“Comrades, men and women, we’re not going to touch a ballot, we’re not going to take part in the election. A Sunday picnic is better for our health, is what I say. And why? Because the voter is hidebound by legality. But legality is the brute force, the violence of the ruling class. Those tub-thumpers want to mislead us into putting a good face on it, they want to humbug us, to prevent our realizing what legality means. But we won’t vote, because we know well what legality means and what the state is, and there are no holes and doors by which we can penetrate into it. At best, as official donkeys or beasts of burden. And that’s what the electioneers are out for. They want to decoy us and train us as their official donkeys. They attained their aim long ago with the majority of workers. We in Germany are trained in the spirit of legality. But, comrades, you cannot marry fire and water, the worker must understand that.
“The bourgeois parties and the socialists and communists shout in a joyful chorus: All blessings come from above. From the State, from Law, from Order in the highest. But look at the way it works. Certain liberties have been set down in the constitution for everybody who lives in the state. They’ve been set down, all right. But the liberty we need, no one will give us, we must take it ourselves. This constitution is out to batter down the constitution of reasonable people, for what can you do, comrades, with rights which are only on paper, with coded liberty? If you look for liberty anywhere, up comes a cop and knocks you over the bean; if you yell: what’s the matter, the code says so and so, then he replies: None o’ your lip, citizen, and he’s right, he doesn’t recognize any constitution, only his own regulations, and he’s got a club for that, and you’ve got to keep your damned mouth shut.
“Soon there won’t be any possibility for strikes in the principal industries. You’ve got the guillotine of the arbitration committees on your necks, and it’s only under that you can move freely.
“Comrades, men and women, you vote again and again, and you say, this time it’ll be better, just watch us, a little effort, spread your propaganda at home, in the factory, only five more votes, ten more, twelve more, just wait, then you’ll see, then we’ll get things going. Yep. You’ll get ‘em going. Just an eternal blind circle, everything going round the same old way. Parliamentarism prolongs the misery of the workers. They may talk of a crisis of justice, and indeed justice ought to be reformed, reformed lock, stock, and barrel, the juridical body should be renewed, it should be made republican, constitutional, just. But we don’t want new judges. We want, instead of this justice, no justice at all. We must overthrow all state institutions by direct action. We have the weapon: Refusal of labor. All wheels at a standstill. But that’s not a song to be sung out loud. As for us, comrades, we must refuse to be lulled to sleep by parliamentarism, social service, and all such social-political buncombe. We have only one enemy, the government, and our watchwords are: anarchy and self-help.”
Franz walks around the room accompanied by the clever boy Willy, listens in here and there, and buys a few pamphlets which he stuffs into his pocket. He is not made for politics, but Willy hammers away at him and Franz listens curiously. He touches it with his fingers, it touches him, then again it does not touch him. But he does not leave Willy.
-The existing social order is based upon the economic, political, and social enslavement of the working class. It is expressed in the rights of property, monopoly of possession, and in the state monopoly of power. Not the satisfaction of natural human needs, but the expectation of profit is at the basis of modern production. Every technical advance multiplies the wealth of the possessing classes to an infinite degree, in shameless contrast to the misery of vast sections of the community. The state works for the protection of the privileges of the possessing class, and for the oppression of the teeming masses, it acts with weapons of cunning and force for the preservation of monopoly and class distinction. With the genesis of the state begins an age of artificial organization from above down. The individual thus becomes an automaton, a dead wheel in a vast mechanism. We must rouse ourselves! We do not, like all other parties, strive for the conquest of political power, but for its radical elimination. Do not work with the so-called legislative bodies: the slave is invited there only in order that he may impress the seal of law upon his own slavery. We reject all arbitrarily established political and national frontiers. Nationalism is the religion of the modern state. We reject every national unity: behind that lurks the rule of the owning classes, comrades, wake up!-
