A Small Circus

  ‘Aha. I know the marketplace. Go on.’

  ‘Well, but you don’t take a lady to the Café Koopmann. Frau Koopmann won’t have that.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ groans Stuff. ‘Then can you tell me where you take a lady in this town?’

  ‘To the Fichte or the Grand.’

  ‘Where are they? Are they hard to find?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t know your way around here—’

  ‘No, I don’t! Is there a taxi service?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here at the station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I want—’

  ‘But not today,’ explains the waiter. ‘It’s reserved for the entire day.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘For Lawyer Streiter.’

  ‘Well, then, I suppose I can’t have it.’ Stuff sighs resignedly. ‘Then I’ll have to try and find all these cafés by myself.’

  ‘It’s not so easy in the dark,’ says the waiter. ‘Would the gentleman like another beer?’

  ‘No, I’d best be going. But you can bring me a double schnapps.’

  The waiter brings it.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking,’ he begins, ‘that you’re going to those cafés to look for that gentleman?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Stuff.

  ‘But he’s not in any of the cafés.’

  ‘No? So where is he? Can you tell me?’

  The waiter seems offended. ‘He’ll be at the Hotel Crown, with Lawyer Streiter.’

  ‘And you wait till now to tell me that?’

  ‘How was I to know you were looking for the gentleman!’

  ‘But that’s what I said.’

  ‘I thought you were looking for a girl to go out with. When they’re looking for a girl, gentlemen often have this roundabout way of asking.’

  ‘Nonsense. Anyway. But Herr Streiter is in the taxi, somewhere far away?’

  ‘The lawyer and Herr Henning are already back.’

  ‘Thank God for that. And where is the Hotel Crown?’

  ‘Just across the street, sir. You can’t miss it.’

  V

  The Crown seems to be functioning as the impromptu farmers’ headquarters, all the tables are jam-packed, and the air is thick with shouting and talking.

  Stuff blinks his way through the tobacco fug, and then slowly and inquiringly makes his way through the bar.

  At a small table in a corner, Henning is sitting with a gentleman who is definitely no farmer. The lawyer, thinks Stuff. I’ll call him legal councillor, that always goes over well.

  And he lays his hand on Henning’s shoulder.

  ‘Evening, Henning, evening, Legal Councillor. Editor Stuff at your disposal. Mind if I join you?’ Stuff sits down expansively. ‘So, here I am, my son.’

  ‘So I see,’ says Henning. And, by way of a little explanation: ‘Herr Stuff is with the Chronicle in Altholm, Legal Councillor.’

  ‘Guessed right!’ thinks Stuff aloud. And then: ‘Was. Was with the Chronicle.’

  ‘What do you mean, “was”? Have you quit?’

  ‘What do you think? Who else is going to handle this thing for the Bauernschaft, if not yours truly?’

  ‘Herr Stuff! We’ve got a substitute in place. It would have been a great thing to land you, but I really had no notion that you might be available. Surely a letter or a phone call wouldn’t have been too much to ask for?’

  ‘Whatever for? Surely you don’t want some inexperienced trainee who doesn’t know anything about anything to cover the trial for you?’

  ‘He’s not inexperienced at all. We got him from Berlin, and he’s been round the block.’

  ‘Sure! But what does he know about farmers. I’ll do the court report. Let the young fellow do local and regional news, that’s really poor in the Bauernschaft.’

  ‘But what’s it going to cost!’ exclaims Henning.

  ‘Expensive! Of course it’s expensive. I cost six hundred a month, and I’ll agree a contract with you for five years,’ says Stuff agreeably.

  ‘You’ve got a screw loose,’ says Henning. ‘Why would we go and do that?’

  ‘Of course you’re going to do that. You’ll count yourselves lucky too,’ says Stuff.

  ‘There’s something to be said for having the court reports done by someone local,’ Streiter chips in.

  ‘All right, my boy, so everything’s rosy. Over the next few days we’ll draw up this contract with the Bauernschaft people. For tonight, your verbal agreement’s good enough.’

