Our Franz was not like that. After five weeks Ida dies, in Friedrichshain hospital, complications from broken ribs, punctured lung, subsequent empyema, pleural infection, lung inflammation, God, the fever won’t break, look at yourself, God, you look done in, you’ve had it, you can pack up. They conducted an autopsy, and put her in the ground in the Landsberger Allee, ten feet under. She died hating Franz, his fury with her didn’t abate after her death. Her new friend, the boy from Breslau, visited her in hospital. There she’s been lying now, for five years, horizontal, on her back, the boards are starting to rot, she is turned to sewage, she, who once in Treptow danced with Franz in white canvas shoes, who loved and played games, now she’s keeping perfectly still and is no longer extant.
He’s done his four years. The man who slew her walks around, lives, lourishes, eats and drinks, spills his seed, continues to spread new life. Even Ida’s sister didn’t escape his clutches. It’ll all catch up with him one day. Various other odds and sods have gone on. But he’s got a long life ahead of him. He knows. So he’s still breakfasting in bars and in his way praising the sky over Alexanderplatz: since when has your gran played the trombone, and: my parrot don’t eat hard-boiled eggs.
And where are the red prison walls of Tegel now, the ones that so intimidated him that he didn’t like to look at them. The guard is standing in front of his black iron gate, which had once aroused such disfavour in Franz, the gate is still on its hinges, it doesn’t bother anyone, it is well aired, at night, like any good gate, it is kept locked. Now in the morning the guard is standing in front of it, smoking his pipe. The sun is shining. It is always the same sun. Its position in the sky’s arc is always calculable. Whether it is visible or not depends on the cloud cover. A few individuals are just getting off the No. 41 tram, carrying flowers and small parcels, they are probably going to the sanatorium straight ahead, left down the avenue, and they are all shivering with cold. The trees are in a black row. Inside, the prisoners are huddled in their cells, tinkering in the workrooms, or goose-stepping round the exercise yard. Strict orders not to appear in free association without boots, cap and neckerchief. The old man does his rounds of the cells: ‘What was the soup like last night?’ ‘I wouldn’t have minded a bit more of it, and better seasoned.’ He doesn’t listen, acts deaf: ‘How often do you get a change of linen here?’ As if he didn’t know.
One man in solitary writes: ‘Let the sun in! That’s the call echoing round the world today. Only here, behind prison walls, does it not find an echo. Are we not worthy? Prison design means there are some north-east-facing blocks that don’t see the sun all year. Not one sunbeam loses its way into these cells to greet their inmates. Year in year out, they need to wither and work without its cheering rays.’ A commission is coming to inspect the building, the wardens run from cell to cell.
Another: ‘To the prosecution service at the county court. During the proceedings against me in the criminal court the presiding judge, Dr X, told me that after my arrest belongings of mine had been taken from my flat at Elisabethstrasse 76 by an unknown party. Since this has been officially recorded in my file, a search must have been instigated by the police or public prosecution service. I had heard nothing about my property being taken at any point until then. I am writing to ask the prosecution service for the result of this inquiry or to lodge a copy of the report in my file, so that I may be able, if the need should arise, to bring charges against my landlady for negligence.’
As far as Ida’s sister Minna is concerned, she’s very well, thank you. It’s now twenty past eleven, she’s just coming from the market in Ackerstrasse, a yellow municipal building that has another exit on Invalidenstrasse. She chooses the Ackerstrasse exit, though, because it’s more convenient for her. She’s purchased a cauliflower and a pig’s head, as well as a bunch of celery. From a stall outside she buys a fat flounder and some camomile tea; you never know when that might come in handy.
Chapter Three
Here decent, well-intentioned Franz Biberkopf suffers a first reverse. He falls victim to a cheat. The shock is profound.
Biberkopf has sworn to be decent, and as you’ve seen, he has been decent for several weeks, but that was really just temporary. In the long run, life finds that too prissy, and it cunningly trips him up. But to him, Biberkopf, that doesn’t seem very nice on the part of life, and for a long time he is disgusted with such a mean, dastardly existence in the teeth of all his good intentions.
Why life proceeded as it did is something he doesn’t understand. He has a long way to go before he does.
Yesterday on the backs of steeds . . .
