A Small Circus

  ‘Even when the demonstration was first bruited as a plan, we pricked up our ears and asked ourselves: Where will all this end?

  ‘And then, when it actually happened, when the lamentable clashes took place, when the ghost of the boycott first appeared like a menacing shadow on the wall, and then became actuality, then, my dear sirs, then, with waxing concern, we asked ourselves: Where will all this end . . . ?

  ‘When the mayor spoke of the press stirring things up, he certainly can’t have meant the News. The News is not a partisan paper, the News transcends party, the News is governed only by the consideration of what is in the best interests of our town.

  ‘And then, when we examine these interests, when we submit to dispassionate scrutiny, as we must, then the question arises . . .

  ‘I see here gentlemen from manufacturing, from trade, from finance. The clerisy is represented. Many councillors. The magistracy.

  ‘But, gentlemen, the question arises: Where is Oberbürgermeister Niederdahl?!?

  ‘Where is the leader of our community in the hour of danger? Councillor Röstel is standing in for him, good. But, gentlemen, there are situations where a stand-in is not good enough, where only the helmsman’s hand is strong enough to wrench round the tiller.

  ‘Gentlemen, where is our helmsman?’

  ‘Homeowner Herr Gropius.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I come to you on behalf of the private home-owning sector, and as the representative of the Reichswirtschaftspartei.

  ‘Gentlemen, we raised our voice in warning when the construction of five new public conveniences was approved. Gentlemen, we warned you when the supplementary town taxes were raised by sixty-five per cent. Gentlemen, you know our watchword: cut expenditure, cut taxation. Gentlemen, even in this weighty hour, you find us where you always find us: with finger upraised in warning. Don’t carry on down this ruinous road!

  ‘Gentlemen, on behalf of private real-estate ownership, and of the Reich Economic Party, we as responsible citizens declare: We will vote against any measure that incurs new expenditure.

  ‘Gentlemen, you have been warned!’

  ‘Party Member Matthies!’

  Straight away, a lively discussion sets in.

  ‘Gentlemen! The class-conscious proletariat looks on with a mocking grin at the way the Social Democrats have once more fared. Those betrayers of the proletarian—’

  ‘Stick to the subject.’

  ‘“Comrade” Gareis asks me to stick to the subject. But right at the outset he has forbidden us to speak on the subject. Gentlemen, a veil of shame is to be draped over the deeds of our bloodthirsty police—’

  ‘Get to the point! Or we’ll have the next speaker.’

  ‘Comrades! The proletariat is in no way surprised by events. Even now, hundreds of thousands of workers are languishing in tens of thousands of bourgeois jails, brought in under and at the hands of Social Democrats!’

  ‘Next speaker!’

  ‘When a hundred workers are clubbed down, Comrade Severing doesn’t mention it.’

  ‘You are not allowed to go on speaking. Next speaker.’

  ‘But if a couple of farmers get a whack across their thick skulls, then there’s hell to pay.’

  ‘Would you like me to have you escorted outside, Matthies?’

  ‘We in the KPD seem to exist under a different dispensation. We are not permitted to speak at this assembly, even when others can speak as much as they want to.’

  ‘If you agree to speak on the subject, then you can speak.’

  ‘I will speak on the subject. Comrades! The class-conscious proletariat wants none of your November Socialism! It’s nothing but the handmaiden of the bourgeoisie, and the blood-dripping executioner of the disempowered worker.’

  ‘Hoo! Hoo!’

  ‘Long live the USSR!’

  ‘Quiet!’

  ‘Usher, will you escort the gentleman outside.’

  Whistles. Laughter. Shouts. Catcalls.

  Matthies, in the doorway: ‘Long live the Soviet Republic! Long live the World Revolution!’

  Exit.

  Mayor Gareis rises to his feet.

  ‘Gentlemen, I just want to answer some of the points that have been put to me.

  ‘So far as the riding tournament is concerned, it’s true that I told you, Herr Besen, that it would definitely take place in Altholm.

