ALFRED DÖBLIN (1878–1957) was born in German Stettin (now the Polish city of Szczecin) to Jewish parents. When he was ten his father, a master tailor, eloped with a seamstress, abandoning the family. Subsequently his mother relocated the rest of the family to Berlin. Döblin studied medicine at Friedrich Wilhelm University, specializing in neurology and psychiatry. While working at a psychiatric clinic in Berlin, he became romantically entangled with two women: Friede Kunke, with whom he had a son, Bodo, in 1911, and Erna Reiss, to whom he had become engaged before learning of Kunke’s pregnancy. He married Erna the next year, and they remained together for the rest of his life. His novel The Three Leaps of Wang Lun was published in 1915 while Döblin was serving as a military doctor; it went on to win the Fontane Prize. In 1920 he published Wallenstein, a novel set during the Thirty Years’ War, which was an oblique comment on the First World War. He became president of the Association of German Writers in 1924, and published his best-known novel, Berlin Alexanderplatz, in 1929, achieving modest mainstream fame while solidifying his position at the center of an intellectual group that included Bertolt Brecht, Robert Musil, and Joseph Roth, among others. He fled Germany with his family soon after Hitler’s rise, moving first to Zurich, then to Paris, and, after the Nazi invasion of France, to Los Angeles, where he converted to Catholicism and briefly worked as a screenwriter for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. After the war he returned to Germany and worked as an editor with the aim of rehabilitating literature that had been banned under Hitler, but he found himself at odds with conservative postwar cultural trends. He suffered from Parkinson’s disease in later years and died in Emmendingen in 1957. Erna committed suicide two months after his death and was interred along with him.
MICHAEL HOFMANN is a German-born, British-educated poet and translator. Among his translations are works by Franz Kafka; Peter Stamm; his father, Gert Hofmann; Herta Müller; and fourteen books by Joseph Roth. A recipient of both the PEN Translation Prize and the Helen and Kurt Wolff Translator’s Prize, Hofmann’s Selected Poems were published in 2009 and Where Have You Been?: Selected Essays in 2014. In addition to Berlin Alexanderplatz, New York Review Books publishes his selection from the work of Malcolm Lowry, The Voyage That Never Ends, and his translations of Jakob Wassermann’s My Marriage and Gert Ledig’s Stalin Front. He teaches in the English department at the University of Florida.
BERLIN ALEXANDERPLATZ
ALFRED DÖBLIN
Translated from the German and with an afterword by
MICHAEL HOFMANN
NEW YORK REVIEW BOOKS
New York
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Text copyright © 2008 by S. Fischer Verlag GmbH, Frankfurt am Main
Translation and afterword copyright © 2018 by Michael Hofmann
All rights reserved.
First published as Berlin Alexanderplatz by S. Fischer Verlag in 1929.
The English-language translation is published here by arrangement with Penguin Books, Ltd, London.
Cover image: George Grosz, Panorama (Down with Liebknecht), 1919; © Estate of George Grosz; licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.
Cover design: Katy Homans
The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Döblin, Alfred, 1878-1957, author. | Hofmann, Michael, 1957 August 25-translator.
Title: Berlin Alexanderplatz / Alfred Doblin ; translated by Michael Hofmann ; afterword by Michael Hofmann.
Description: New York : New York Review Books, [2018] | Series: NYRB Classics Identifiers: LCCN 2017046077 (print) | LCCN 2017047715 (ebook) | ISBN
9781681372006 (epub) | ISBN 9781681371993 (paperback) Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Psychological. | FICTION / Crime. | FICTION /
Political.