Since Christmas is icumen in, Franz makes a switch into seasonal products, for a few morning or afternoon hours it’s shoelaces, first on his own, then with one Otto Lüders. Lüders has been out of work for two years, his wife takes in washing. Fat Lina brought him along one day, he’s her uncle. For a few weeks in summer he was the Rüdersdorf Peppermint Man with swizzle stick and uniform. He and Franz wander through the streets together, go inside the houses, ring doorbells and meet up afterwards.
One time, Franz Biberkopf checks into the pub. He has the fat girl with him. He is in a particularly sunny mood. He gobbles down the fat girl’s sandwiches, then, still chewing, he orders a round of pigs’ ears with peas for everyone. He snogs his girl so much that after she’s finished her pigs’ ears she trots off pink-faced. ‘Not a bad thing for her to push off, Otto.’ ‘She’s got her place. She’s always traipsing after you.’
Franz lurches across the table, gives Lüders the look from below: ‘Guess what’s just happened, Otto?’ ‘How d’you mean?’ ‘Go on, have a guess.’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Two beers, a lemonade. A new customer catches his breath, wipes his nose on the back of his hand, splutters: ‘A cup of coffee.’ ‘Sugar?’ The landlady is washing glasses. ‘No, but make it quick.’
A young fellow in a brown sports cap walks smartly through the bar, warms himself at the stove, takes a peek at Franz’s table, then the one beside it. ‘You seen anyone in a black coat wiv a brown fur collar?’ ‘Is he a regular here?’ ‘Yeah.’ The older man at the table turns to the pale-looking one next to him: ‘Brown fur collar?’ Pale fellow: ‘Loads of people come here in fur coats.’ The man with grey hair: ‘Where are you from? Who sent you?’ ‘Never you mind. If you ain’t seen him.’ ‘There’s loads in here in brown fur. Need to know who sent you.’ ‘I’ve no need to explain my business to you.’ The pale fellow is getting excited: ‘If you ask him if someone’s been here, then surely he can ask who sent you.’
Already the guest is at the next table: ‘I asked him the question. What’s it matter who I am.’ ‘Come on, you ask him something, he asks you something back. You didn’t have to ask him.’ ‘I don’t need to tell him why.’ ‘In that case he don’t need to tell you if the fellow was here or not.’
The visitor goes to the door, turns round: ‘If you’re such a clever dick, just stay that way.’ Turns away, pulls open the door, and out.
The two at the table: ‘D’you know him then? I don’t.’ ‘He’s never been here before. God knows what he wants.’ ‘He was a Bavarian, weren’t he?’ ‘Nah, he was a Rhinelander. From the Rhineland, you know.’
Franz grins at bashful Lüders: ‘So you won’t, eh? Give you a clue: it involves money.’ ‘Well, you got any then?’
Franz has his fist on the table, opens it, grins proudly: ‘All right, how much?’ Lüders, the wretched manikin, is leaning forward, whistles through a loose tooth: ‘Two tenners, no shit.’ Franz lets them clink on the table. ‘How about that. Earned it in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. Absolute tops.’ ‘Christ.’ ‘No, it’s not what you think, under the table, the back way. Honest, Otto, it’s decently come by, legit, promise.’
They start to whisper together. Otto Lüders leans in. Franz rang a woman’s bell, Makko laces, for yourself, for your husband, for the kids, she took a look at them, then she looked at me, she’
s a widder, still in good nick, we were in the corridor talking then I asks her if I couldn’t get a cuppa coffee, winter’s so cold this year. I drunk coffee, she with. And then one thing led to another. Franz blows into his hand, chortles, scratches his jawbone, rams his knee against Otto’s: ‘I left all my stuf with her. D’you suppose she noticed?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Well, who’d’you fink, the fat girl, coz I had no goods left on me.’ ‘What if she does, then you just sold everythink. So where was this?’
And Franz whistles: ‘I’m gonna go back there, but not too soon, it was a back house on Elsasser, a widder. Christ, twenty marks.’ They eat and drink until three. Otto gets a fiver as his share, but is just as glum as before.
