Willy, in his penetrating voice, suddenly attacks one-armed Franz: “You had to join up with the Prussians, you’ve been in the war. Now I call that theft of liberty. But they had their own courts and police, and because they had them, they put a muzzle on you, and so now it’s not a theft of liberty, according to a poor bum like you, but military seevice. And you’ve got to put up with it, like taxes, which go for something you don’t understand any better.”
The girl pouts: “Now don’t talk politics. That’s no way to spend an evening.” The youngster hawhaws himself out of a tight hole: “It’s all a lot of hooey! The weather’s too nice for that bunk.” Willy challenges him: “Then suppose you go Out in the street. I guess you think, you poor nut, you, that politics only exists here in this room and that I’m just makin’ it up for your benefit. It don’t need me for that. It pukes on your head, m’boy, wherever you go. If you let it, that is.” A man yells: “Oh, forget it, shut your traps.”
Two new customers arrive. The girl sways daintily, then serpentines along the walL and, dandling her buttocks, slithers sweetly across to Willy. He jumps up, grabs her for a brazen rollicking dance, after which they clinch in a ten-minute burner. Deep immured beneath the earth stands the mold of dry-burnt clay. Nobody looks at them. One-armed Franz starts tilting his third beaker and strokes his shoulder stump. The stump burns and burns. A clever hound, that Willy, a damned clever hound. The boys drag the table out and throw the straw mattress through the window. One of them has come along with an accordion, he’s sitting on (he footstool by the door, wheezing away at it. My Johnnie, he’s the one who can, my Johnnie’s the essence of a man.
They carouse merrily, their coats off, swigging, brawling, sweating. If anyone can, it’s Johnnie, my man. Then Franz Biberkopf gets up, pays, and says to himself: I’m not a youngster any more, to go around raising hell, and then I ain’t crazy about it either, gOlla get some money. Where I get it from, don’t matter.
Cap on and off he goes.
Two men are Sitting in Rosenthaler Strasse at noon, ladling out pea soup; one has the Berliner Zeitung beside him. He laughs: “Fearful domestic tragedy in Western Germany.” “What do you mean, what’s that to laugh at?” “Listen to this: ‘A father throws his three children into the water.’ Three at one stroke. A rambunctious fellow, all right.” “Where’d it happen?” “Hamm, in Westphalia. That’s some mess. Boy, he musta had it full up to here. But you can depend on a fellow like him, all right. Wait a minute, let’s see what he did with the wife. Musta given her-nope, she did it on her own, did it beforehand. Whatcha say to that? A gay li’l family that, Max, they know how to live. Letter from wife: Deceiver! With an exclamation point, he ought to hear that! As I am tired of leading this life, I have decided to jump into the canal. Get yourself a rope and hang yourself, Julia. Full stop.” He doubles up with laughter. “There’s not much harmony in that family: the canal for her and the rope for him. The wife says: hang yourself, and he throws the children into the water. The man didn’t listen to her. Nothing could come from a marriage like that.”
They are two elderly men, construction-workers from Rosenthaler Strasse. One disapproves of what the other is saying. “That’s a sad case, if you was to see a thing like that in the theater or read it in a book, it’d make you blubber!” “You maybe. But, Max, tell me, is anybody going to cry over such things as that, what for?” “The wife, three children, say, stop.” “The way I’m made, I get fun out of that, I like that man; of course, you might feel sorry for the children, but to get rid of the whole family at one stroke like that, I got a sort of respect for that, and then-” He explodes again: “And then I think like this, you can say what you want, but I think it’s all so terribly funny, the way they squabble up to the last. The wife says, he’s to get a rope, and he says: Not on your life, Julia, and chucks the children into the water.”
The other puts on steel-rimmed glasses and reads the story again: “The man is still alive. They got him. Well, I wouldn’t like to be in his skin, you bet.” “Who knows? You don’t know nothin’.” “Well, I know that, all right.” “You know, I kin imagine it. He’s sitting in his cell, smoking his tobacco, if he can get any, and says: ‘You can all-’” “So you think you know something. Pangs of conscience, me boy. Either he’s bawling in his cell or not saying anything. He can’t get to sleep. Say, man, why you’re talkin’ yourself into a sin.” “I say no to that. 1 bet he can sleep fine. If he’s that rambunctious, he can sleep well and probably eat and drink better than he did outside. I guarantee you that.” The other looks at him curiously. “Then he must be a rotten dog. If they cut his head off, sure, I’ll give ‘em my blessing.” “You’re right, too! He’d say the same thing. You’ re absolutely right.” “Well, now, let’S cut out all that rubbish. I’m goin’ to order some pickle.” “It certainly is interesting though, a paper like that. A dirty dog, but maybe he’s sorry about it now, there’s many a man goes further than he meant to.” “I’m gonna take pig’s head with pickle.” “Me too.”