Classification: LCC PT2607.O35 (ebook) | LCC PT2607.O35 B5113 2018 (print) | DDC 833/.9i2—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017046077
ISBN 978-1-68137-200-6
v1.1
For a complete list of titles, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Contents
Chapter One
The 41 tram into the city – Still not there – The example of Zannovich – The story is concluded in an unexpected way; helping the freed man to acquire new strength – Markets opening directionless, gradually drifting lower, Hamburg out of bed the wrong side, London continuing weak – Victory all along the line! Franz Biberkopf buys a veal escalope – In which Franz swears to all the world and himself, to remain decent in Berlin, money or not
Chapter Two
Franz Biberkopf enters Berlin – Franz Biberkopf is on the job market, you need to earn money, a man can’t live without money. And all about the Frankfurt Topfmarkt – Lina takes it to the queers – The Neue Welt, in Hasenheide, if it’s not one thing it’s another, no need to make life any harder than what it is already – Franz is a man of some scale, and he knows what’s what – The scale of this Franz Biberkopf. A match for the heroes of old
Chapter Three
Yesterday on the backs of steeds . . . – Today, shot through the chest he bleeds – Tomorrow in the chill tomb, no, we’ll keep our composure
Chapter Four
A handful of people round the Alex – Biberkopf anaesthetized, Franz curls up, Franz doesn’t want to see anything – Franz, on the retreat, plays a farewell march for the Jews – For as with animals, so it is with man; the one must die, the other likewise – Conversation with Job, it’s up to you, Job, you don’t want to – And they all have one breath, and man has no more than the beasts – Franz’s window is open, sometimes amusing things happen in the world – Hopp, hopp, hopp, horsey does gallop
Chapter Five
Reunion on the Alex, bitching cold. Though next year, 1929, will be even colder – Nothing for a while, pause for rest and recuperation – Booming trade in girls – Franz reflects on the trade in women, and suddenly he’s had enough, and wants something else – Local news – Franz takes a calamitous decision. He fails to realize he is sitting in a nettle patch – Sunday, 8 April 1928
Chapter Six
Crime pays – The night of Sunday–Monday, 9 April – Franz won’t go down, and they can’t make him go down – Get up, you feeble spirit, and stand on your own two feet – Third conquest of Berlin – Clothes make people, and a new person gets a new set of eyes – A new person gets a new head as well – A new man needs a new job or he needs none at all – A girl shows up, and now Franz is back to strength – Defensive war against bourgeois values – Conspiracy of females, our dear ladies take the floor, the heart of Europe is unchanged – Enough politics, idleness is much more dangerous – The fly clambers up, shaking the sand from its wings; before long it will buzz some more – Forward, in step, drum roll and battalions – The fist on the table
Chapter Seven
Pussi Uhl, the flood of American visitors, and do you write Wilma with a V or a W? – The duel begins! It continues rainy – Franz breaking and entering, Franz not under the wheels, he’s in the box seat now, he’s made it – Love’s weal and woe – Dazzling harvest in prospect, but miscalculations have been known to happen – Wednesday, 29 August – Saturday, 1 September
Chapter Eight
Franz notices nothing, and the world goes on its way – A few bonds are loosened, the criminals fall out among themselves – Keep your eyes on Karl the plumber: something’s going on with him – Things come to a head, plumber Karl gets caught and spills some beans
– So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun – And behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter – Then I praised the dead which are already dead – The fortress is completely surrounded, the last sallies are undertaken, but they are nothing but diversionary tactics – Battle is joined. We ride into hell with a great fanfare – The Police HQ is on Alexanderplatz
Chapter Nine
Reinhold’s Black Wednesday – but this section can be skipped – Buch insane asylum, closed ward – Dextrose and camphor injections, but in the end a different consultant is involved – Death sings his slow, slow song – And now Franz hears the slow song of Death – In which is described what pain is – Departure of the evil harlot, triumph of the great sacrificer, drummer and axe-swinger – Beginnings are difficult – Dear Fatherland, don’t worry, I shan’t slip again in a hurry – And by the right quick march left right left right
Appendix: Döblin’s ‘Alexanderplatz’ from ‘Writer’s Relay on the Omnibus’
Notes
Afterword
The subject of this book is the life of the former cement worker and haulier Franz Biberkopf in Berlin. As our story begins, he has just been released from prison, where he did time for some stupid stuff; now he is back in Berlin, determined to go straight.
