It was all resolved, and he was surprised at the degree of resolution he found in himself. The resolution said, all the while he looked them in the eye and smiled and asked questions: Franz Biberkopf, they can say what they like, they’re wearing robes, but they’re not priests, it’s called kaftan, they’re from Galicia, around Lemberg as they told me, they’re clever, but they’re not fooling me. I’m sitting on the sofa here, and I’m not doing any trades with them. I’ve done what I can.

  The last time he was here, he had sat down on the rug with one of them. Wheesh, you slide down, I could try that. But not today, those times are gone. We’re sitting in our trews, staring at the Jews.

  A man can’t do any more, he’s not a machine after all. The Eleventh Commandment goes: and don’t stand for any bullshit. The brothers have a nice pad, simple, tasteless, nothing fancy. They don’t impress Franz. Franz is well in control of himself. All that’s in the past. To bed, to bed, you’ve got a woman, you’ve got none, you go to bed anyway. No more working. That’s all a man can do. If the pump’s choked with sand, it doesn’t matter what you do, it won’t work any more. Franz is drawing retirement pay without a pension. How does that work, he thinks subtly, looking along the edge of the sofa, retirement pay without pension.

  ‘And if you have strength as you, such a well-built man, then you should thank your Creator. What can happen to you? Do you need a drink? You do this, you do that. You go to the market, you stand in front of the shops, you go to the railway station: what do you think someone like that took off me just the other day when I was arriving from Landsberg the other week, how much do you think he took off me. You have a guess, Nahum, a man as big as a door, a Goliath, may God protect me. Fifty pfennigs. That’s right, fifty pfennigs. Just for a little case, from here to the corner. It was the Sabbath, I didn’t want to carry it. The man takes me for fifty pfennigs. I looked at him. Well, you can also – you know, I know what I mean. Feitel the grain merchant, you know Feitel.’ ‘Not Feitel, I know his brother.’ ‘Well, you know he’s in grain. Who’s his brother?’ ‘Feitel’s brother. Nuf said.’ ‘Do I know everyone in the whole of Berlin?’ ‘Feitel’s brother. A man with an income like . . .’ His head waggled from side to side in helpless admiration. The red-haired one raised his arm, lowered his head. ‘Take your word for it. But from Czernowitz.’ They’d forgotten all about Franz. They were both intent on Feitel’s brother’s fortune. The red-headed one went around in some agitation, making gurgling noises through his nose. The other purred, emanated satisfaction, smiled mischievously at the other’s back, picked at his nails. ‘Huh. The things you tell me. Wonderful.’ ‘Whatever the family does turns to gold. Not a manner of speaking. Gold.’ The redhead wandered around, finally sat down shattered beside the window. What was going on outside filled him with contempt, two men in shirtsleeves washing a car, an old jalopy. One had his braces down, they were lugging buckets of water, the yard was half underwater. With his thoughtful expression, dreaming of gold, he looked at Franz: ‘What do you say to that?’ What can he say, he’s a poor sap, half crazed, what does someone like that know about the wealth of Feitel from Czernowitz; he wouldn’t let him wipe his shoes. Franz looked back at him. Good morning, Your Reverence, the trams always go jangling past, but we know what made the bell go, no man can do more than he can. There’ll be no more work, even if all the snow catches fire, we won’t lift a finger, we’re obstinate.

  The snake rustled from the tree. Thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life. And I will put enmity between thee and the woman. In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children, Eve. Adam, cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herbs of the field.

  We’re not working any more, it’s not worth a candle, and if all the snow should burn, we won’t lift a finger.

  That was the first iron crowbar Franz Biberkopf got to hold in his hands, with which he sat, and later passed through the door. His mouth said something or other. He had been brought here reluctantly, he had been released from Tegel prison some months before, he had ridden on the tram, whoosh along the streets, past the buildings, the roofs were sliding off, he had sat with the Jews. He stood up, let’s go on, back then I went to see Minna, what am I doing here, let’s go to Minna, let’s take a good look at everything and how it all came about.

  He pushed off. He wandered around in front of Minna’s house. Mariechen sitting on a stone, all alone, no bone. What do I care. He snuffled round the house. What do I care. Let her be happy with her old man. Sauerkraut and beet, chased me away, if my mother had cooked meat, I’d have been happy to stay. The cats here stink the same way they do elsewhere. Little bunny, disappear, hide the sausage in your ear. I’ll stand around here and boggle at the house. And the whole company goes kikeriki.

  Kikeriki, kikeriki. Thus spake Menelaus. And without intending to, he made Telemachus’ heart so mournful that the tears coursed down his cheeks and he gripped the purple robes in both hands and pressed them to his eyes.

  Meanwhile Helen wandered out from her women’s apartments, like unto a goddess in beauty.

  •

  Kikeriki. There are many types of chicken. If you ask me which my favourite is, cross my heart, etc., then I will say right out and unhesitatingly: the fried. Pheasants also belong in the chicken family, and in Brehm’s Life of Animals it is written: the Little Crake is distinguished from Baillon’s Crake by its very small size, but also by the fact that in spring, the sexes are almost indistinguishable. Asian experts are also familiar with the Himalayan or King’s Monal, called Lophophorus by zoologists. Its colours are so magnificent as to elude description. Its call, a long plaintive wail, may be heard in the forests at any time, but most regularly before dawn and at dusk.

  But as its habitat lies in the remote region between Sikkim and Bhutan, this is, as far as Berlin is concerned, a fairly abstruse piece of knowledge.

