Franz has a good laugh to himself as he walks downstairs behind Pums. This is certainly a lucky Sunday, a thing like this don’t come your way every day, so it’s really true, the bells did mean something. I’m goin’ to clean up on this, well, fifteen or twenty marks on Sunday and I ain’t got any expenses, anyway. He is happy, the mail-grifter’s card crackles in his pocket, he starts to say good-bye to Pums in front of the streel-door. But the latter looks astonished: “What’s this? I thought we’d fixed that up, Biberkopf?” “Sure we did, it’s all right, y’can depend on me. But I just gotta run over home, y’know, heehee, I got a girl, Cilly, maybe y’know her through Reinhold, he had ‘er before me. Why, I can’t leave the gal up in that place alone all day Sunday.” “Now listen, Biberkopf, I can’t let you go now, afterwards everything’lI be all messed up, and I’ll be left in the lurch. No, for the sake of a dame, imagine it, Biberkopf, that won’t do, we’re not going to let business go to pot on account of that. She won’t run away from you.” “I know that all right, that’s where you said one true word, that gal, I can rely on her all right. But that’s just it. Can I let her sit around there all by herself, and she don’t hear nothiug or see nothing or know nothing? What’ll I do’?” “Now just come along, it’ll be all right.”
“What’ll I do’?” thought Franz. They went off. Once more on the corner of Prenzlauer Strasse. Here and there the street-girls were already standing abollt, the same girls Cilly is going to see a few hours later, when she runs around looking for Franz. Time progresses, all kinds of things are collecting around Franz; soon he will be standing on a car, they will take hold of him. Now he wonders how he might quickly deliver the crazy man’s post-card and perhaps make a dash up to Cilly for a minute or so, the gal’s waiting.
He walks with Pums along the Alte Schonhauser Strasse up to the side wing; that’s his office, says Pums. There’s a light up there, the room really does look like an office, with a telephone and typewriters. An elderly woman with a severe face comes frequently into the room where Franz is sitting with Pums. “That’s my wife, Herr Franz Biberkopf, he’s going to help us out a bit today.” She goes out as if she hadn’t heard anything. While Pums is busying himself at his desk, just wants to look up something, Franz reads a copy of the B.Z. which is lying on the chair: 3000 nautical miles in a canoe, by Gunther Pluschow, vacation cruises, Lania Sale, Piscator Stage in the Lessing Theater. Piscator himself directing. What’s Piscator, what’s Lania? What’s envelope and what’s contents, in other words, drama? No more child-marriages in India, a cemetery for prize cattle. News in brief: Bruno Walter will conduct his last concert this season, Sunday, April 15, at the Municipal Opera. The program will include the Symphony in E-flat major by Mozart, the net profits will go to the fund for the Gustave Mahler Monument in Vienna. Chauffeur, 32, mar., Driver’s License 2a, 3b, wants place, private business or truck.
Herr Pums is hunting for matches on the table to light his cigar. At that moment the elderly woman opens a wallpaper door, and three men walk slowly in. Pums does not look up. So those are all Pums’s men. Franz shakes hands with them. The woman is about to go out again, when Pums nods to Franz: “Hey, Biberkopf, didn’t you want to get a letter delivered? Clara, you take care of it.” “Say, that certainly is nice of you, Frau Pums, to do me that favor. Well, it ain’t a letter, only a card, and to my girl.” And he tells her exactly where he lives, writes it down on one of Pums’s business envelopes, they are to tell Cilly not to worry, and he’ll be home around ten o’clock, and then the post-card.
Well, now everything’s straightened out, he feels as if a load had been taken off his shoulders. Once in the kitchen the thin, evil-looking hussy reads the address on the envelope, and puts it in the fire: she crumples the card up and throws it in the dustbin. Then she moves up close to the stove and goes on drinking her coffee, doesn’t think of anything: just sits and drinks, it’s good and warm. Biberkopf’s joy is tremendous, when who should come shuffling in, wearing a beret and a heavy green soldier’s outfit, but-well, who do you think? Who is it slouches along as if he were dragging first one leg and then the other out of the thick mud? Why, it’s Reinhold. Franz feels at home now. Well, that’s fine. “With a man like you, Reinhold, I’m Johnny on the spot, no matter what happens.” “What, you’re going to be in on this?” Reinhold sniffles and snoops around. “That’s some decision you made.” And then Franz starts to tell him about the brawl on the Alex and how he helped Emil along. They listen avidly, all four of them, Pums is still writing; they nudge each other, then they start to whisper, two by two. One of them sticks close to Franz the whole time.