Another Man needs another Calling, too, or maybe None at all
When you notice the first hole in your sleeve, then you know it’s high time to get busy about a new suit. Be sure to go at once to the right house where you will find a comprehensive choice, displayed in nice bright rooms, upon wide tables, of all the clothing you may need.
“I can’t do nothin’, you can say whatever you please, Frau Wegner: a man with one arm, and when it’s the right one at that. is a goner.” “That certainly is true, it’s hard, Herr Biberkopf, but then a man needn’t go around yapping and making such a face. Why, a body gets really scared o’ you.” “Well, what am I going to do with one arm?” “Take the dole, or maybe you might open up a little stand o’ some sort.” “What kind of a stand?” “Oh, papers or dry-goods or garters or neckties in front of Tietz’s or some such place.” “Newsstand?” “Or fruit, a fruit business.” ‘Tm too old for that, a man’s got to be younger for that.”
That’s too much like the old days, I won’t fool with that any more. I don’t want to, and so that’s that.
“You ought to have a sweetheart Herr Biberkopf she’d tell you all about it and help you when you needed it. She could help to pull the wagon or take charge of the stand when you have to go away somewhere.”
Cap on and downstairs, it’s all rot the next thing I’ll be strapping a hurdy-gurdy on my shoulder and go tooting around town. Where’s Willy?
“Howdy, Willy.” Presently Willy says: “Nope, you can’t do much. But if you’re clever, you can do something, anyway. If I let you have something every day, for instance, to sell or get rid of quietly, and you’ve got good friends and can keep mum, you can sell the stuff and earn pretty well with it.”
And so Franz agrees. He’ll do it, absolutely. He wants to stand on his own feet. Something that’ll get him some money quick-that’s what he wants. Work, a lot o’ rot. As for newspapers, to hell with ‘em, and he gets in a rage when he sees those nincompoops, the paper-peddlers, and sometimes wonders how anybody can be so pig-headed as to work his head off when others go riding by in motor-cars. Not for me. That was once upon a time, old boy. Tegel prison, the avenue of black trees, houses that totter, roofs threatening to fall Oil your head, and I’ve got to be decent! Funny, Franz Biberkopf simply has to be respectable-what do you say to that, eh, it’s killing, ain’t it? Too funny, I musta got soft in the head from prison. Completely gone off my noodle. Gotta have money, gotta earn money, a man needs money.
So now you see Franz Biberkopf in the role of a fence, a criminal, the other man has another calling, and the worst is yet to come.
The woman is arrayed in purple and scarlet color and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand. She laughs. And upon her forehead is a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH. And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs. The whore of Babylon sitteth up
on many waters, drunken with the blood of the saints.
What kind of togs did Franz Biberkopf wear when he lived in Herbert Wischow’s house?
What does he wear now? An immaculate summer suit bought on a bargain counter for 20 marks cash down. For special occasions an iron cross on his left breast, which he wears as a justification of his missing arm. He enjoys the respect of passers-by and the anger of proletarians.
He looks like a well-fed, good-natured saloon-keeper or butcher, with creases in his trousers, glove and a derby hat. Just in case he should need them, he has papers with him, false papers, the papers of a certain Franz Racker, who died in 1922 during the riots, and whose papers have already helped a lot of others before. Franz knows everything that’s written on that paper by heart, where the parents live, when they were born, how many sisters have you, what work have you, when did you last work, everything a bull might ask, the rest will be plain sailing.
That happened in June. In the wonderful month of June, the butterfly emerged after its pupal stage was over. And Franz is by way of flourishing nicely, when Herbert Wischow and Eva arrive from Zoppot. A number of things had happened at the spa, it’s a long story, and Franz hears it all with pleasure. Eva’s stock-broker had bad luck. Things went well at gambling, but just the day when he drew 10,000 marks from the bank, somebody stole the money from his hotel room while he was dining with Eva. Funny, a thing like that happening! The room neatly opened with a false key, his gold watch gone, as well as 5000 marks which he had left lying in the drawer of the bedside table. Shockingly careless, no doubt, but who would imagine a thing like that? That thieves should be able to get into a first-class hotel! Where does the watchman keep his eyes? I shall bring a suit against you, is there no protection here? We are not responsible for valuables left in the rooms. The fellow bullies Eva, because she had rushed him down to dinner in such a hurry, and why? Just to see that baron, next time you’ll be kissing his hands out of respect, you’ll send him a box of candy out of my pocket! You forget yourself, my dear Ernst. And the 5000 marks? Can I help it? Oh, let’s go home. The banker grumbles: Not a bad idea, anything to get away from here.