  ‘Well, I was disappointed. I relied on a man’s word of honour, and I will even give you his name: it is Count Pernath from Stroheim. When we laid out the course last year, when we built the spectator stands at great cost, the count promised me—we shook hands—that the tournament would take place in Altholm for at least the next five years.

  ‘Yesterday, I received a letter from him, saying that in view of the changed circumstances, it would not be held in Altholm.

  ‘I leave it to the gentlemen to judge the behaviour of this man of honour.’

  ‘Faugh!’

  ‘Yes, “faugh”, indeed, Medical Councillor, and to Count Pernath.—As far as the “warning” in the Chronicle, that Chairman Besen referred to, I have it here in front of me. It is not an editorial passage, it is an anonymous reader’s letter.

  ‘This letter appeared at a time when the farmers were not even thinking of a boycott. That, to me, is an instance of stirring things up, gentlemen. Of course, the conduct of the measured and praiseworthy News is beyond reproach.

  ‘Herr Heinsius asked why Oberbürgermeister Neiderdahl is absent from our deliberations. All I can say by way of reply is that he is on holiday, being kept continually informed. He is prepared at a moment’s notice to break off his holiday. He stressed that. I deemed it unnecessary.

  ‘Gentlemen, as the tournament shows, our situation is that of a town surrounded by enemies. We may expect help from government, but I have no idea when. For now, there is nothing so needful as that we stand together and fight together.

  ‘The suggestion has been made that we sit down and negotiate with the farmers. But, gentlemen, you won’t sit down round a table with farmers, at best you will find yourselves opposite some so-called farmers’ leaders, hoping to take advantage of the difficulties of others.’

  ‘Disgraceful!’

  ‘Yes, I find it disgraceful too. But that’s how it is.—No weakness, gentlemen, don’t negotiate. Oppose the stubborn Pomeranian farmers with the stubborn Pomeranian townies.

  ‘Be united, gentlemen.

  ‘Now I invite Political Adviser Stein to speak on a technical matter.’

  The slim, dark-haired, nervous little fellow gets up.

  ‘Respected gentlemen, as some of you may know, I am an official in the welfare department, which is responsible for physically and legally looking after the illegitimate children of the town.

  ‘We have heard complaints about the losses accruing to the town from the cancellation of the tournament. Chairman Besen named a sum, a frightening sum: twenty-one thousand marks.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, the town is to lose that much and more, because certainly other sectors will have figures of their own to match. But what, I ask myself, could possibly be gained by the cancellation of the tournament? I should like to make a small counter-reckoning, if you’ll be patient with me for a few moments.’

  Political Adviser Stein, grown a little self-assured, smiles round at the expectant faces.

  ‘Yes, I’m wondering, couldn’t the town draw some benefit perhaps from the fact that the tournament isn’t being held? I’m not talking about direct costs that the town incurs, and that came to nine thousand marks last year. I have something else in mind.

  ‘Gentlemen, imagine the farm lads coming into town for a week, give or take. They come with a little money in their pockets, and they have a bit to eat and drink, and they live it up a bit.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll agree the town girls are better looking than the country girls. They take more trouble, are better turned-out, even a farm lad will see that.

  ‘And when I come to look at the new arriv
als some nine months later, I find confirmation of the extent to which the farm lads have managed to find favour with the town girls. This year, fourteen illegitimate children appeared on our books, all the product of last year’s tournament.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, you’ll say that’s not so bad, those are farm boys, they’ll pay up. And then we approach the fathers—those of the farm boys, I mean—and they moan and groan, and it’s all how expensive the boy is to feed and clothe, and that he doesn’t earn any money. And now he’ll have to go to winter school, and then he’ll have to be put through agricultural college for a couple of years, and the help he gives on the farm really isn’t worth mentioning, and certainly not worth pocket money.

  ‘And in the end it’s the town that’s left, so to speak, holding the baby. Now I’ll invite you to do some sums: fourteen children, first through infant care, then a children’s home, then an apprenticeship or traineeship. A town can’t raise a child for less than five thousand marks.

