Then they grow quite silent, one of the newcomers calms them down, they let this pass; Dreske sits humped together and scratches his head, the proprietor steps up from behind the bar, sniffles and sits down at the table beside Franz. Franz at the end of his song salutes the whole of life, he swings his mug: “Cheerio,” beats on the table, beams, everything’s all right, he has eaten his fill, wonder where Lina’s gone to, he pats his full face, he’s a strong man, plenty of flesh with a touch of fat. Nobody answers. Silence.
One of the men across the way swings his leg over his chair, buttons his coat up, tightens his belt, a tall erect fellow, one of the newcomers; the applecart’s upset all right. He goose-steps towards Franz, who’ll get a crack on the head, that is, if the newcomer can reach him. With a hop he straddles Franz’s table. Franz looks on, waiting: “Look here, there must be other chairs in the place.” But he points down at Franz’s plate: “What you been eatin’?” “Didn’t I tell you, there must be other chairs in the place, if you only use your eyes. Say, your mother musta given you a bath that was too hot for you when you were a kid, didn’t she?” “That’s not the point. I want to know what you been eating.” “Cheese sandwiches, you jackass. Don’t you see the rind, you numbskull. Now you get down from the table, if you got no manners.” “They were cheese sandwiches all right, 1 can smell that for myself. Only where from?”
But Franz leaps up with flushed ears, the men at the other table do the same. Franz has grabbed his table, tipped it over, and the newcomer, with plate, mug, and mustard pot, falls plump down on the floor. The plate is broken. Henschke expected that, and stamps on the pieces: “Nothing doing, no brawls in my place, no scrapping here, if you don’t keep quiet, you’ll get thrown out. “ The long-legged chap is on his feet again, shoves the proprietor aside: “Just leave us alone here, Henschke, there ain’t going to be any fight. We’re settling accounts. If anybody breaks anything, he’ll have to pay for it.” With heart and with soul, thinks Franz, who has squeezed himself against the window in front of the blinds, here goes, if those fellows only don’t touch me, boy, if they only don’t touch me: I feel kind towards everybody, but there’s going to be trouble, if that fellow’s silly enough to touch me.
The tall man pulls up his trousers, well, he’s off. Franz sees there’s something coming, what’s Dreske going to do now, I wonder, he’s just standing there and looking on. “Georgie, what kind of a cheap guy is this anyway, where did you pick up this louse you’re dragging round here?” The tall man was fussing with his trousers, they’re slipping down most likely, ought to get some new buttons sewed on. He gibes at the proprietor: “Just let ‘em talk. We let Fascists talk, too. Whatever they say, they get freedom of speech from us.” And Dreske Signals towards the back with his left arm. “Nope, Franz, I didn’t mix in this, the trouble you get yourself into with your songs, and everything, nope, I won’t mix in it, we never had that kind of thing here before.”
There comes a call like thunder’s peal, aha! that song I sang in the courtyard, they want to razz me about that, they’d like to say something about that, too.
“Fascist, bloodhound.” The tall fellow roars at Franz: “Gimme that arm-band! And be quick about it.”
Now it’s going to start, the four of ‘em want to get at me, I’ll stand with my back to the window, first of all let’s get a chair. “Lemme have that arm-band. I’ll pull it out of his pocket. I want to get that band from this guy.” The others are with him. Franz has the chair in his hands. First get hold of him. Hold him first. Then I’ll pull it out.
The proprietor holds onto the tall chap from behind, and pleads: “Now Biberkopf, you better go, right away, just get out.” He’s worrying about his premises, probably hasn’t had his panes insured, well, it’s all right with me. “Henschke, of course, there’s plenty other saloons in Berlin, I was only waiting for Lina. So you’re going to help those fellows? Why do they want to push a man out, when I come here every day and those fellows are here for the first time?” The proprietor has pushed the tall chap back, the other, the newcomer, spits out: “Because you’re a Fascist, you got that band in your pocket, you’re a swastika man.”
