He crosses the hallway, pulls the door slowly to, down the stairs, into the neighboring house.
In my Breast today a Bullet’s Load
Once there was a wonderful Paradise. The waters teemed with fish, out of the soil there sprouted trees, animals played about, beasts of the earth, of the sea, and birds.
A tree rustled. A serpent, serpent, serpent stuck out its head, a serpent dwelt in Paradise, more cunning than all the beasts of the field, and began to speak, to speak to Adam and Eve.
A week later as Franz Biberkopf slowly walks up the stairs with a bouquet wrapped in oiled paper, he thinks of fat Lina and reproaches himself, but not very seriously, stops, she is true as gold, that girl, what are you worrying about. Franz, pshaw, it’s business, business is business. He rings the bell, smiles in anticipation, smirks contentedly, warm coffee, a little doll. There’s somebody walking in there, it’s she. He throws out his chest, presents the bouquet at the wooden door, the chain is put back in place, his heart beats, how’s my necktie, her voice asks: “Who’s there?” He giggles: “The postman.”
Small black door slit, her eyes, he leans tenderly down, smirks happily, wags the nosegay in her direction. Crash. The door is shut, slammed shut. RRRrrr, bolted. The devil! The door is shut. What a nerve! There you got it. That woman must be crazy. Wonder if she recognized me. Brown door, door-frame, here I stand on the staircase, my tie’s all right. That’s unbelievable. Shall I ring again, or not? He looks at his hands, a bouquet just bought at the corner, for a mark, with oil paper wrapping. He rings again, twice, very long. She’s probably still standing at the door, just shut it, she doesn’t move, holds her breath and let’s me stand here. And then she still has my shoe-laces, the whole stock, maybe three marks’ worth, I’ve gotta get ‘em. There’s someone walking inside, now she walks away, she’s in the kitchen. What a-
I guess I’ll go downstairs again. Then up again: I’ll ring again, must find out about that, she couldn’t ‘a’ seen me, or maybe she took me for someone else, for a beggar, lots of ‘em come here. But when he stands in front of the door, he does not ring. He has no sensations. He only waits, stands there. Well, she’s not going to open the door, I just wanted to know. I won’t sell anything in this house any more, what’ll I do with my bouquet, it cost me a whole mark. I’ll throw it into the gutter. Suddenly he rings once more, as if on command, waits calmly, all right, she don’t even come to the door, she knows it’s me. Suppose I leave a note with the neighbors, I must get my stuff again.
He rings next door, nobody there. All right, let’s write a note. Franz goes to the window of the hallway, tears off the white corner of a newspaper and writes with a small pencil: “Since you don’t open, I want my stuff back, to be left at Klaussen’s, corner Elsasser.”
Say, you bitch, if you knew who I am, what one of ‘em got from me once, you wouldn’t. Well, we’ll fix that. I ought to take a hatchet and smash the door open. Softly he slips the note under the door.
Franz remains sullen all the following day. Next morning, before his meeting with Lüders, the saloon-keeper gives him a letter. That’s her. “Anything else left with it?” “No, what else?” “A package, with stuff in it?” “No, a boy brought this last night.” “Well, I’ll be darned, maybe I’m supposed to fetch the stuff myself.”
Two minutes later Franz walks over to the show-window, sinks down onto a wooden footstool, holds the letter in his slack left hand, pinches his lips together, ~tares across the table-top. Poor little Lüders comes in, sees Franz, notices how he’s sitting, there’s something wrong with him, and off he goes.
The proprietor steps up to the table: “What’s Lüders running away like that for, he hasn’t got his stuff yet.” Franz sits and sits. Did anybody ever see the like of it? My legs feel like they’d been hacked off. Did anybody ever see the like o’ that? That never happened before. Can’t get up. Let Lüders run, he’s got legs, he can run. That’s some fellow, unbelievable.