To begin with, he succeeds. But then, though doing all right for himself financially, he gets involved in a set-to with an unpredictable external agency that looks an awful lot like fate.
Three times the force attacks him and disrupts his scheme. The first time it comes at him with dishonesty and deception. Our man is able to get to his feet, he is still good to stand.
Then it strikes him a low blow. He has trouble getting up from that, he is almost counted out.
And finally it hits him with monstrous and extreme violence.
With that, our man who had been doing so well is finished. He throws in the towel, he has no idea what day of the week it is, it seems all up with him.
Before he can make an end, however, his blindness is taken from him in a way I do not describe here. His fault is revealed to him in the clearest terms. It is indeed his, the fault of his plan, which may once have looked sensible enough to him, but now looks quite different, not unexceptionable and straightforward, but full of arrogance and ignorance, and further vitiated with impertinence, cowardice and weakness.
The terrible thing that was his life acquires a purpose. A radical cure has been performed on Franz Biberkopf. And in the end we see our man back on Alexanderplatz, greatly changed, considerably the worse for wear, but straightened out.
To see and hear this will be worthwhile for many readers who, like Franz Biberkopf, ill out a human skin, but, again like Franz Biberkopf, happen to want more from life than a piece of bread.
Chapter One
As our story begins, Franz Biberkopf leaves Tegel Penitentiary, where a previous foolish life has taken him. He has difficulty initially readjusting to Berlin, but finally, to his relief, he succeeds, and vows to stick to the straight and narrow from now on.
The 41 tram into the city
He stood outside the gates of Tegel Penitentiary, a free man. Only yesterday, he had been on the allotments with the others, hoeing potatoes in his convict stripes, and now he was wearing his yellow summer duster, they were hoeing and he was free. He leant against the red wall and allowed one tram after another to pass, and he didn’t take any of them. The guard on the gate strolled past him a few times, pointed to the tram, he didn’t take it. The awful moment was at hand (awful, why so awful, Franz?), his four years were up. The black iron gates he’d been eyeing with increasing revulsion (revulsion, why revulsion) for the past year swung shut behind him. He was being put out. The others were inside, carpentering, varnishing, sorting, gluing, with two years ahead of them, with five years. He was standing at the tram stop.
His real punishment was just beginning.
He shook himself, gulped. He stood with one foot on the other. Suddenly he took a run up and he was sitting in the tram, with passengers all around him. At first it felt like being at the dentist’s, when the dentist has the offending tooth gripped in his pliers and is pulling, and it feels like your head will explode with the pain. He craned his neck to look back at the red wall, but the tram rushed him away down the tracks, and he was left merely facing the general direction. The tram turned a corner, trees and buildings interposed themselves. The streets were full of bustle, Seestrasse, people got on and off Something in him screamed: Watch out, watch out. The tip of his nose felt cold, something brushed his cheek. Zwölf Uhr Mittagszeitung, B.Z, Die neuste Illustrierte, Die Funkstunde. ‘Any more fares?’ The police have blue uniforms now. He made his way off the tram unnoticed, mingled with the crowd. What was wrong? Nothing. Hey, watch where you’re going or I’ll whop you. The crowds, the crowds. My skull needs grease, it must have dried out. All that stuff. Shoe shops, hat shops, electric lights, bars. People will need shoes to run around in, we had a shoe shop too, once, let’s not forget that. Hundreds of shiny windows, let them flash away at you, they’re nothing to be afraid of, it’s just that they’ve been cleaned, you can always smash them if you want. They were taking up the road at Rosenthaler Platz, he was walking on duckboards along with everyone else. Just mingle with the crowd, man, that’ll make everything better, then you won’t suffer. There were mannequins in the windows in suits and coats, in skirts, with shoes and stockings on their feet. It was all seething and swarming, but it had nothing going on! It wasn’t alive. It had complacent facial expressions, it was grinning, it was standing in groups of two or three on the traffic island in front of Aschinger’s waiting to cross, smoking cigarettes, browsing in newspapers. Stood there like lamp-posts, and getting stiffer all the time. It was just like the buildings, all painted, all wood.