At eight o’clock the ride begins. All of them are well wrapped up, and Franz, too, gets an overcoat. He says, beaming, he’d like to keep it, and that lambskin cap as well. Oh Baby. “Why not?” they say. “But you’ll have to earn it.”
Off they go, outside it’s pitch-dark, a lot of mud. “What are we going to do anyway?” asks Franz, when they reach the street. They reply: “First we’ll go get a taxi or two. And then we’ll fetch the stuff, apples, and whatever there is.” They let a lot of taxis pass by; there are two standing in Metzer Strasse which they take, hop in, and they’re off.
For about half an hour the two taxis ride along one behind the other, can’t make out the district very well in this darkness, probably Weissensee or Friedrichsfelde. The boys say: The old man will most likely have to attend to something first. And then they stop in front of a house, it’s a wide street bordered with trees, Tempelhof probably, the others say they don’t know it either, they’re all smoking a lot.
Reinhold is sitting next to Biberkopf. Strange how different this Reinhold’s voice is now! He no longer stutters, but talks, quite loudly, and sits straight as a captain; the boy even laughs, the others in the car listen to him. Franz takes him by the arm. “Well, Reinhold, old boy” (he whispers it to him in the nape of his neck under his hat) “well, whatcha got to say, now? Wasn’t I right about the dames? Heh?” “Well, maybe, everything’s
O. K., everything’s O. K.” Reinhold slaps him on the knee, the lad has a punch, gee whiz, that boy’s got some fist. Franz blusters: “Are we goin’ to get excited on account of a gal? That jane isn’t born yet, is she?”
Life in the desert is often very difficult. The camels search and search and find nothing, and one day we come upon their bleached bones.
The two taxis drive through the town without stopping, after Pums had gotten back in with a suitcase. It’s just about nine when they step on the Bulowplatz. And from now on they go on foot, separately, two by two. They cross under the arch of the city railway. Franz says: “Why, we’ll soon be at the market.” “Yes, here we are. But we gotta fetch the stuff first and then take it across.”
Suddenly the men in front have become invisible, they’re on KaiserWilhelm Strasse, right next to the city railway, and then Franz, too, disappears in a black hallway with his companion. “Here we are,” says the one next to Franz. “You can throw your cigar away now.” “What for?” The other presses his arm, jerks the cigar out of his mouth. “Because I’m tellin’ you, see.” He is off across the dark courtyard, before Franz can do anything. Didja see that? I’ll be damned, leave a fellow standing here in the dark, where’s the rest of ‘em anyway? And as Franz stumbles across the courtyard, there’s a gleam from a pocket flashlight in front of him, he’s blinded, it’s Pums. “Heh there, whatcha doing? You’re not supposed to be here, Biberkopf, you stand in front, you’re to watch out. Better go back.” “Gosh, I thought I was supposed to get something here.” “Back, go back, didn’t anybody tell you anything?”
The light goes out, Franz stumbles back. Something is trembling in him, he gulps: “What’s all this about anyhow, where are those guys?” He is back in front of the big door when two of them come from the rear – murder, thief, they’re pinching things, they’re breaking into this place, I want to get away, away from here, oh, for an ice pond, a sliding-board, and away we go on the shoot the chu
tes, over the water and back to Alexanderplatz - but they hold him back, Reinhold among them, he’s got an iron claw: “Didn’t they tell you nothin’? You stand here and keep an eye out if there’s any trouble.” “Who? Who says that?” “Listen now, no nonsense, we’re up against it. Ain’t you got any backbone? Don’t try to put on airs. You stand here and whistle if anything is up.” “Me ...” “Hold yer trap, you hear me.” A blow crashes down on Franz’s right arm with such force that he shrinks back.