Franz Biberkopf swallows what Willy gives him to swallow. There follows a debate after the meeting, and they stay on and join in a discussion with an older worker. Willy knows him; the worker thinks that Willy is a comrade from the same trade as his own, and urges him to agitate more effectively. Cocky Willy just laughs and laughs: “Say, since when are we co-workers? I’m not employed by the coal barons.” “Well, then, do something, wherever you are, wherever you work.” “I don’t have to do nothin’. Where I work, they all learnt long ago what they got to do.” Willy leans over the table, he laughs so hard. That’s a lot of bunk, he pinches Franz’s leg, one of these days a fellow’ll come running around here with a pastepot, sticking up posters for ‘em. He laughs at the workman, who has long iron-gray hair and wears his shirt open at his chest: “You sell those papers, eh, the Priests’ Mirror, the Black Flag, and the Atheist? But did you ever look to see what’s in ‘em?” “Now, listen here, comrade, you needn’t open your trap half that wide. Me, I’m gonna show you what I wrote myself.” “Aw, cut it out. Wanta show off, don’t you? But one of these days maybe you’ll read what you wrote yourself and stick to it. For instance; it says here: Civilization and Technology. Listen: ‘Egyptian slaves spent many decades working without machines to build a royal grave; European workers toil at machines for decades to build a private fortune. Progress? Perhaps. But for whom?’ Well, I’ll be going to work myself one of these days so that Krupp in Essen or Borsig may have a thousand marks more a month, like a sort of Berlin king. Say, old man, if I look straight atcha, what do I see anyway? You’re out to be a man of direct action. Where do you keep it, eh? I don’t see nothing. D’you see anything, Franz?” “Aw, leave him go, Willy.” “Now, tell me, Franz, if you can see what’s the difference between this comrade here and a fellow from the Socialist Party.”
The worker settles himself solidly in his chair. Willy: “For myself, I don’t see no difference, comrade, and that’s a fact. The only difference is on paper, in the newspapers. All right, as far as I am concerned, have it your way. But watcha gonna do with it, that’s what I’d like to know. And if you want to ask me what you do, why, then I’ll answer right off the bat: exactly the same thing as a man from the S. P. Exactly, precisely the same thing: you stand in front of a turning-lathe, you carry your coupla pfennigs home with you, and your corporation pays out dividends on your work. European workers toil at machines for decades to build a private fortune. I guess you wrote that by yourself.”
The gray-haired worker lets his eyes rove from Franz to Willy, he looks around again and sees a few men standing at the bar behind him. The worker moves closer to the table and whispers: “Well, what do you do?” Willy flashes across to Franz: “You tell him.” Franz doesn’t want to at first, he says political conversations do not interest him. But the gray-haired worker keeps hammering away at him: “This here is no political conversation. We are just talking about ourselves. What kind of work do you do?”
Franz draws himself up in his chair and grabs his beer-mug and looks steadily at the anarchist. There is a mower, death yclept. In the mountains will I take up a weeping and a wailing, and for the habitation of the wilderness a lamentation, because they are burned up so that none can pass through them, both the fowl of the heavens and the beast are fled, they are gone.
“What I work at, I can tell you that, my friend, for I’m not a comrade. I go about, do a bit here and there, but I don’t do any work, I let other people work for me.”
He’s giving me a lot of bunk, th
ey’re poking fun at me. “Then you must be an employer, with people working under you, how many have you got? And what do you want here, anyway, if you’re a capitalist?” I will make Jerusalem heaps, and a den of dragons, and I will lay the cities of Judah desolate, without an inhabitant.
“Say, don’t you see I only got one arm. The other one’s gone. That’s what I paid for working. That’s why I don’t want to listen to any more talk about respectable work, get me?” Get that, get that, open your lamps, shall I buy you a pair of specs, eh, go ahead and make goggle-eyes all you want. “Nope, can’t say I understand yet, pardner, what kind of work you’re in. If it ain’t respectable, why, I guess it must be a disreputable sort o’ job.”
Franz bangs his fist on the table, points his finger at the anarchist and thrusts his head towards him: “Y’see, he’s tumbled to it now! That’s it, all right! Disreputable. All your decent work is slavery, didn’t you say so yourself, that’s what decent work is. Yep, and that’s what I found out.” Spotted that without you, too, didn’t need your help for that, you soft-soaper, you ink-splasher, you bunk-artist.