He got a shock when he turned down Rosenthaler Strasse, and saw a man and a woman sitting together in the window, pouring beer down their necks from big steins, so, they were just having a drink, they had forks in their hands and they were jabbing at pieces of meat, and lifting them to their mouths, and pulling the forks out, and not bleeding. Oh, his body cramped, I can’t get over it, what am I going to do with myself? The answer came: punishment.
He couldn’t go back, he had come so far on the tram, he had been released, and he had to go on.
I know, he groaned, I know I need to dig deeper and that I’ve been released. They had to let me go, my punishment was up, that’s the way it works, the administration is doing what it has to do. And I will go on digging, but I don’t want to, oh God, I can’t.
He drifted down Rosenthaler Strasse, past the Wertheim department store, then swung right into narrow Sophienstrasse. He thought: less light, and the darker the better. Prisoners may be held in isolation, solitary confinement or general confinement. In isolation, a man is kept apart from his fellows day and night. In solitary, the prisoner is kept in a cell, but is permitted to exercise, take classes and attend worship with others. Traffic hooted and honked. The façades were never-ending. There were roofs on the buildings, floating on the buildings, his eyes bounced around. Heaven forbid the roofs should slip off, but no, the buildings were steadfast. Where am I poor devil going to go, he trudged along the wall, wall without end. I am a fool, surely I’ll be able to make my way, five minutes, ten minutes, then sit down somewhere and have a drink. At the sound of the bell, work is to begin. It may only be suspended for purposes of meals, exercise and lessons. During exercise, inmates are enjoined to keep their arms straight, and to swing them back and forth.
There was one particular building, and here he lifted his eyes from the pavement, shouldered open a door, and a sorry ‘oh’ broke from his chest. He slapped his shoulders, best way to keep the cold off, mate. The door opened onto a courtyard, someone shuffled past him, stopped behind him. He groaned, it did him good to groan. In his first days in solitary he had groaned continually and taken pleasure in the sound of his voice, it gave him something
, meant it wasn’t all up with him. Plenty of people did that in the cells, some from the very start, others only took to it later, once the loneliness got to them. There was something human about it, something consoling. He stood in the entryway, no longer aware of the terrible din, the lurching buildings were no longer there. He pouted, grunted, balled his fists in his pockets to give himself some encouragement. His shoulders in the yellow duster hunched defensively.
A stranger stopped and watched him. ‘Sir, is there something the matter with you, are you in pain?’ He heard him and stopped his groaning. ‘Are you unwell, do you live here?’ It was a Jew with a red beard, a short man in a coat, a black velvet hat, a cane. ‘No, I don’t live here.’ He had to leave the entryway, though he had enjoyed his time there. Now the street resumed, the façades, the shop windows, the hurrying figures in trousers or flesh-coloured stockings, all of them in a tearing rush, purposeful, one after another. He made his mind up and veered into another entry, but they were just opening the gates to allow a car out. Next door, then, where there was just a narrow passage beside the staircase. No car was going to bother him here. He gripped the newel post. And while gripping it, he knew he wanted to avoid his punishment (how are you going to do that, Franz, you’ll never manage that), definitely, he knew the way out. Quietly he started his personal music again, the groaning and humming, I’ll not go out on the street again. The red-haired Jew reappeared, failed to spot him right away, standing by the banister. Heard him chuntering. ‘What are you doing here? Are you unwell?’ He let go of the newel post, lurched back into the courtyard. As he reached the gate, he saw it was the same Jew as before. ‘Leave me alone! What are you bothering me for?’ ‘Nothing. Nothing really. But the way you’re moaning and kvetching, surely I can ask if you’re all right.’ Through the chink in the gate, the buildings, the swarms of people, the badly secured roofs. He pulled open the gate, the Jew behind him: ‘What are you afraid of, mister, it won’t be so bad. You won’t die. Berlin’s a big place. Where thousands live, there’s room for one more.’