Franz is standing alone in the dark hallway. He is trembling all over. What am I standing here for anyway? They’ve put one over on me, all right. That dirty dog beat me. They’re swiping something back there, who knows what they’re swiping, why, they’re no fruit dealers, they’re just plain burglars. The long road of black trees, the iron gate, after closing time all the prisoners shall go to bed, in summer they are permitted to stay up till dark. That’s a gang of burglars with Pums as their leader. Shall I go away, or shall I not? Shall 1, what’ll I do anyway? They lured me here, the crooks. They put me here as a lookout.
Franz stood there, trembling and nursing his bruised arm. Prisoners are not to conceal diseases, nor shall they malinger; both offenses are punishable. Deathly silence in the house; from the Bülowplatz comes a tooting of automobile horns. Back in the courtyard there is a sound of cracking and bustling, occasionally the gleam of a flashlight, sh… sh… One of them has gone down in the cellar with a bull’s-eye lantern. They’ve locked me up in here, I’d rather have dry bread and boiled potatoes than stand here for such crooks. Several pocket-lamps flashed in the courtyard, Franz remembered the man with the post-card, a funny chap, really a funny chap. And he couldn’t move from the spot, felt glued to the ground; since Reinhold had hit him, that’s when it started, he’s been stuck here ever since. He wants to, would have liked to, but it didn’t work, it wouldn’t let him go. The world is made of iron, you can’t do anything about it, it comes rushing up at you like a steamroller, nothing to be done about it, there it comes, it rushes on, there they sit on the inside, that’s a tank, inside a devil with horns and flaming eyes, they tear your flesh to pieces. And it rushes on and nobody can escape. Now it twitches in the dark; when light comes, we’ll be able to see it all, how it lies there, what it was like.
I’d like to get away from here, I’d like to get away, those crooks, the dirty hounds, I don’t want anything like that. He tugged at his legs, now wouldn’t that be a joke, if I couldn’t get away. He tried to move. Just as if somebody’d thrown me into a lot o’ dough and I couldn’t get out of the stuff. But it began to work, it was working. It was working with difficulty, but working nevertheless. I’ll get out o’ here, somehow, let ‘em go ahead and swipe that stuff. I’m goin’ to make myself scarce. He took off his overcoat and went back to the courtyard, slowly and anxiously. He would have liked to throw the overcoat into their faces, instead of which, be threw it into the darkness behind the house. The light flashed again, two men ran past him laden with overcoats, whole bundles of them. Meanwhile the two autos had stopped in front of the gateway; in passing him one of the men struck Franz on the arm, it was an iron blow. “Everything all right there?” It was Reinhold. Now two more men came rushing past him with baskets, and then two back and forth without a light, past Franz, who could do nothing but gnash his teeth and clench his fists. They toiled and labored away like savages in the courtyard and across the hallway, back and forth, in the darkness; otherwise they might well have been frightened by Franz. For it was no longer Franz who was standing there. Without his overcoat and cap, his eyes bulging out, his hands in his pockets, lying in wait to see if he could recognize a face, who’s that, who’s that, anyway, no knife at hand, just you wait, maybe in my coat, well, m’laddies, y’don’t know Franz Biberkopf, you’ll find out a thing or two when you grab that boy. Then all four started to run out laden with bundles, one after the other, and a small tubby fellow took Franz by the arm. “Come on, Biberkopf, we’re off, everything’s O. K.”
And so Franz is stowed away between the others in a big car. Reinhold sits next to him, pressing Franz closely beside him, that’s the other Reinhold. They travel without any lights on the inside. “Whatcha pushing me for?” whispers Franz; there ain’t any knife around here.
“Hold yer trap, feller; not a peep out of anybody!” The first automobile is racing along; the chauffeur of the second looks back to the right, steps on the gas, and shouts back through the open window: “Somebody’s after us.”
Reinhold sticks his head out of the window: “Cheese it, get around the corner!” The other car is still after them. Reinhold sees Franz’s face in the light of a street-lamp; Franz is beaming, his face is happy. “Watcha laughin’ at, you monkey, what’s the matter, you crazy or somethin’?” “Can’t I laugh; none of your business.” “If you laugh?” The lazy hound, the good-for-nothing bum! Suddenly something flashes over Reinhold, something he hadn’t thought of during the whole ride: that’s that fellow Biberkopf, who left him in the lurch, who gets his janes to leave him, he’s got the goods on him, the fresh, fat sucker and I told him something about myself once, yep. And by this time Reinhold has forgotten about the ride.