Herbert continues to live in Elsasser Strasse, while Eva has to occupy a smart room in the West End, that’s nothing new to her; she says to herself, it’ll only last a short time, then he’ll have enough of me, and I’ll move back to Elsasser Strasse.
Even now, on the train, as she sits in a first-class compartment with her banker, suffering his caresses with boredom and feigned enjoyment, she begins to dream: Wonder what Franz is doing. And when her banker gets out before Berlin and she is alone in the compartment, she shudders with anxiety; Franz is gone again! What joy and surprise, what a dropping of jaws then, for Herbert and Eva and Emil, when, on July 4th (Wednesday) there enters-well, you can imagine it, can’t you? Clean, spick-and-span, the I.C. clamped to his heroic chest, his dog-like brown eyes as devoted as ever, his warm manly fist and strong handclasp; that’s Franz Biberkopf. Keep steady now, or you’ll lose your balance. Emil knows about the transformation already, he feasts his eyes on Herbert and Eva. Franz is a real dude. “Boy, so you’re washing your feet in champagne these days! “ That’s how pleased Herbert is. Eva sits there and does not understand. Franz carries his empty right sleeve in his pocket, at any rate the arm hasn’t grown again. She falls on his neck and kisses him. “Lord, Franz, darling, there we were sitting and racking our brains trying to guess what Franz was doing, we were so afraid, you can’t imagine it!” Franz makes the rounds, kisses Eva, kisses Herbert and EmiL too. “What a lotta bunk, to be afraid about me!” He winks slyly: “And how do you like me as a war hero with my swell coat?” Eva chuckles: “But what’s happened, what’s happened? Why, I’m ever so happy about the way you look!” “And me, too.” “And who are you going with now, Franz?” “Going with? Oh, yes. Nope, nope. Nothin’ doin’. I ain’t got no girl.” He starts off telling his story and promises Herbert he’ll pay back all his money, to the last pfennig, to the very last pfennig, yes, in a few months it’ll all be paid off. Herbert and Eva laugh. Herbert flashes a brown thousand-mark bill in front of Franz’s eyes. “Want it, Franz?” Eva begs: “Take it, Franz.” “Nothin’ doin’. Don’t need it, no, sir! Tell you what, we’ll have a drink on that thousand downstairs, eh, that’s the stuff!”
A Girl bobs up. Franz is in Clover again
They give their blessing to everything Franz does. Eva is still in love with Franz, and would gladly get him a girl. He resists, I know that girl, no, you don’t, neither does Herbert, where did you get to know her, she hasn’t been in Berlin long, she’s from Bernau, she used to turn up every evening at the Stettin station, and I got to know her there and told her: You’ll get into trouble, child, if you don’t quit that and keep on running into town, nobody here in Berlin can keep going like that. Then she laughed and said she just wanted to have some fun. Well, y’see, Franz-Herbert knows the story already, Emil too-one day at twelve she sits there in the cafe. I walk up to her and ask her: well, what kind o’ face is that you’re making there, girlie, mustn’t start any nonsense here! Then she starts crying about how she had to go to the police-station, had no papers, a minor, too, and don’t dare go home. They kicked her out where she was working, because the police asked about her, and her mother kicked her out, too. So she says: Just because I try to have a little fun? What’s a body to do in Bernau at night?
Emil listens, as usual, with his arms propped up, and says: “The girl’s quite right. I know Bernau myself. Nothin’ doing there at night.” Eva speaks: “Well, I’m lookin’ after the kid a bit, but I won’t let her go to Stettin station any more.”
Herbert is smoking an imported cigar: “If you’re a man who knows what’s what, Franz, then maybe you kin make something out of the gal. I’ve seen her. She’s got class.”
Emil observes: “A bit young, but she’s got class all right. Solid bones.” They go on tippling.
