s broken out of prison.

  Two jurymen help the winded man on to his feet, he puts his arms round their shoulders, they take him by the hips, so standing he faces his farmers.

  ‘They have released me,’ thus Franz Reimers slowly, ‘from the prisons of the Republic. Why, I am unable to say. All I know is that they will come for me again, today, tomorrow, some time. And some of you with me.

  ‘But they let me go at a good time. My wife, who sent me here, told me in a few words what is at stake tonight. So why wait, speak, deliberate? When you fall into the sea, do you start swimming or think about it first?’

  Farmer Reimers pauses.

  ‘The gentlemen in Berlin are playing a game of cat and mouse with us. And the administratio
n in Stolpe and Altholm have to do what the minister with the Polish name wants done with German farmers. But cat and mouse is a game best played in the dark, and there’s the odd cat that’s found out the hard way that its mouse was actually a bulldog.

  ‘You’re wondering whether to ostracize the town of Altholm?’

  There is silence. The crowd waits in suspense.

  Suddenly very loud: ‘Doesn’t the Bible say: “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”? Aren’t children punished for the fourth or fifth generation for the sins of their fathers? Are you too cowardly to perform God’s Will?’

  He pushes away the arms that are supporting him. He stands there alone, a dark, slender form, his arms down by his sides. He speaks loudly:

  ‘We, the peasants of Pomerania, do hereby ostracize the treacherous town of Altholm!

  ‘No one is to dine or sup with an Altholmer, buy anything from him, receive any present from him, lend him anything. You are not to bid them the time of day, or speak an unnecessary word with them. Whoever has family in Altholm, tell them that from now on they are to keep away from land and farm until the boycott is over.

  ‘Whoever was in the habit of going to the weekly market at Altholm, may continue. He may sell, but not buy. Whoever delivered eggs or butter or potatoes or poultry or wood to Altholm, should stay away from the town, because you are to set foot in no dwelling therein.

  ‘See to it that your wives do as instructed by the Farmers’ League, that they not buy anything in the shops of Altholm, nor purchase anything in the stores of the Jews.

  ‘Whoever contravenes the rules of the boycott, in ways great or small, knowingly or unwittingly, he shall be as though he were from Altholm, with the despised people, no one shall speak to him, and none shall know him.’

  The farmer stops. Padberg leans over to him and whispers something.

  Reimers says: ‘There was a spy among us, we know not who, but we shall find out. What the man has heard does not bother us, for tomorrow the whole land will know that we have ostracized Altholm. If we meet secretly and in the dark, it’s merely lest the bailiffs of the Republic disperse us.’