  Henning reflects. Finally: ‘All right. Write the court reports. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Stuff with equanimity. ‘In three weeks you’ll be licking your fingers for me. I’m in no rush.—And as for the court case, will you go along with it, or are you about to do a bunk?’

  The question was a little unexpected. The lawyer winces, and Henning doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Well, then I’ll tell you, Henning,’ Stuff says. ‘You stay here. It’s better for the others in the box with you, and you’re not risking anything.’

  ‘That’s what you say,’ says Henning.

  ‘That’s what I know. Seeing as an ex-Stahlhelm assistant judge gave me a peek into your files.’

  The lawyer gets up with a jolt. ‘Will the gentlemen excuse me a moment. The toilets are that way, I presume?’ He disappears. The two men look at each other.

  ‘Now, Stuff, no bullshit,’ says Henning, ‘what does it actually say in my files?’

  ‘That you’re a good, pure, truthful boy,’ beams Stuff. ‘Apple of your mother’s eye. That the fly hasn’t been born yet that you could do anything mean to.’

  ‘On the level?’

  ‘On the level: there’s nothing incriminating in your files from previous life or convictions. Not even any bombs.’

  ‘And why would there be at that, Stuff?’ says Henning with sudden exuberance.

  ‘Where would you be if you didn’t have your old piss-artist Stuff,’ he replies, doubtfully.

  VI

  Tredup is doing lots of overtime.

  It’s way past eleven, and he’s still hunkered in the editorial office, writing his piece on the evening’s doings.

  For the police? Against the police? For the police! Against the police!

  If there was a flower to hand, he would happily unpetal it.

  The best course, finally, is a sort of middle way: the ones who are right are the Nazis, who are fine figures of chaps. Moreover, their cashbox has been nicked, and they’ve had a few bloody noses. They have every right to a little popular sympathy.

  Whereas the ones who are absolutely in the wrong are the Communists, who are always so noisy, and stare aggressively at people, and go parading a stolen sabre and are forever bearing witness to something you don’t want to know about, as if they were so many early Christians.

  And the police are maybe half right. Admittedly, they should have been there sooner. But they weren’t really to know that the KPD were planning an ambush. Second, they should have made their presence felt a bit more, but the fact is they really were too weak. And third, the thing with the sabre should never have happened, but maybe it really couldn’t be found anywhere before.

  So all in all it was a black day in the history of Altholm, not quite as bad as the 26th of July, but jolly nearly.

  When he’s finally finished, the telephone goes. Almost midnight.

  Tredup answers, ‘Chronicle.’

  ‘Yes, this is Gebhardt here.—What are you still doing in the office? You’ve probably got an appointment with Herr Stuff?—What’s that? Well, you do know Herr Stuff has finished today, you’ve only been telling me so for the past six weeks.—Oh, you don’t? Why do my employees always take me for a fool?—No, that’s all right, Herr Tredup, I know, I know.—Well, I suppose I have to take the plunge. Starting tomorrow you’ll be writing the court reports for the Chronicle. Don’t worry about the local news, we can supply you.—But I repeat: this is a try-out. An e
xperiment. It depends how well you do.—We had a different arrangement? We had no arrangement, let me tell you! We only ever talked about taking you on on a suck-it-and-see basis. And now that Herr Stuff has left in such poor style . . .—Salary? Salary increase? I’d like to see you earn it first! I don’t even know whether you can write. It’s not easy to earn money. Nothing easier than making demands, but it’s my money.—No, no discussion, don’t bother! Ten a penny. Good evening, Herr Tredup!’

  Tredup gawps. He gawps just exactly as his predecessor Stuff used to gawp in this same seat.

  2

  Three Happy Days

  I

  The following morning, Tredup is in a genial mood. He has had some sleep, and no longer has Gebhardt’s whining, wheedling voice in his ear; Tredup has hope, Tredup has a little joy.

  Squeezing his Elise, he even speaks up for his boss, because he doesn’t want to be without hope.

  ‘In the end, I’m bound to say he’s right. He doesn’t know the first thing about me. He’s got no idea about whether I can write or not. Wait till he sees that I’m as good as Stuff, and maybe better . . .