“Want a cognac, Biberkopf? Have you had a death in your family?” “No. No.” What’s he talking about, don’t hear very well, cotton in my ears. The proprietor does not leave. “What’s Lüders running away for? Nobody’s goin’ to hurt him. As if somebody was after him.” “Lüders? Oh, he’s probably got something to do. Yes, gimme a cognac.” He pours it down, his thoughts become scattered again. The devil, that’s funny about that letter. “Here, you dropped your envelope. Maybe you want to read the morning papers.” “Thanks.” He goes on brooding: Really I’d like to know what it’s all about, this letter, writing things like that. Lüders is a sensible fellow, has got children. Franz puzzles how this could have happened till his head grows heavy and falls forward, as though he were asleep; the proprietor believes he is tired, but it’s his pallor, space and emptiness, his legs slide from under him, he plops right into it and turns once to the left, now down, straight down.
Franz sprawls his chest and head over the table, he looks obliquely under his arm across the table-top, blows the dust off the table and holds his head: “Has Fatty Lina been here already?” “No, she never gets here till twelve.” You’re right, yes, it’s only nine, haven’t done anything yet, Lüders is gone, too.
What is a man to do? And then something surges through him, and he bites his mouth shut: That’s the punishment, they let me out, the others are still peeling potatoes behind the prison by the big rubbish dump, and I have to take the street-car, damn it, it was pretty nice there after all. He rises, got to get out in the street, must get rid of this, only don’t get scared, I’m standing straight on my legs, nobody’s going to come near me, nobody. “When Fatty comes, tell her I have a death in my family. News of a death, uncle or something like that. I won’t come at noon today, nope, she needn’t wait for me. Well, how much?” “As usual.” “Here you are.” “And you’ll leave the package here?” “Which package?” “Well, it certainly did hit you hard, Biberkopf. No nonsense now, hold onto yourself. I’ll keep the package for you all right.” “Which package?” “Well, you better go get some fresh air.”
Biberkopf is outside. The proprietor watches him through the windowpane: “They’ll probably bring him back right away. That’s certainly queer. Such a strong man, too. Fatty sure will open her eyes wide.”
A pale, small man stands in front of the house, he has his right arm in a bandage, his hand in a black leather glove. He’s been standing there an hour in the sun and does not go upstairs. He has just left the hospital. He has two grown daughters, a boy came later, he was four years old, he died in the hospital yesterday. First it was only inflammation of the throat. The doctor said he’d be back right away, but he didn’t come till night, and then he says at once: Hospital, possible diphtheria. The boy lies there four weeks, he was quite all right again, then he gets scarlet fever, too. And two days later, yesterday, he’s gone, weak heart, the medical director said.
The man stands in front of the door of his house, upstairs his wife will cry and moan as she did yesterday and all night long and reproach him for not taking the boy out three days ago, he was certainly all right then. But the nurses said, he still has germs in his throat and when there are other children at home, a thing like that is dangerous. The woman did not want to believe it right away, but it is really possible, that something might have happened to the other children. There he stands. Children shout and play in front of the house next door. Suddenly he remembers that they asked him in the hospital when he took the child there, if it had received the serum injection. No, it had not. He had waited all day for the doctor to come, not till night, and then he said: Must be moved at once.
And right away the war veteran starts out on the trot, across the street, along the street up to the corner, to the doctor, who they say is not at home. But he shouts, it is morning, the doctor must be at home. The door of the consulting-room opens. The bald-headed, corpulent gentleman looks at him, pulls him into his office. The man stands there talking about the hospital, the child is dead, the doctor presses his hand.
“But you let us wait all day Wednesday, from morning till six o’clock in the evening. We sent for you twice. You did not come.” “But I did come in the end.” Again the man starts shouting: “I am a cripple, we gave our blood at the front, and now they make us wait, anything is good enough for us.” “Now just sit down, calm yourself. please. The child did not die of diphtheria. Such infections sometimes occur in hospitals.” “Always trouble, always trouble,” he keeps on shouting. “They keep us waiting, we’re nothing better than coolies, our children can croak, the way we croaked.”
