It isn’t until the farmers’ flag is brought in that the trial and courtroom come to life. It has been taken apart, and now there is a group clustered round the judge’s table: Henning and Padberg are screwing the scythe on to the flag, and the judge is looking on with interest. The prosecutor and his deputy are watching from a couple of paces away, the defence lawyer is by Henning’s side.
Padberg raises the flag.
The soiled cloth droops miserably along the pole, while the scythe, thrice dented and bent in the fight, looks sorry for itself.
‘Would you like to show the court, Herr Henning, how you carried the flag? Oh, of course, your arm. I’m so sorry. Perhaps, Herr Padberg, if you’d be so kind?’
But Padberg is clumsy. He is small and dumpy and has certainly never carried a flag in his life. It wobbles around in his hands, lurches forward, the judge and usher just barely prevent it from crashing down on top of them.
Impatiently, Henning slips his arm out of his sling. He takes the flag from Padberg, and holds it out in front of his chest. Then he suddenly raises it aloft.
Something carries him away, he raises it higher and higher, lets it fall to one side, catches it in his other hand, the banner unfurls: black field, white plough, red sword.
It beats and clatters, blows to the right, blows to the left.
In the public gallery a few shouts are heard: ‘Heil Bauernschaft!’
The defence lawyer steps in. ‘Your arm, Herr Henning!’ he reminds him. Suddenly Henning’s arm drops, his face grimaces in pain, with difficulty he holds the flag aloft in his other hand, until Padberg and Rohwer relieve him of it altogether.
It’s over.
But Tredup’s hand is flying across the paper.
‘“Crippled” Henning is the Flag-Waver.—Defence Counsel Comes to his Aid.—Flag Works Miraculous Cure of Bad Arm.’
That’s the sort of stuff that would surely gladden the heart of Mayor Gareis. Actually, all the defendants are perfectly pleasant types, Henning in particular is really very nice, but a writer for a paper can’t pass up on detail like that. It’s just what people like to read.
The usher tiptoes along behind the press desk, whispering the word: ‘Chronicle’—‘Chronicle’—‘Chronicle’ . . . Alarmed, Tredup spins round. ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘You’re to step outside a moment.’
He’s been called away. Stuff has won out. Back to selling advertising space, after once getting to sit at the press desk in this courtroom.
Tredup scoops up his papers and slinks out of the hall. One last look round at everything he’ll never see again: the judge’s table with the jurors, the little corner table where Councillor Röstel sits, representing the government in Stolpe, Chief Adviser Meier, Padberg is just talking.
Exile from paradise.
The door shut after him.
But outside in the anteroom, there’s only Fritz the trainee in his blue tunic. ‘The manuscript, please, Herr Tredup, it’s almost noon.’
Tredup sighs with relief, assembles his pages in order.
‘You know, Stuff is here too,’ he says, trying to sound casual about it.
‘He looked in on us this morning too. To say goodbye. He’s now with the Bauernschaft,’ Fritz reports.
‘Yeah, with the old Bauernschaft, eh,’ says Tredup, and looks out of the window where things seem to be brightening outside. ‘What’s the weather like?’ he asks.
‘It’s clearing, Herr Tredup.’
‘It’s clearing, ha,’ he says, and he strides confidently back in through the door, past the policeman, into the courtroom.
III
The final defendant to be questioned late in the afternoon is the dentist Franz Czibulla from Stolpe. The little bearded man steps up in front of the judge’s table with trembling limbs, repeatedly hiding his wrecked face in his hands.
The judge asks: ‘You are bringing a charge against the town of Altholm?’
‘Yes, Your Honour, I was so badly beaten up! I need to be among people, to earn my living. How can I show myself to people as I am?’ Once again, his hand reaches up to cover his face.
‘So, you were coming from the station . . . ?’ the judge begins.
‘Yes, I was coming from the station. I was on my way to my patient Hess in Propstenstrasse, I had made him a set of dentures. Herr Hess often can’t get away, so I come to him instead.’