  ‘I’m off to a good start. That was luck . . . The piece about the trouble yesterday, I tell you, Elise, that was really good.

  ‘I made it very dramatic, and showed that it was pure chance that the 30th of September didn’t turn out as another 26th of July.

  ‘And now a run of court reports every day. I’m going to slog my guts out. I’m going to write good reports. I’m really going to describe what goes on in that courtroom. I need Wenk to give me an accreditation as a reporter, the court ushers don’t know me.

  ‘And then, on one of the next few days, if everything pans out, I’ll take you along too.

  ‘The defendant and the judges and the prosecution and defence lawyers, you won’t have seen anything like that, and stuff like that is bound to interest you, isn’t that right, Elise?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’d like that. If you’re not embarrassed to be seen with me. Because it shows already. I always put on weight so early.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s not a shame to be pregnant if you’re married. Maybe it’s even a good thing. Maybe Gebhardt will be around and see it, and slip me a little extra in my wage packet.’

  ‘I don’t want that,’ she says, ‘I don’t want him to see. I can’t stand Gebhardt.’

  ‘Why? Gebhardt’s all right, he’ll probably bump up my wages himself, once I’ve gone to see him ten times. I’m not ashamed. I’ll keep asking.’

  ‘I really don’t like him. Ever since he told the Heinze girl he won’t pay her any more, what she’s getting is already more than enough, ever since I heard that I don’t care for the man. He should be ashamed of himself! The girl needs to live too.’

  ‘Lord, Elise, all bosses are that way. They don’t understand the first thing about getting by on an income. They read in the paper that an unemployed man and his family have twelve marks forty to get them through the week. And then they think, if that’s enough for a whole family, then it’s plenty for a single girl with no dependants.’

  ‘That’s right. I should like to see him try. Let him and his wife and children—if he’s got any—let him try and get by on what we get by on.’

  ‘A week’s not the point, Elise. Anyone can do it for a week. The awful thing is to live like that the whole time, without any prospect of things getting better, that’s the awful thing. And we’ll never be able to teach Gebhardt that. We’ll get some money, never you worry. We’ll get there, Elise. Three months ago, I was only on commission, and today I get a fixed wage, and I’m an editor.’

  ‘And the thousand marks—’ Elise begins.

  But he doesn’t want to know. ‘And I tell you, we’ll get up now, and have some coffee. And then I’ll run along to the Baltic Cinema and look at the stills. They said they’d supply me with all the local news, but I’d still rather do some of my own legwork and writing.

  ‘I’m going to go along to the weekly market as well. It’s too early to do the actual market report, but I’d like to write a mood piece about what it’s like when the carts come in and the stalls are set up, and Hänsel from the market police goes around, giving everyone their places. And a couple of traders almost come to blows about where they’re put.

  ‘People like to read things like that. I want to make it a good paper.’

  He lies there with eyes open, dreaming, distracted, all over the place. Elise wants to peg him back to the thousand marks, but then she feels sorry for him. He’s as happy as a sandboy, and she doesn’t want to spoil it.

  ‘Then I’ll get up and make us some coffee,’ she says, and tries to escape from his embrace.

  ‘You do that. I’ve got to go. Oh, Elise, Elise!’ He squeezes her tighter and tighter, and shakes her. ‘Elise, I’m a newspaper editor! Aren’t you pleased?! I’m an editor, I am!’

  II

  Militiamen are deployed outside the large Marbede School sports hall. Curious onlookers throng the street.

  It’s already a quarter past nine as Tredup approaches at a great lick. He’s running late but hopes he can still snaffle a decent place at the press desk.

  He runs up to the nearest militiaman. ‘Tredup, editor at the Chronicle. Here’s my press pass. Has it started yet? Have I missed anything? Why are there so many militia here? I presume they stayed over from last night?’

  ‘Can I refer you to Lieutenant Wrede, please.’