The anarchist, who is a skilled mechanic, has lean white hands. He looks at his finger-tips and muses: It’s a good thing to show up such crooks, they compromise a fellow. I’m gonna call somebody to listen to him. He gets up, but Willy holds him back: “Where you going, old man? Are we through already? You better settle things up with my pal here first. Trying to slip off, eh?” “I’m just going to get a fellow to listen to this, you’re two against one.” “What’s that, you say you’re gonna get somebody? But I don’t want anybody. Here, what were ye saying to my friend here’)” The anarchist sits down again, we’ll have it out alone, then. “So he’s not a comrade, and he’s not a fellow-worker. For he don’t work. And he don’t seem to be getting the dole, either.”
Franz’s face grows hard, his eyes are glaring: “Nope, he don’t do that.” “Then he’s no comrade of mine and no fellow-worker, and he’s not one of the unemployed, either. Well, I only ask one thing and all the rest don’t matter a damn: what’s he after here?” Franz looks at him with grim decision: “I just been waiting for you to ask that: Whatcha want here? You people here sell all kinds o’ papers and pamphlets, and when I start asking you what it’s all about, what’s in ‘em, you say: How’s it come you ask me that’) What do you want here? Didn’t you write yourself all about that damned wage slavery and how we are just outcasts who don’t dare to move!” Awake, you pariahs of the earth, doomed by all to starve! “Well then, you didn’t listen to the rest. When I spoke about refusal to work. First of all a fellow has got to work.” “I refuse to.” “That’s no use to us. You might just as well go to bed. I was talking about strikes, mass strikes, general strikes.”
Franz raises his arm and laughs, he’s furious now. “And what you’re doing now, you call that direct action? Running around pasting up posters and making speeches? And in the meantime you go and make the capitalists all the stronger. Say, comrade, you bonehead, you’re turning out the shells they’ll shoot you down with and that’s what you want to preach to me? Willy, whatcha say to that? You could knock me down with a feather.” “I ask you again, what are you working at?” “Then I will tell you again, nothin’! Crap! Nothin’, I tell you. Why should I? I can’t, anyway. According to your own theories, I can’t. I ain’t goin’ to make the capitalists stronger! As a matter of fact, I don’t give a hoot for the whole racket, your strikes and them little goofers that are supposed to come after. A man’s got only himself, just himself. I look after myself. I’m a self-provider, I am!”
The worker gulps down his seltzer-water and nods: “Well, then, try it out alone.” Franz laughs and laughs. The worker: “And I’ve told you that three dozen times already: you can’t do anything alone. We need a fighting organization. We’ve got to bring enlightenment to the masses, to cope with the despotic rule of the state and the economic monopoly.” Franz laughs and laughs. No higher being will save mankind, no Kaiser, people’s tribune, God, can rescue us from misery’s grind, alone we have to bear the rod.
They sit opposite each other, silent now. The old worker in the green collar stares at Franz, who looks him hard in the eyes, whatcha looking at, boy, y’can’t get me, eh? The worker opens his mouth: “I tell you, I can see, comrade, I’m wasting my breath on you. You’re thick-skulled. You’ll butt your head against the wall. You don’t know what the main thing for the proletariat is: solidarity. That you don’t know.” “Well, pardner, you know what, we’re going to get our hats right away and get along, heh, Willy? That’s enough. You’re only saying the same old things over and over again.” “So I do. You can go down to the cellar and bury yourself if you want to. But you shouldn’t go to public meetings.” “Excuse me, boss. We just had a little free half-hour. And now, many thanks to you. Waiter, how much is it? Here: I’m paying for this: three beers, two brandies, one mark ten, there you are, I’m paying for this, that’s direct action!”