‘We will be hearing from Herr Hess later,’ says the judge. ‘So, you were proceeding along the Burstah? Were there a lot of people?’
‘No. To begin with, not at all. It was deserted and terribly quiet. It struck me as unusual.’
‘So that struck you?’
‘Yes. How quiet it is, I was thinking. And then I looked in at the shopfronts, and again: Altholm is very quiet today.’
‘You didn’t stop to think why that might be?’
‘No. If I’d known what was going to happen to me, then I would have thought about it. But how can you know that?’
‘Did you not know that a demonstration of farmers had been slated to take place in Altholm? It was in all the papers.’
‘Maybe I read about it. But I’m certain I didn’t think about it.’
‘So you are no farmers’ supporter? Most of your patients are country-dwellers.’
‘I’m a businessman, Your Honour.’
‘You are said to have expressed your approval of the Bauernschaft movement, though.’
‘I’m a businessman, Your Honour; when I’m with a farmer, I agree with what he says, and when I’m with a Socialist, I say yes to him.’
‘So your reason for coming to Altholm was not to demonstrate?’
‘I came for Herr Hess’s teeth.’
‘As you walked on along the Burstah, what did you see?’
‘There was a sudden crowd of people, and policemen standing everywhere.’
‘And you didn’t stop at that point?’
‘I had an appointment with Herr Hess. Herr Hess likes me to be punctual.’
‘Well, perhaps you would tell the court what you saw then? Were the farmers hitting the police, or were the police hitting the farmers? What was happening?’
‘There was no hitting going on at all at that stage. People were pushing here and there, and the police kept calling out, “Make way, make way . . .” And when I’d gone another ten paces or so, there was the gentleman lying bleeding on the road.’
The judge explains: ‘Herr Henning, you mean.’
‘Yes, I know it was Herr Henning. I know him.’
The prosecuting counsel gets to his feet. ‘Would you ask the defendant how he comes to be acquainted with Herr Henning?’
The judge: ‘I’d rather have questions later. But very well: how did you come to be acquainted with the defendant?’
‘Really only since this morning, but I saw him in hospital a couple of times.’
‘Did the defendant not speak with his co-accused Henning while they were in hospital?’
Henning jumps up in agitation. ‘Prosecutor, if your face had been as badly beaten as Herr Czibulla’s, even you wouldn’t feel like talking much!’
‘Your Honour, would you kindly ask the defendant Henning to moderate his language. The defendant Henning—’
‘Herr Henning, that’s no way to talk. If everyone kept jumping to their feet and complaining when they didn’t agree with something . . . You understand, don’t you? Well, next time’—he smiles—‘curb yourself.—Has your question been answered to your satisfaction?’
‘Not at all. Kindly ask the defendant if he was in communication with the defendant Henning in any way in hospital. There is such a thing as non-verbal communication too.’
‘Your Honour, I really had other priorities than the gentleman. I saw him two or three times when he went to the bathroom and my door happened to be open on to the corridor.’
‘Very well.—Then you saw Herr Henning lying on the cobbles? Was he alone or was anyone with him?’
‘He was
lying there all alone. I was very upset that there was no one helping him.’
‘I see. Very upset, were you? Did that cause you to feel bitter about the police?’
‘I didn’t know at the time that the police had knocked him down.’
‘But you could see that his wounds had been inflicted by sabre blows? Who would have a sabre other than a policeman?’
‘It didn’t occur to me then. I was trying to make my way through when I saw the man lying there, and that upset me. But I didn’t stop and think about it. I had to get to Herr Hess.’
‘What made you go to the group with the flag? That surely wasn’t the direct way to Propstenstrasse?’
‘The direct way was blocked. I couldn’t get through. There was some space round the group with the flag.’
‘Was your attention caught by the flag?’
‘I never even saw it.’
‘A big flag like that! Have another look at it, over in the corner. You could hardly have overlooked it.’
‘Your Honour, there was so much to see on every side, I really didn’t notice the flag.’