  Tredup makes the acquaintance of Lieutenant Wrede. No, it hasn’t begun yet.—No, there are fifty policemen, as requested by the court.—No, of course in consultation with the police administration.—Yes, they’ll be staying here for the duration of the trial.—Accommodation has been found for them in hotels.—Yes, he would like to ask the editor kindly not to mention that.

  Tredup wrinkles his brow.

  It would only make for more talk about waste and luxury, when the simple fact was that there were no other billets available in Altholm.

  Tredup promises not to publish. And reserves the right to reverse himself just the same. Fifty policemen staying in hotels? The expense must be horrendous!

  Tredup hurriedly enters the sports hall.

  By removing the gym equipment, a reasonable meeting room has been created. Of course the regular courthouse would have been much too small, and they were reluctant to use the dance hall of a bar or pub. Still, there’s an odd atmosphere, the judge’s table, and behind it climbing frames with ropes—the ropes admittedly tied up—but it still looks ominous.

  Tredup finds the press desk directly opposite the place for the defendant, and scouts around for an empty chair. There are already a dozen gentlemen present, and many other places are reserved for one name or another.

  So those are the big cheeses from Berlin, whispering together. They know each other. Tredup doesn’t know anyone. There are none of the local Altholm scribes as yet. If only Blöcker was here, or at least Pinkus from the Volkszeitung, with whom he might exchange a few words, explain the capacity in which he was here.

  Suddenly the doors are thrown open at the back, and the public are admitted. And through the other door, escorted by court police, are two of the defendants: Padberg and Farmer Rohwer. Tredup looks out for the only face familiar to him, Henning, who once came to see him over the photographs, but he’s not there yet.

  Then the door opens on the right-hand side, a little man comes in rather uncertainly, looks about him, one of the ushers says something to him. The little man takes five paces, and then jumps back again. He does not look good: across half his face, and the bridge of his nose, is a bright red broad scar. And the nose itself, greyish, pale, looks like a shapeless potato.

  The usher takes the little man by the arm and leads him to where the defendants are. He sits down right at the end. He looks around timorously, and then buries his face in his hands.

  From chit-chat among the press, Tredup gathers that the man is a dentist from Stolpe, against whom, rather baf
flingly, charges have been brought. (Which is supposed to be an outrage.)

  Then the fourth chair among the defendants is taken: Henning has arrived, his arm in a black sling. In the gallery, people stand up to see him, all craning their necks. One press man, two seats from Tredup, starts to sketch him, as though this is the star everyone has been waiting for.

  And Henning carries it off. He greets the other accused, shakes hands with them, even introduces himself to the dentist, and the two of them have a little conversation, Henning smiles.

  Tredup is taking eager notes.

  A voice brays next to him. ‘What’s this, then, that dreadful rag the Chronicle represented by two scribblers?’

  Pinkus from the Volkszeitung has taken the seat next to Tredup.

  ‘Why two?’ asks Tredup irritatedly. ‘I’m representing the Chronicle.’

  Pinkus grins. ‘What about Stuff? What’s he doing?’

  ‘Stuff? How do I know?’ But he’s silenced straight away.

  Stuff is sitting diagonally across from him, and looking straight at him through his rather dirty pince-nez. Tredup says a sheepish hello, Stuff majestically inclines his head.

  While everyone stands, because the court are now filing in, Tredup doesn’t know what to make of it. What’s Stuff doing here? Has he patched things up with Gebhardt? Or is he just here in some private capacity? Is everyone toying with him? Is he never going to live in peace or have any joy in his life?

  While the names and details of the defendants are being established, and the opening statements are read out, Tredup falls to pondering. From time to time he manages to write down a couple of sentences.

  Why go to such trouble? It’s not going to work for him.

  The questioning of the defendants goes on for ever. The judge has a kindly way of speaking to them. He addresses them as ‘Herr’, and doesn’t hurry them. And he is utterly precise in the way he tries to establish every step of each of the defendants in the course of the march. Behind him is a large blackboard, on which each house on the market and the Burstah has been marked.

  ‘Where were you standing then?—Were you already in front of Bimm’s? You know, the shop . . .’

  The prosecutor is silent. The defence offers occasional amplification, say for the tongue-tied Rohwer.