Water in the black forest, you lie so mute. In terrible repose you lie. Your surface does not move, when there is a storm in the forest, and the firs begin to bend, and the spider-webs are torn between the branches, and there is a sound of splitting. The storm does not penetrate you.
This chap, thinks Reinhold, is sitting in clover, maybe he thinks that car back there is going to catch up with us, and here I sit, and him lecturing me, the jackass, about women, and how I should control myself.
Franz keeps laughing to himself, he looks backward through the little window to the street, yep, the car’s after them all right, the jig’s up, wait, that’s your punishment, and even if I do get it in the neck along with the rest of you, they mustn’t make a fool of me, those crooks, those scoundrels, that gang of criminals.
Cursed be the man, saith Jeremiah, that trusteth in man; he shall inherit the parched places in the wilderness, in a salt land, and not inhabited. The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked: who can know it?
At that moment Reinhold gives a secret signal to the man opposite him, darkness and light alternate in the car, there’s a hunt on. Unperceived, Reinhold has slipped his hand to the latch on the door, just beside Franz.
They are racing into a wide thoroughfare. Franz is still looking back. All of a sudden someone grabs him by the chest and wrenches him forward. He tries to get up, strikes Reinhold in the face; but the latter is terribly strong. The wind roars into the car, snow comes flying in. Franz is thrust right across the bundles, against the open door; with a yell, he grabs Reinhold around the neck. At that moment someone at his side strikes his arm with a stick. The second man in the car gives him a jerk and a whack on his left thigh, and. as he rolls down off the bundles of clothing, Franz is poked through the open door; he tries to catch hold with his legs wherever he can. His arms cling to the running-board.
Then a stick comes crashing down on the back of his head. Crouching over him, Reinhold throws his body out into the street. The door slams to. The pursuing car races over the man. Hunters and hunted vanish into the blizzard.
Let us be happy when the sun rises and its beautiful light is here. Gas light may go out, electric light, too. People get up when the alarm clock rattles, a new day has begun. If it was April 8th yesterday, it is the 9th today, if it was Sunday, it is now Monday. The year has not changed, nor the month, but a change has occurred nevertheless. The world has rolled ahead. The sun has risen. It is not certain what this sun is. Astronomers concern themselves a great deal with this body. According to them, it is the central body of our planetary system; for our earth is only a small planet, and what. indeed, are we? When the sun rises like that and we are glad, we should really be sad, for what are we, anyway; the sun is 300,000 times greater than the earth; and what a host of numbers and zeros there
still are, and all they have to say is this: We are but a zero, nothing at all, just nothing. Simply ridiculous, isn’t it, to be happy over that.
And yet, we are glad when the beautiful light is here, white and strong, and when it comes into the streets; and in the rooms all the colors awaken, and faces are there, human features. It is agreeable to touch shapes with one’s hands, but it is a joy to see, to see, to see, to see colors and lines. And we are glad, now we can show what we are, we act, we live. We are also glad in April for that bit of warmth, how glad the flowers are that they can grow! Surely that must be an error, a mistake, those terrible numbers with all the zeros!
Just rise, sun, you don’t frighten us. We don’t care about your many miles, your diameter, your volume. Warm sun, just rise, bright light, arise. You are not big, you are not small, you are just happiness.
*
At this moment she has just stepped, beaming, out of the Paris-Nord Express, that insignificant-looking little person in the fur-trimmed coat with her huge eyes, and her little Pekingese dogs, Black and China, in her arms. Photographers, noise of a cranking film. Softly smiling, Raquel endures it all, patiently, pleased most of all by a bouquet of yellow roses sent by the Spanish colony; for ivory is her favorite color. With the words: “I am crazy to see Berlin,” the famous woman gets into her car and glides away from the fluttering handkerchiefs of Berlin’s morning crowd.
Berlin Alexanderplatz Page 23