•
So who’s this creeping across Rosenthaler Tor with his shoelaces the next morning? Otto Lüders. Waits at Fabisch’s on the corner, till he sees Franz trotting down Brunnenstrasse. Then he nips along Elsasser himself. There, that’s the number. Maybe Franz has already been up. Look at the people calmly walking up and down the street. Think I’ll just stand in the doorway a bit first. If he comes, I’ll tell him, what do I tell him. I’ve got palpitations, they bother me all day and I can’t work. The doctor can’t find anythink wrong with me, but there is. A man perishes in his old rags, still got me old wartime gear on. Up the stairs.
He rings the bell. ‘Makko laces, lil’ lady? No, I just wanted to ask. Hey, listen up a minute, won’t you.’ She makes to shut the door, but he’s shoved his foot in the way. ‘See, I’m not alone, my mate, you remember him, he was here yesterday, and he left his clobber here.’ ‘Oh God.’ She opens the door, in a trice Lüders is in, hurriedly pushes the door shut behind him. ‘What’s the matter, oh Lord!’ ‘Nothing at all, little lady. Why’re you shaking?’ He’s shaking himself, he’s surprised himself getting this far, what’s next, whatever comes, he’ll find some way. He needs to be seductive, but he can’t find a voice, he’s got a wire net clamped across his nose and mouth, all the way up to his forehead and both cheeks, if my cheeks freeze, then I’ve had it. ‘I just come for his fings, that’s all.’ The little woman runs into her parlour to fetch the parcel, and he’s already back on the threshold. She chews and looks: ‘There’s the parcel. Oh God.’ ‘Why, thank you, thank you very much. But what are you trembling for, ma’am? Say, it is nice and warm in here. And couldn’t you maybe give me a cup of coffee?’ Stall, talk, anything so as not to go out, strong as an oak.
The woman, who’s skinny, delicate, stands in front of him, her hands are clasped in front of her: ‘Did he tell you anything? What did he tell you?’ ‘Who d’you mean, my friend?’ Talk, talk, the more you talk the nearer you get, now the net is just a tickle under his nose. ‘Oh, nothing else, no, what would there be. What would he have said about a cup of coffee. And now I’ve got his things.’ ‘I’ll just go in the kitchen.’ She’s scared what I’ll say about her coffee, I make it better myself, it’d be cosier in the bar, she’s trying to duck out of it, but, hey, I’m still here. Good the way I managed to hang on in, it was pretty easy really. But Lüders is still afraid, he listens for the door, the staircase, upstairs. He goes back in the parlour. Had a lousy night’s sleep, kid kept him up coughing all night, let’s get comfortable. And he sits down on the red plush sofa.
This is where she did it with Franz, for the moment she’s still making me coffee, I’ll take my hat off, my fingers are icy. ‘There’s a cup for you.’ She’s scared isn’t she, quite presentable, though, wouldn’t mind trying something on with her. ‘Won’t you have any yourself? To keep me company?’ ‘No, no, my tenant’ll be along any moment, he has the parlour.’ She’s trying to scare me of, where’s her tenant, why, there’s not even a bed in here: ‘Is that all? You can leave him out of it. A tenant – he won’t show up in the morning, he’s got work to go to. Yes, that’s all my friend said. I was just to collect his things for him’ – sips pleasurably at the coffee – ‘ah, that’s better. Ooh, it’s parky out, so what do you think he might have told me. Maybe the fact that you’re a widder, but that’s no secret, is it.’ ‘I spose not.’ ‘What happened to your husband? Died in the war, I spect.’ ‘I’m busy, I have to cook.’ ‘Then you could make me another cup of coffee. What’s the rush. We won’t see each other like this again. You got any kids then?’ ‘Why don’t you leave me alone, you got what you came for, I haven’t any time.’ ‘Now, ma’am, let’s not get frosty, you can always call the cops, but there’s no need of that with me, I’ll go, you won’t mind if I finish my coffee first. All at once you’re pushed for time. The other day you had all the time in the world. Know what I mean. Well, I’m not like that, I’m off.’