‘All right then. You really didn’t notice the flag. What prompted you to make straight for the policemen? I take it you could see they were policemen?’
‘Yes, a couple of them were in uniform.’
‘So what were you about then as you went up to them?’
‘I don’t really know . . . Your Honour, I wanted to ask some questions, how to get through, what was going on . . . I don’t really know, I just wanted to get to the police. I felt very nervous.’
The judge: ‘I see.’ Hesitating, once more: ‘I see. Well now, Herr Czibulla, it seems to me this last point isn’t completely clear. You say you wanted to ask what was going on. Did you think the policemen had time to give you an answer?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . Oh, I’m not sure.’
‘You had noticed how much commotion there was. Was there not a lot of shouting and yelling around you?’
‘Yes, there was a bit of yelling, but I couldn’t work out what was happening.’
‘So you thought the constables might put you in the picture? With a badly injured man lying on the cobbles?’
‘Yes, because I wanted to know—’
‘And then you also wanted to know how to make your way through the crowd? Wouldn’t it have been simpler, I put it to you, if you had just turned back?’
‘But then I wouldn’t have seen Herr Hess!’
‘You could have gone via Grünhofer Strasse.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘And you wanted to ask how to get through. But there was the crowd, two thousand strong. And you told us how the policemen kept calling out, “Clear the road.”—Did the road get cleared at all?’
‘No, there were too many people.’
‘So how could the police help you if that was the case? You must have had some idea?’
‘No . . . I no longer remember . . . I just wanted to ask what was happening.’
‘That won’t quite do, Herr Czibulla. You were very upset. You had seen a man bleeding on the cobbles. The police were standing with their backs to you. Was it not your plan to smack one of the policemen over the head?’
‘Your Honour, as I stand here . . . I’m a dentist, what have I to do with such things?’
‘Well, that gentleman sells farm machinery, it wasn’t much to do with him either, if you want to put it like that, and still he was lying there on the cobbles.’
‘I can’t explain it,’ whispers the little fellow, ‘but I wanted to ask a question. The constables were standing there—’ He breaks off and looks around helplessly.
The defence counsel gets to his feet. ‘It seems to me that Herr Czibulla has given a perfectly plausible and sufficient account here. He was upset, concerned, nervous, a man was lying on the cobbles evidently in a bad way. Herr Czibulla was apprehensive. He heard people yelling all around him, people were agitated.
‘In such a situation, a man with a timid disposition looks for shelter and protection. There were the constables. What could be more obvious than going over to them. That’s what the police are there for. He didn’t think twice about it, it was an impulse. Perhaps he really did say to himself, ask them how you’ll get through and what’s going on. But the main thing was finding some protection.’
The judge asks: ‘Was it the case, Herr Czibulla, as your counsel Herr Streiter just speculated, that you felt yourself in need of protection, and sought out the protection of those constables?’
The little man whispered anxiously: ‘I don’t know . . . I just wanted to get to Herr Hess . . .’
‘Well, let’s leave that for now.—What happened next? Wait, one moment. Were you carrying anything when you approached the policemen?’
‘Was I carrying anything? My briefcase.’
‘Yes, in one hand. Which was it? Your left or your right?’
‘My left. No, my right. Oh, I can’t remember.’
‘Then what were you carrying in your other hand?’
‘In my other hand? Nothing.’
‘Herr Czibulla, carefully consider your replies. What were you carrying in your other hand?’
‘Nothing, Your Honour. Definitely nothing.’
‘Weren’t you holding a stick in your other hand?’
‘A stick? I don’t walk with a stick!’
‘Or an umbrella?’
‘Your Honour, I haven’t had an umbrella for twenty-five years. Ever since I lost mine in the first year of my marriage, I haven’t wanted to buy another one.’
Laughter in the gallery.
The usher runs down the aisle. ‘No laughter!—No laughter!—Laughter is not—’
The judge: ‘Thank you, Herr . . . Thank you, thank you, all right.—Herr Czibulla, I should warn you that we have a witness coming up who says you had a stick or umbrella in your hand.’