  ‘That makes seventy thousand, the lot. Add in the running costs of the competition, seventy-nine thousand marks. That’s quite a bit of damage to make up, if you ask me.’

  Political Adviser Stein sits down, and his pallid little cheeks are flushed.

  Gales of laughter.

  Bishop Schwarz rises and agitatedly says: ‘I object to the frivolous way this whole sorry subject has been broached by a representative of the State. If quarters where one might look for the setting of a good example judge moral questions in such a—’

  ‘It wasn’t judging!’

  ‘What do you mean, “wasn’t judging”? It was flippantly spoken of, and that amounts to the same thing. Unfortunately, the Church community all too rarely finds support from the town council in moral matters. The removal of bushes and benches in the old cemetery that were propitious for nocturnal indecency had to be done at Church expense. Gentlemen, please, on the very graves of the departed!’

  Gareis stands up.

  ‘What Political Adviser Stein had to say was a question of political economy, and nothing to do with morality.

  ‘I don’t think further debate will take us forward, so let me close our session today. I ask you, gentlemen, to vote on my proposals. Those in favour of the three positions I advanced, kindly raise their hands.—

  ‘That’s a minority. So you choose to decline my suggestions. I’m sorry I can be of no further assistance at the moment.—Herr Besen?’

  ‘One moment, if you please, Herr Mayor. There is another proposal on the agenda, namely to enter into immediate negotiations with the Bauernschaft. Can we please vote on that?’

  ‘By all means. You’ve heard me warn you against it.’

  ‘Those who support negotiations, raise their hands.—That’s a big majority. Thank you, gentlemen. It only remains for us to name the members of the committee, for which I would like to suggest the name ‘Reconciliation Committee’. I would like to start by nominating Mayor Gareis.’

  ‘I decline. And as for the rest of the nominations, would the gentlemen have the kindness to conduct them elsewhere, for instance in the Ratskeller. I’d rather not have a procedure of which I so thoroughly disapprove conducted in my rooms.’

  Medical Councillor Dr Lienau remarks audibly: ‘In other words: If things don’t go the way Herr Gareis wants, you’re out on your ear.’

  ‘That’s right, Medical Councillor, you’re out on your ear. Good day, gentlemen.’

  IV

  A farmer emerges from Altholm Station and crosses the forecourt in the direction of the Chronicle building. The farmer, a large, heavy-built man, labours along with a stick. But he won’t be put off by cars, and makes straight for the policeman who’s controlling the traffic.

  He comes to a stop in front of the official and looks at him stubbornly. ‘Officer,’ he says.

  The policeman, supposing some directions are required from him, says: ‘Yes?’

  The farmer asks: ‘Where do I leave him? Will you take him?’

  ‘Him? Whom do you mean?’

  ‘Who I mean? Him! My stick! I’ve heard it said we farmers have to hand in our sticks when we come to Altholm.’

  ‘Get along with you! I won’t have my leg pulled by the likes of you.’

  ‘Where’s my other stick?’ asks the farmer, in a sudden temper. ‘The one you took off me on Bloody Monday.’

  He looks with cold fury at the irritated officer.

  ‘Just move along, I said.’

  ‘You take sticks away from invalids, eh? So they fall down on the pavement? Some heroes you are.’

  The farmer stumps off towards the Chronicle, the officer crossly watching him.

  Inside the Chronicle, Stuff and Tredup are arguing again.

  ‘You’re crazy, Max, with your crush on Gareis. He’s the worst of the flaming lot.’

  ‘No, it’s just that he’s not keen on you, because you keep attacking him! Anyway, it’s by no means certain that he wrote the article in the Volkszeitung.’

  ‘Of course he wrote it. Accusing me of fabricating readers’ letters! “Why shouldn’t the editor of the Chronicle count among its readers?”’

  ‘Come on, Stuff, it was hardly a bona fide letter, was it?’

  ‘What business is it of his! Anyway, we were right. The boycott’s up and running, and the tournament was cancelled.—Enter!’

  The door opens to the dispatch office, which once again is deserted. There at the counter stands a large man, a farmer. Stuff walks over to him.