Next day at noon sharp the girl knocks at his door, and Franz is enraptured at first sight. Eva had made his mouth water, and he’d like to please Eva, too. But this one’s really a knockout, first-class, a wow, he’s never found anything like this in his cook-book. She’s a small person, in her little thin white dress with her bare arms she looks like a schoolgirl, she has soft slow movements and in a flash is right beside him. She’s been there hardly half an hour, and now he can’t imagine his room minus the little minx. Her real name is Emilie Parsunke, but she’d rather be called Sonia, that’s how Eva always addressed her, because she has such Russian cheekbones. “And Eva,” the girl cajoles him, “why Eva’s name’s not really Eva, her name’s Emilie like mine. Didn’t she tell me that herself?”
Franz rocks her on his lap, struck by the trim, taut wonder of her, and is flabbergasted by this bit of sunshine the good Lord’s sent to his borne. Wonderful how things go up and down in life. He knows who the man was who baptized Eva, wasn’t it he himself? She was his girl before Ida, if only he’d stayed with Eva! Well. he’s got this girl now ...
But it’s only for a day that he lets her name be Sonia, then he starts pleading-he can’t abide such foreign names. If she’s from Bernau, she must have another name, surely. He has had a lot of girls before, he says, as she can guess, but never one called Marie. He’d like to have a Marie. And so he calls her “his Miezeken.”
It isn’t long-about the beginning of July-before he has a nice experience with her. It’s not a child on the way, nor is she sick. It’s something else, something that hits Franz right in the solar plexus, but it doesn’t turn out badly. That’s the time Stresemann goes to Paris, or perhaps he doesn’t, at Weimar a ceiling crashes down in the telegraph office, and maybe a man out of work traipses along after his sweetheart, who’s gone to Graz with another fellow, and then shoots them both dead and lodges a bullet in his own head, as well. Such things will happen in any weather, and the wholesale dying of the fish in the Weissen Elster fits in with the picture. When one reads things like that, i
t’s striking; but if one is on the spot it doesn’t seem so impressive, as a matter of fact, something is always happening in every household.
Franz often stands in front of the pawnshop on Alte Schbnhauser Strasse, inside in the loan parlor he palavers with first one and then the other, they all know each other, Franz studies the newspaper column of purchases and sales; at noon he meets Mieze. Then, all at once, it strikes him as queer that Mieze should be so hurried and excited when she comes to Aschinger’s on the Alex, which is where they eat. She says she overslept-but there’s something odd about the girl’s manner. He forgets that right away, the lassie is so tender, unbelievably so, and in their room everything’s so spick and span with flowers and doilies and ribbons everywhere, just like a little girl’s room. And it’s always so well aired, and sprayed with lavender water that he is right pleased when they come home together at night. And in bed, she’s as soft as a feather, and still just as quiet and gentle and happy as she was at first. But she’s always a bit grave, and he can’t quite make her out. Wonder if she’s thinking about something when she sits there doing nothing, and what’s she thinking about. If he asks her, she always laughs and says: she isn’t thinking about anything at all. A person can’t be thinking about something all day long. And so it seems to him, too.
But there’s a letter-box on the door with Franz’s name on it, his alias, that is: Franz Racker, which he always gives for advertisements and for the mail. One day Mieze tells him she had distinctly heard the postman put something in the box before noon and when she went to fetch it, there was nothing. Franz wonders about it and asks what that could mean. Mieze thinks someone must have fished it out; it must be the people across the way, they’re always looking through the peephole, and they probably saw the postman come and then they took it out. Franz gets red in the face with rage, and thinks to himself: gosh, maybe somebody’s after me. So in the evening he knocks on the door across the way; a woman appears and says right away she’ll call her husband. An old man steps up-his wife is younger, the man’s probably 60, the woman 30; Franz asks him if a letter has been left there for him by mistake. The man looks at his wife. “Has a letter been left here? 1just got home.” “No, nobody left a letter here.” “When could it have happened, Mieze?” “Around eleven, he always comes around eleven.” The woman says: “Yes, he always comes around eleven. But the young lady always gets the mail herself, if any comes: he always rings the bell.” “How come you’re so sure about that? lance met him on the stairs and he gave me a letter and I put it in the box, too.” “1 don’t know whether you put it in the box or not. Only I saw him give you the letter. But what’s all that got to do with me?” Franz: “So then there’s no letter here for me, Racker’s my name, and no letters have been left here for me?” “Lord sake’s alive, would I accept letters for strangers? You can see for yourself, we don’t have no letter-box, ‘tain’t often the man comes for us.” Franz is annoyed and walks off with Mieze, he lifts his cap: “ ‘Scuse me, g’d evening!” “G’d evening, g’d evening!”
Berlin Alexanderplatz Page 28