He rams his hat on his head, gets up, jams the little package under his arm, slowly pulls open the door, already he’s past her, when he quickly spins round: ‘All right then, where’s your small change.’ His left hand extended, beckoning with his index finger. She claps her hand to her mouth, little Lüders is very close to her: ‘You know, if you shout. Only make a donation when you’ve been had. You see, we know everything really. Being friends, we don’t keep secrets from each other.’ Fucking outrage, bitch, bitch, black dress, my eye, I’d really like to give her a smack in the chops, how is she any better than my old lady. Her face is burning, but only the right side of it, her left is white as a ghost. She has her purse in her hand, her fingers are picking around in it, but all the while she’s looking wide-eyed at Lüders. Her right passes him coins. Strange expression on her face. He gestures impatiently to keep it coming. She empties the purse into his hand, now he goes back to the parlour, to the table, picks up the red crocheted cloth, she wheezes, can’t get a word out, can’t open her mouth any wider than it is already, stands quietly beside the door. He picks up a couple of sofa cushions, then over to the kitchen, rips open the drawers, looks, looks. All trash, better run, else she’ll start screaming. Now she’s keeled over, I’m out of here.
Down the corridor, the door squeezed shut, down the stairs, into the next house.
Today, shot through the chest he bleeds
Paradise was wonderful. The waters were, oh, ateem with fish, trees sprouted from the earth, the animals played together, by land and water and air.
A tree rustled. A snaky snake snake thrust out its head, there was a snake living in Paradise, and it was more cunning than all the beasts of the field, and lo, it began to speak, and it spake snake to Adam and Eve.
Just as Franz Biberkopf is cheerily climbing the stairs a week later, with a bouquet of flowers wrapped in silk paper, thinking about his old lady getting on his case, but not altogether seriously, stops, she is a good girl, what is it with these old goats, leave it out Franz, bah, it’s business, and business is business. Then he rings the bell, smiles in anticipation, smirks, nice cup of coffee, little dolly bird. He hears footfall, that’ll be her. He puffs out his chest, extends the bouquet, the chain is put on, his heart is pounding, is my tie straight, her voice asks: ‘Who is it?’ He sniggers back: ‘It’s the postman.’
Little crack in the door, her eyes, he bends down tenderly, waggles his bouquet from side to side. Crash. The door slams shut. Krrr. The bolt is thrown. Cunt. What do you do now. She must be crazy. Can’t have recognized me. Brown door, doorframe, I’m standing on the step, my tie’s straight. Unbe-fucking-lievable. He looks at his hands, bunch a flars, bought em at the corner for a mark, silk paper and everything. He rings again, a second time, keeps his finger down. She’s got to be still standing by the door, and she’s just keeping it shut, she’s not moving, she’s holding her breath, and not letting me in. Even though she’s still got me laces, all me goods, must be 3 marks’ worth, I’m entitled to pick em up, inni? Now there’s movement, she’s going away, she’s in her frigging kitchen. Well, Jesus—.
Down the steps. Then back up again: I’m going to give her one more ring to make sure, she can’t have seen me, she must have mistook me for someone else, some beggar, sure she gets all sorts. But once he’s standing in front of the door, he doesn’t ring the be
ll. He feels nothing. He’s just waiting, standing there. There, she’s not letting me in, I just wanted to see. I won’t sell in this building any more, what do I do with the flars, cost me a mark they did, I’ll chuck em in the gutter. Suddenly, as if under orders, he rings, calmly waits, right, she’s not even answering the door, she knows it’s me. I’ll leave a note with the neighbours, I gotta have my goods back.
He rings next door, there’s no one home. So. Let’s write the note. Franz goes over to the window on the landing, tears off a corner of a newspaper, writes with the little pencil stub: ‘You’re not opening, but I need my goods back. Leave them in Klaussen’s on the corner.’
Christ, bitch, if you knew who I am, and what I’ve had occasion to do to a woman before, then you would not behave like what you are. Got half a mind to take an axe and chop the door down. He pushes the note under the door.
Franz goes around glumly all day. The next morning, while he’s waiting for Lüders, the publican gives him a piece of paper. It’s her reply. ‘Was that all?’ ‘What are you expecting?’ ‘A package with my goods.’ ‘No, this is what the boy brung last night.’ ‘So I’m supposed to go up and collect it, am I?’
A couple of minutes later, Franz goes over to the window next to the displays, slumps onto a stool, holding the note in his nerveless left hand, presses his lips together, stares across the table. Lüders, the wretch, walks in the door, sees Franz sitting there, guesses what’s what, and he’s out the door.