“So I am, I told Georgie Dreske all about it, too. And why? You don’t understand and that’s why you holler.” “No, it was you who hollered, the Watch on the Rhine.” “If you start a row, like you did just now, and one of you sits down at my table, you’ll never get any peace in this world that way. Not that way. And there’s got to be peace so we can work and live. Factory hands and tradespeople and everybody, and some kind of order, otherwise you can’t work. And how do you want to make your living, you big-mouthed slobs? What you do is to get soused on talking. All you know is bow to start a row and bait other people till they get mad and land you one. Are you going to let anybody step on your toes?”
Suddenly be begins to shout, what’s come over him, something bubbles up in him, something’s been released, his eyes become bloodshot: “You criminals, you, you lousy fools, why, you don’t know what you’re doing, somebody has got to beat hell out of you, you ruin the whole world, just watch out you don’t get into trouble, you blood-spillers, you crooks, you.”
He is bubbling over, he’s done time in Tegel, life is awful, what kind of a life is this, the fellow who wrote that song is right, I mustn’t think about what happened to me, Ida.
And he goes on shouting with a feeling of horror, what’s going to happen there, he wards it off, he steps on it, he must bellow, bellow it down. The cafe roars, Henschke stands before him at the table, dares not come near him, standing there like that with that roaring coming out of his throat all topsy-turvy and foaming: “And none of you’s got anything to say to me, not one of you can tell me anything, not a single one of you, I know all that better than you do, I didn’t go to the front and lie in the trenches for this, so you could bait me, you agitators, we’ve gotta have order, order, I’m telling you, order-and put that in your pipes and smoke it, order and nothing else” (yes, that’s it, here we are, that’s just it), “and if anybody comes and starts a revolution now and don’t give us order, they ought to be strung up all along the street” (black poles, telegraph poles, a whole row on the Tegel Road, I know all about that) “then they’ll get theirs, when they swing, yes, sir. You might remember that whatever you do, you criminals.” (Yes, then we’ll have order, then they’ll be quiet, that’s the only thing to do, we’ll find that out.)
A frenzy, a numbness comes over Franz Biberkopf. Blindly he croaks in his throat, his eyes are glassy, his face blue, bloated, he spits, his hands burn, the man’s out of his mind. His fingers claw the chair, but he manages to hold on to it. Soon he will take the chair and haul out.
Danger ahead, clear the streets, load, fire, fire, fire.
At the same time this roaring man hears his own voice, from far away, is looking at himself. The houses, the houses threaten to cave in again, the roofs to smash over him, this won’t do, no, they can’t get away with that, those criminals won’t succeed, what we need is order.
Something buzzes inside him: it’s going to start soon and I’m going to do something, grab a throat, no, no, I’m about to topple over, fall down, another moment, just one moment more. And me thinking the world is quiet, there is law and order. In his twilight state he is frightened: something is out of gear with the world, the others seem so terrible to him, he experiences it with a sort of clairvoyance.
But once in Paradise there lived two beings, Adam and Eve. Paradise was the wonderful garden of Eden. Birds and animals played about. Well, if that fellow isn’t crazy. They’re not moving, the tall one, too, is puffing away back there through his nose and blinking at Dreske; we’d better sit down at the table, then we can talk about something else. Dreske stutters during the calm: “Well, Franz, you’d better be going, you might let go of that chair, too, you’ve talked enough now.” Things are calming down inside Franz, the cloud is passing over. Passing over. Thank God, passing over. His face grows paler and paler, beco
mes less tense.
They stand at their table. The tall fellow is seated drinking. The woodmanufacturers boast about their receipts, Krupp lets his pensioners starve to death, a million and a half unemployed, an increase of 226,000 in two weeks.
The chair bas fallen from Franz’s hand, his hand has become soft his voice sounds as usual, he still holds his head bowed, they don’t excite him any more: ‘T1I go then. The pleasure is all mine. What’s in your heads is none of my business.”
They listen without replying. Let those contemptible scoundrels, belonging to a renegade clique, slander the Soviet constitution with the approval of the bourgeoisie and the social chauvinists. It bu t. hastens and deepens the rupture of the revolutionary workers of Europe with the Scheidemen, and their likes. The masses of the oppressed classes are with us.