  ‘Hello. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m Farmer Kehding from Karolinenhorst. Are you the fellow that writes the newspaper?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Stuff. Hermann Stuff.’

  ‘Then you’re the man I want. I thought I was at the News here.’

  ‘No, no, this is the Chronicle all right.’

  ‘Then I’ve come to the right place.’

  Pause.

  The man picks up his stick and lays it on the counter.

  ‘This is the stick from the official report.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ says Stuff.

  ‘You printed it, didn’t you! This is the stick in the report that was described as being three inches thick and a dangerous weapon.’

  ‘And you got it back?’

  ‘Nah! This is that stick’s brother.—How much d’you reckon I weigh?’

  Stuff has a guess: ‘Sixteen stone?’

  ‘Seventeen, not bad. And I suffer from gout. Can I walk with a little bamboo wand, then? Dangerous weapon—don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘But you printed it.’

  ‘I printed the official report. But I printed quite a few things besides.’

  ‘’Course you did. And now I want you to print something else. A letter. A reader’s letter, signed with my full name. It’s all written down here.’

  It’s an open letter to the Altholm administration, with the eight-day demand that the guilty Police Inspector Frerksen and the guilty Mayor Gareis be dismissed forthwith, otherwise the farmers will take their own measures. ‘In the name of many farmers, Farmer Kehding-Karolinenhorst.’

  Stuff stands there uncertainly. ‘It’s a bit sharp, isn’t it?’

  ‘Damn! Wasn’t it a bit sharp of the militia to knock away my stick and leave a cripple to fall down on the pavement?’

  Tredup appears at Stuff’s shoulder and whispers something. ‘This is perfect, don’t you see? Then you can show Gareis and the Volkszeitung that your readers’ letters are the real article.’

  ‘Who’s that, then?’ asks farmer Kehding.

  ‘He’s a sort of secretary to me,’ says Stuff.

  The farmer looks from one of them to the other under his big bushy eyebrows. Suddenly he yells: ‘Give me my paper back, you inky fingers! You’re every bit as bad as what the other lot are.’

  He stomps out of the dispatch office and slams the door.

  Stuff squin
ts in bewilderment through his glasses.

  ‘That “secretary” of yours didn’t seem to agree with him,’ says Tredup.

  ‘No, there’s nothing the matter with him. He must have got wind of your photographs, Max.’

  ‘My photographs, come off it—’

  Textil-Braun walks in. ‘Who was that maniac here a moment ago?’

  Stuff is cautious. ‘Him? Oh, just some farmer. We get quite a few of them these days.’

  ‘Would you have five minutes for me, Herr Stuff? I’ve got news for you.’

  ‘No, not really. But for you, ’course I do. Come on in. You too, Tredup, maybe there’ll be a small ad in it for you.’

  Textil-Braun sits down with dignity and looks rather full of himself. He’s a little weasel of a man, currently far too taken up with his own importance to favour his friend Tredup with a look.

  ‘What I have to inform you about, Herr Stuff, is that it’s been decided that the press is to suspend all communications regarding the farmers’ business.’

  Stuff is so amazed that all he can say is ‘I see’.

  ‘Yes, the public are getting restless. And the public need to calm down a bit.’

  ‘May I ask you, Herr Braun, who’s decided what my paper’s course of action is going to be?’

  ‘Herr Stuff, we’ve known each other for a long time. I’m a loyal advertiser in your pages. You’re not about to be offended?’

  ‘I’d just like to know who’s taking decisions for my paper. Is it Gareis?’

  ‘No, that’s just it. It’s not Gareis. We went to see him, and he was all for taking the farmers on. But we didn’t want that.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And then we formed the Reconciliation Committee, which is to bring about reconciliation between the town and the farmers, and we decided that for the time being we’re going to have no more writing about the farmers. We want some peace and quiet.’

  Stuff takes off his pince-nez and wipes it carefully with his handkerchief. Then he puts it on again and looks thoughtfully at his interlocutor, the busy little merchant.

  ‘Herr Braun, is your hearing good?’