Half an hour later he walks slowly down the stairs, takes a turn in the sun, goes upstairs. His wife is busy in the kitchen. “Well, Paul?” “Well, mother.” They take each other’s hands, they drop their heads. “You haven’t eaten yet, Paul. I’ll get something ready at once.” “I went over to the doctor, told him he didn’t come on Wednesday. I told him a thing or two.” “But he didn’t die of diphtheria, our little Paul.” “Doesn’t matter. That’s what I told him. But if he had gotten a serum injection right away, he wouldn’t have had to go to the hospital. Not at all. But he didn’t come. I gave him a piece of my mind. One has to think of other people too when a thing like that happens again. That may happen every day, who knows?” “You’d better eat something now. What did the doctor say?” “He is a kind man. He’s not a youngster any more, he’s busy and has to hustle a lot. I know all that. But if something happens, it happens, that’s all. He gave me a glass of cognac and told me to calm myself. And his wife came in, too.” “I suppose you shouted a lot, Paul?” “No, not at all, only in the beginning, afterwards everything went quietly. He admitted it himself: someone had to tell him. He’s not a bad sort, but somebody has got to tell him.”
He trembles violently as he eats. The woman is crying in the next room, then they drink their coffee together by the stove. “Real coffee, Paul.” He sniffs over his cup: “Can smell it.”
And at Dawn the cool, cool Grave, but we’ll manage to control our Feelings
Franz Biberkopf has disappeared. On the afternoon of the day when he got the letter, Lina goes to his room. She wants to leave a brown knitted sweater which she has made as a surprise for him. Just imagine, there he is, sitting at home, when he usually goes peddling every day, particularly now it’s Christmas. He’s sitting on his bed, beside his table, monkeying around with his alarm clock which he has just taken apart. At first she’s frightened, because he’s there and may have seen the sweater, but he hardly looks at her, only looks at the table and his clock. She finds that quite all right, and manages to hide the sweater by the door. But then he talks so little, what’s the matter with him anyhow, he’s got a hang-over and what a face he’s making, I don’t recognize him like that, and there he is monkeying around with the old alarm clock, he acts like he’s off his bat. “The alarm clock was all right, Franz.” “No, no, it wasn’t all right, let me alone, it’s always making a funny noise, it don’t ring right, I’ll find out why.” And he goes on monkeying with it and leaves it lie around again and picks his teeth, he doesn’t even look at her. She does a fade-out, she’s feeling a bit anxious, he ought to take a good nap. And when she comes back in the evening, the man’s gone. Paid up, packed his things, taken everything along and gone. The landlady knows only that he has paid up, and she is supposed to write on the police card: Traveling. Probably has to make himself scarce, what?
Then Lina passed twenty-four terrible hours, until finally she found Gottlieb Meek to help her. He, too, had moved, she ran around in the afternoon from saloon to saloon; finally she nabbed him. He knows nothing about it, what can have happened to Franz, the fellow has got muscles or hasn’t he, and he’s clever too, he can stay away a while if he wants to. Suppose he’s in trouble for something or other? Out of the question with Franz. Maybe they had a row, Lina and Franz. But no, not at all, how could we, didn’t I bring him a sweater? Next morning Meck goes to the landlady, Lina keeps after him. Yes, Biberkopf left helterskelter like that, there was something wrong, he’s always been in a good humor, and that morning, too, there must have been something in the wind, you can’t convince me otherwise; he took everything along, he didn’t leave a single one of his things, come and see. Meck then says to Lina, Lina must calm herself. he’ll look into the matter. He reflects, and being an old peddler himself, he gets a hunch and goes to find biders. The latter is at home with his brats, where is Franz? Well, says he, obdurately, he gave me the slip, even left without paying what he owed me, Franz forgot to settle with me. But Meck doesn’t believe that at alL they talk together for over an hour, can’t .get anything out of the man. In the evening, Meck and Lina find him in the cafe opposite. And then things come to a head.
Lina talks and howls. But he must know where Franz is, weren’t they together in the morning, Franz certainly did say something, a single word. “No, he didn’t say anything.” “Something must ‘a’ happened to him.” “To him? He probably had to skedaddle off, what else would he do?” No, he hasn’t pulled anything funny, Lina won’t listen to anything like that, he didn’t do anything, she’d put her hand in the fire for that, maybe it would be best to go and ask the police. “You think maybe he’s gOlt lost and they ought to send out a general alarm for him?” Lüders laughed. The grief of that little fat thing! “What are we going to do, what on earth are we going to do?” Until Meck, who has been sitting there, thinking his bit, has enough of all this and gives Lüders a sign with his head. He’d like to talk with Lüders alone, this is no good. Whereupon Lüders goes outside. They walk along Ramlerstrasse up to Grenzstrasse, talking hypocritically the while.