Franz picks up his cap: “I’m sorry, Georgie, for us to separate like this.” He holds out his hand, Dreske does not take it, sits down on his chair. Blood must bubble, blood must bubble, in currents muggy and thick.
“All right then, I’ll go. How much do I owe, Henschke, and don’t forget the glass and the plate. “
That’s his kind of order. For 14 children a china cup. A charity edict by Hirtsiefer, the Centrist minister: Publication of this edict shall be omitted. But because of the paucity of the means put at my disposal only those cases can be considered where not only the number of children has reached a very high figure - let us say 12 - but also where the careful education of the children with respect to economic conditions involves a special sacrifice and is nevertheless carried out in an exemplary manner.
One of the fellows shouts after Franz: “Greet you in victory, hail - potatoes with a herring’s tail.” Ought to wipe the mustard off his backsides, the louse. Too bad I didn’t get my claws on him. Franz has his cap on. He is thinking about the Hackesche Market, the fairies, the whitehead’s stand with the magazines, and he didn’t want to do it, he hesitates, he leaves.
He is outside in the cold. Lina, who happens to be just arriving, is standing directly in front of the cafe. He walks slowly. He’d give anything to go back and tell those fellows how crazy they are. They sure are crazy, they get all boozed up, they’re not really all like that, not even the tall, nervy fellow who flopped down on the floor. Only they don’t know what to do with all that blood, yes, sir, their blood’s hot, if they were out in Tegel, or had something behind them, they’d find out a thing or two, maybe a hundred things.
He takes Lina’s arm, looks around the dark street. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few more street-lamps. What do those people want anyway, first the fairies, who don’t concern me, and now the Reds? What have I got to do with all this, let ‘em clean up their own dirt. Ought to leave a fellow be; you can’t even finish your beer in peace. What I really would like to do would be to go back and smash Henschke’s whole outfit into smithereens. Something flares and flickers again in Franz’s eyes, his forehead and nose become thick. But that passes, he sticks close to Lina, he scratches her wrist, she smiles: “That’s all right, Pranzeken, that’s a nice Ii’l scratch you gave me.”
“Let’s go shake a foot, Lina; and not go into a pig-pen like that again. I’ve had enough of it. they smoke and smoke, and there’s a little goldfinch in there and it could easily pass out. for all they care.” And he explains to her how entirely right he had been just now, and she agrees. They take the street-car and ride down to the Jannowitz Brücke to Walterchen’s dance-hall. He is going just as he is and Lina, even, is not to change her dress, she is nice enough like that. In the car stout Lina takes a little rumpled paper out of her pocket. She brought it along to show him, it’s a Sunday paper, the Peace Messenger. Franz remarks he doesn’t handle that paper, he squeezes her hand, admires the nice title and headline on the first page: “Prom Misfortune to Happiness.”
With our little hands we go clap, clap, with our little feet we go tap, fish, fowl, all day long, paradise.
The car jolts along. With their heads together, they read by the dim light the poem on the first page which Lina had marked with a pencil: “Walking is best when we’re two,” by E. Fischer: “When we walk alone, it’s a walk of woe, The foot oft stumbling, the heart bowed low: Walking is best when we’re two. And if you fall, who’ll take your arm, If weary, who’ll ward off all harm? Walking is best when we’re two. You silent rover through space and time, Take Jesus as your mate sublime. Walking is best when we’re two. He knows the road, he knows the lane, with word and deed he heals your pain, Walking is best when we’re two.”
At that I’m still thirsty, thinks Franz in the meantime, as he reads, two glasses wasn’t enough, and talking so much dries your throat. And then he remembers his song, he feels at home, and presses Lina’s arm.
She scents the morning air. On the way through Alexanderstrasse to Holzmarktstrasse she softly clings to him: How about getting properly engaged soon?