‘Your Honour, that’s just not possible. I never take a stick or umbrella. Ask my wife, ask any of my friends or relatives, no one has ever seen me with a stick.’
‘The witness will claim that you rammed Police Sergeant Meierfeld in the small of the back with a stick or umbrella handle.’
‘But how can he make such a claim! I plucked at his coat, Your Honour, like this, with finger and thumb.’
‘Herr Meierfeld also stated that he felt a violent blow.’
‘Your Honour, I said, “Excuse me, Constable,” three or four times, and then I plucked at his coat. No harder than a mouse would pluck.’
‘Well, you must have done it quite hard, because otherwise the officer wouldn’t have felt such a shock.’
‘As I say, no more than a mouse, Your Honour, very gently. And then he spun round and struck me with his sabre.’
IV
On the morning of the second day of the trial, the first witness was Police Commander Frerksen.
There is almost no one in the hall who doesn’t know him, but all crane their necks when he walks in. At the back, some even rise to their feet. He walks up to the judge’s table, slender and pale, leaning forward a little, shako and gloves in one hand, the handle of his sabre in the other.
‘The bastard looks like he’s been practising in a mirror,’ growls Stuff. ‘He’s never managed that before, holding his sabre just like an officer.’
So he hasn’t shot himself after all, thinks Tredup. I don’t know how he does it, the sabre and everything, and only yesterday he was chasing up the street after it . . .
To begin with, Frerksen speaks terribly softly, only gradually does his voice become louder.
No sooner has he given his details than the defence counsel rises. ‘I move that this witness not be allowed to proceed to the oath. The defence is of the view that this witness has exceeded his rights. A disciplinary process was already up against him.’
The prosecution disagrees: ‘The disciplinary process has been suspended. In the view of the prosecution, there is no reason not to proceed with the swearing-in.’ r />
And the judge: ‘The court will retire to consider.’
Everyone streams out into the little square outside, where you are allowed to smoke. Frerksen remains standing in front of the judge’s table for a moment, but everyone is looking at him. So he joins the throng pushing through the narrow little door, disappears from the general curiosity, and finds himself side by side with Henning.
It was a look in the eye of the other that made Frerksen aware of him. A glowering look of cold fire.
In the minds of both of them is the scene where the one gloved hand reached for the flagpole, while the other raised it triumphantly up up up.
And then the whole film to the point where Henning was carried into the pharmacy, and Frerksen came running up and called: ‘Don’t touch him! He’s under arrest.’
They look at each other, pressed together, shoulder to shoulder in the human current. They just look at each other.
Then Frerksen presses to the right, by force he takes his eyes off the other man, looks to the side, so as not to have to lower his gaze.
Henning lights a cigarette.
Frerksen finds Political Adviser Stein together with Tredup. Stein has bought Tredup.
‘I don’t think,’ Stein is just saying to Tredup, ‘that we have to stand for any more of that from the Chronicle. The report on the Nazi meeting was distorted and sensationalized. As if the Nazis were so many baa-lambs. You tell that to your Herr Stuff!’
‘But why?’ stammers Tredup. ‘It was all absolutely correct. The Communists had ambushed the Nazis! And the police were too weak to do anything about it.’
‘A “Black Day”!’ lisps the adviser. ‘A “30th of September to follow the 26th of July”. What a presentation! What actually happened? Nothing! But the police come in for it again. We know your Herr Stuff.’
‘The police? But the mayor himself said . . .’
‘Bah! If you want to be made privy to our press releases, then you don’t kick us every time you get a chance. Simple as that. Herr Stuff ought to know.’
‘I keep hearing the name “Stuff”,’ says the commander. ‘But Herr Stuff isn’t actually with the Chronicle any more, is he?’
‘Oh?’ inquires Stein, apparently quite astounded. ‘So who was it who wrote that garbage?’