And there in the pitch darkness Meck jumped unexpectedly upon little Lüders. He gave him a terrible thrashing. While Lüders was lying on the ground yelling, Meck took a handkerchief from his pocket and plunked it over his mouth. Then he let him get up and showed the little fellow his open knife. They were both out of breath. Then Meck advised Lüders, who had not yet come to, to beat it and to look for Franz tomorrow. “How you find him, bo, don’t matter to me. If you don’t find him, you’ll see what you’ll get. We’ll find you all right. And your old woman, too, if we have to.”
Pale and silent, little Lüders, at a wink from Meck stepped out of the cafe next evening and they went into the private room. It was some time before the proprietor lighted the gas. There they stood. Meck asked: “Well, didja go?” The other nodded. “You see? Well. and ...?” “There ain’t no And.” “What did he say, how can you prove you were there?” “You think, Meck, he’d have to beat holes into my head like you did? No, I was ready for that.” “Well. what about it now?”
Lüders came nearer: “Look out. Meck, listen to me. Just you listen to me: I want to tell you, if Franz is your friend, you needn’t have talked to me like that yesterday on his account.”
Meck stared at him, he’ll soon get another biff in the jaw, and then they can all come in, as far as he’s concerned. “No, why he’s crazy! Didn’t you ever notice it, Meck? There’s something’s wrong in his upper story.” “No, now cut out that nonsense. He’s my friend, say, for God’s sake, my legs are shaking.” Then Lüders starts telling his story, Meck sits down.
He had met Franz yesterday between five and six: he was lodging right near his old home, three houses beyond, he was seen to go in with his cardboard box and a pair of shoes in his hand, and then they led him in right upstairs to a room in the courtyard building. When Hiders knocks and goes in, Franz is lying on the bed, his feet with his shoes on hanging over the side. He recognizes Lüders, a light is burning overhead, that’s Lüders, there he comes, the scoundrel, but what’s the matter with him? Lüders keeps his hand on an open knife in his left pocket. In the other one he has money, a few marks, he puts them down on the table, talks about all sorts of things, turns round and round, his voice is hoarse, he shows the bumps on his head which Meck gave him, his swollen ears, he’s about to bawl with anger and rage.
Biberkopf sits up, his face growing very hard at t
imes, the little pouches of flesh in his face a-quiver. He points to the door and says softly: “Get out o’ here.” Lüders has put down his few marks, he is thinking of Meck and how they would be lying in wait for him, and asks for a note saying he was there, or if Meck could come up himself, or Lina. Then Biberkopf stands up and Lüders quickly slips towards the door, his hand on the latch. But Biberkopf edges away to the wash-stand, takes the basin and-whatcha think-with a single lunge he hurls the water across the room at Hiders’ feet. Dust thou art, to dust returnest. Hiders opens his eyes, ducks to one side, presses the latch. Biberkopf takes hold of the water pitcher, there was still some water in it, we still have lots left, we’re going to clean things up, dust thou art. He pours it over him at the door, it squirts against his throat and mouth, ice-cold water. Lüders slides out, he’s gone, the door is shut.
In the cafe he whispers venomously: “He’s crazy, don’t you see, there you have it.” Meck asked: “What number was it? Who does he live with?”
Afterwards Biberkopf threw load after load into the room. He splashed water with his hand through the air: Everything’s gotta be clean, everything must go; now let’s open the window and get some air, we got nothing to do with all that. (No houses collapsing, no sliding of roofs, all that’s behind me. Once and for all. Behind me.) It began to grow cold as he stood by the window staring at the floor. Ought to wipe it off, it’s dripping on their heads down there, it’s making stains. He shut the window and lay down flat on the bed. (Dead. Dust thou art, to dust returnest.)
Berlin Alexanderplatz Page 12