“What are you, anyway, mate?” The fellow won’t let go. Franz pockets the change. “Me? Pimp. Don’t I look it?” “Well, you’re not far from it.” “Me, I’m a pimp, get me? Did I say it or not? Well, Willy, tell him what you are.” “None of his business.” Hell, they’re crooks, sure enough. Probably true. That’s what I thought. Those crooks have humbugged me, the rotters, they wanted to pull my leg. “You’re the dregs of the capitalistic morass. Go ahead and beat it. You’re not even proletarians, you’re what we call bums.” Franz is already standing. “But we’re not going to the poor-house. Good day, Herr Direct-Action. Just go on fattening the capitalists. Get in line at seven o’clock in the morning at the bone mill and get your coupla pfennigs from the wage-bag for the missus.” “Don’t let me see you here, any more!” “No, Herr Direct-Bunkaction, we don’t have any dealings with the slaves of capitalists.”
Quiet exit. On the dusty street, the two walk arm-in-arm. Willy breathes deeply: “You certainly gave him an earful, Franz.” He is astonished to hear Franz talking in monosyllables. Franz is furious, it’s even funny how full of hate and rage Franz left the hall, it’s fermenting inside him, but he doesn’t know why.
They meet Mieze at the Mocca-Fix Cafe in Münzstrasse, where there’s a lot of noise. Franz decides to go home with Mieze, he wants to talk to her, sit by her. He tells her about the conversation with the gray-haired workman. Mieze is very gentle with him, but he wants to know if he had said the right things. She smiles, uncomprehending, and strokes his hands, the bird has waked up, Franz sighs, she can’t calm him down.
A Ladies’ Conspiracy, our dear Ladies have the Floor, Europe’s Heart does not age
But Franz can’t get away from politics. (Why? What’s torturing you? What are you defending yourself against?) He sees something there, he sees something, he wants to bash them all in the face, they are always baiting him, he takes to reading the Red Flag and the Unemployed. He often turns up with Willy at Herbert and Eva’s. But they don’t care for the fellow. Franz is not crazy about him either, but you can talk to the chap and he has them all beat when it comes to politics. When Eva begs Franz to leave that fellow, this Willy, who only takes his money, and is nothing better than a pickpocket, Franz is entirely of her opinion; in reality Franz has no use for politics, it’s made him sore as long as he can remember. So today he promises to give Willy his walking papers, but the next day he is around again with the lout, and he takes him along canoeing.
Eva says to Herbert: “If it wasn’t Franz and he hadn’t had this rotten business about his arm, I’d know how to cure him.” “Yeah?” “I can promise you in two weeks time he won’t be going around with that young big-mouth any more, who’s only wheedling money out of him. Who goes with that fellow, anyway? First of all, if I were in Mieze’s place, I’d get the cops after him.” “Who? Willy?” “Willy, or Franz, one or the other. I wouldn’t care. But they oughta know it. When he’s sitting in the bull-pen, he’ll realize who was right.” “Gee, Eva, but you’re really mad at Fr
anz.” “Yeah, that was why I threw Mieze his way, and her working and slaving for the two fellows she’s got so Franz can do tricks like that? No, Franz has got to listen to reason a bit, too. Now he’s got only one arm, where is it all gonna end? Wanting to play at politics and making the girl mad!” “Yes, she’s mighty mad. Told me that yesterday, too. Sits there, waiting for him to come home. What does a girl like that get out of life, anyway?” Eva kisses him: “Yes, I feel the same way. Suppose you were to stay away like that and start that kind of bunk, running around to meetings, eh, Herbert!” “Well, what would happen then, honey?”
“First I’d scratch your eyes out, and then you could look for me in the moonshine.” “I’d like to do that, honey.” She gives Herbert a tap on the mouth, laughs, then gives him a good shaking: “I’ll tell you, I won’t let that kid, Sonia, get ruined, she’s too good for that. As if the man hadn’t burnt his fingers enough already, and at that it don’t bring him in five pfennigs.” “Well. try to do something with our Franzeken. As long as I’ve known the boy, he’s been a good enough sort, but you might as well talk to the wall, for all he listens to what you say.” Eva remembers how she had wooed him, that was when Ida came, and later how she had warned him, all she had suffered through that man, and even now she’s not happy.
Berlin Alexanderplatz Page 30