Dimensions of this Franz Biberkopf. He is a Match for old Heroes
This Franz Biberkopf, formerly a cement-worker, then a furniture-mover, and so on, and now a newsvender, weighs around two hundred pounds. He is strong as a cobra and has again joined an athletic club. He wears green putties, hobnail boots, and a leather jacket. As far as money is concerned, you won’t find a great deal on him, his current income arrives always in small quantities, but just let anyone try to get near him.
Is he hounded by things in his past, Ida and so on, by conscientious scruples, nightmares, restless sleep, tortures, Furies from the day of our great-grandmothers? Nothing doing. Just consider the change in his situation. A criminal, an erstwhile God-accursed man (where did you get that, my child?), Orestes, killed at the altar Clytemnestra, hardly pronounceable that name, eh? anyhow, she was his own mother. (Which altar do you really mean? Nowadays you could run around a long lime looking for a church that’s open at night) I say, times are changed, up and at him, hey, terrible brutes, trollops with snakes, then dogs without muzzles, a whole repulsive menagerie, they snap at him, but don’t get near him, because he stands at the altar, that’s a Hellenic conception, and the whole pack of them dancing angrily around him, the dogs amongst them. Without harps, as the song says, the Furies dance, they wind themselves about the victim in a mad frenzy, a delusion of the senses, a preparation for the booby-hatch.
But they don’t hound Franz Biberkopf. Let’s admit it, here’s how, with his arm-band in his pocket he drinks one mug after another at Henschke’s or somewhere else, and in between a Doornkaat, and his heart grows warm. Thus our furniture-mover, newsvender, etc., Franz Biberkopf, of Berlin N. E., differs from the famous old Orestes in the end of 1927. Who would not rather be in whose skin?
Franz killed his fiancee, Ida, the family name does not matter, in the flower of her youth. This happened during an altercation between Franz and Ida, in the home of her sister Minna, where, first of all, the following organs of the woman were slightly damaged: the skin on the end of her nose and in the middle, the bone and the cartilage underneath, a fact, however, which was noticed only after her arrival at the hospital and later played a certain role in the court records, furthermore the right and left shoulder sustained slight bruises, with loss of blood. But then the discussion became lively. The expressions “son of a bitch” and “whorechaser” were extremely upsetting to Franz Biberkopf who, albeit very dissipated and at that time excited for other reasons, was nevertheless very sensitive about his honor. His muscles jiggered up and down. All he had taken in his hand was a small wooden cream-whipper, for he was in training then and had recently wrenched his hand. And with a twice repeated, terrible lunge, he had brought this cream-whipper with its wire spiral, in contact with the diaphragm of Ida, who was the second party to the dialogue. Up to that day Ida’s diaphragm had been entirely intact, but that very small person, who was very nice to look at, was herself no longer quite intact--or rather: the man she was supporting, suspected, not without reason, that she was about to give him his walking papers in favor of a man recently arrived
from Breslau. The diaphragm of this dainty little girl, at any rate, was not adapted to contact with cream-whippers. At the first blow she cried “ouch” and no longer called him “you dirty bum,” but “oh, man,” instead. The second encounter with the cream-whipper occurred with Franz holding an upright position after a quarter turn to the right on Ida’s part. Whereupon Ida said nothing at all, but merely opened her mouth, pursing her lips curiously, and jerked both arms in the air.
What happened to the woman’s diaphragm a second before, involves the laws of statics, elasticity, shock, and resistance. The thing is wholly incomprehensible without a knowledge of those laws. We shall therefore have recourse to the following formulæ
Newton’s first law which says: Every body perseveres in its state of rest or of moving uniformly in a straight line, except so far as it is made to change that state by external force (this applies to Ida’s ribs). Newton’s second law of motion: Change of motion is proportional to the impressed force, and takes place in the direction in which the force is impressed (the impressed force is Franz, or his arm, and his fist, together with the contents thereof). The magnitude of the force is expressed by the following formula:
f=c lim (Äv/Ät) =cw.
The acceleration effected by the force, that is, the degree of the disturbance of rest thus effected, is expressed by the following formula:
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