  For as with animals, so it is with man; the one must die, the other likewise

  The slaughterhouse in Berlin. The various structures, halls and pens are bounded in the north-east of the city, from Eldenaer Strasse, taking in Thaerstrasse and Landsberger Allee as far as Cothenius Strasse, along the ring road.

  It covers an area of 47.88 hectares, or 187.5 acres. Not counting the buildings on the other side of Landsberger Allee it cost 27,093,492 marks to build, with the cattleyard accounting for 7,682,844 marks, and the slaughterhouse 19,410,648 marks.

  Cattleyard, slaughterhouse and wholesale meat market make up one fully integrated economic entity. The administration is in the hands of the committee for stockyards and slaughterhouses, comprising two city officials, a member of the District Board, eleven councillors and three members of the public. It employs 258 officials, including vets, inspectors, stampers, assistant vets, assistant inspectors, clerical staff and maintenance workers. Traffic ordinance of 4 October 1900, general regulations governing the driving of cattle and the supply of feed. Tariff of fees: market fees, boxing fees, slaughtering fees, fees for the removal of feed troughs from the pork market hall.

  Eldenaer Strasse is lined by dirty grey walls with barbed wire on top. The trees outside are bare, it is winter, they have secreted their sap in their roots and are waiting for spring. Butchers’ carts draw up at a steady clip, yellow and red wheels, light horses. Behind one runs a skinny horse, from the pavement someone calls out, hey, Emil, what about the horse, 50 marks and a round for the eight of us, the horse goes a little crazy, trembles, nibbles one of the trees, the coachman tears it away, 50 marks and a round, Otto, else we go. The man smacks the horse on the cruppers: deal.

  Yellow administration buildings, an obelisk for the war dead. And either side of that long halls with glass roofs, these are the pens, the waiting rooms. Outside notice boards: Property of the Association of Wholesale Butchers Berlin, L
td. Post no bills: special permission only, the Board.

  The long halls are fitted with numbered doors, 26, 27, 28, black openings for the animals to enter through. The cattle building, the pig building, the slaughter halls: courts of justice for the beasts, swinging axes, you won’t leave here alive. Peaceful adjacent streets, Strassmann-, Liebig-, Proskauer Strasse, parks where people stroll. Close-knit communities, if someone here has a sore throat, the doctor will come running.

  But on the other side, the rails of the circular railway extend for ten miles. The beasts are brought in from the provinces, ovine, bovine, porcine specimens from East Prussia, Pomerania, Brandenburg, West Prussia. They come mooing and bleating down the ramps. The pigs grunt and snuffle, they can’t look where they’re going, the drovers are after them, swinging sticks. They lie down in their pens, tight together, white, fat, snoring, sleeping. They have been made to walk a long way, then shaken up in rail cars, now the ground under their feet is steady, only the flagstones are cold, they wake up, seek each other’s warmth. They are laid out in levels. Here’s two fighting, the bay leaves them enough room for that, they butt heads, snap at each other’s throats, turn in circles, gurgle, sometimes they are completely silent, gnashing in fear. In panic one scrambles over the bodies of the others, and the other gives chase, snaps, and those below start up, the two combatants fall, seek each other out.

  A man in a canvas coat wanders through the passage, the bay is opened, he parts the combatants with a stick, the door is open, they push out, squealing, and a grunting and screaming begins. The funny white beasts are driven across courtyards, between halls, the droll little thighs, the funny curly tails, red and green scribbles on their backs. There is light, dear piggies, there is the floor, snuffle away at it, look for the few minutes that are left to you. No, you’re right, we shouldn’t work by the clock, snuffle and rootle to your heart’s content. You will be slaughtered here, take a look at the slaughterhouse, it’s for you. There are old abattoirs, but you are entering a new model. It’s light, built of red brick, from the outside one might have guessed engineering works, shop or office premises, or a construction hall. I’ll be going the other way, dear little piggies, because I’m a human, I’ll be going through this door here, but we’ll see each other soon enough.

  Shoulder the door open, it’s a swing door, on a spring. Whew, the steam in here. What are they steaming? It’s like a Turkish bath, maybe that’s what the pigs are here for. You’re going somewhere, you can’t see where, your glasses are misted over, perhaps you’re naked, you’re sweating out your rheumatism, cognac alone doesn’t do the trick you know, you’re shuffling along in your slippers. The steam is too thick, you can’t see a sausage. Just squealing and gurgling and clattering, shouts, clatter of equipment, lids banging down. The pigs must be somewhere in here, they made a separate entrance. The dense white steam. There are the pigs, some are hanging up, they’re already dead, they’ve been topped, they look almost ready to eat. There’s a man with a hose, washing down the white split carcasses. They’re hanging on iron stands, head down, some of the pigs are whole, their forelegs are in a wooden stock, a dead animal can’t get up to any mischief, it can’t even run away. Pigs’ feet lie there in a pile, chopped off. Two men emerge from the fog carrying something, it’s a cleaned opened animal on an iron spreader. They fasten the spreader to a hoist. Lots of their fellows come trundling along after, staring dully at the tiled floor.

  You walk through the hall in fog. The stone flags are grooved, damp, and also bloodied. Between the stands the ranks of white, disembowelled animals. The killing bays must be at the back, it’s from there you hear smacking sounds, crashing, squealing, screaming, gurgling, grunting sounds. There are big cauldrons there, which produce the steam. Men dunk the dead beasts in the boiling water, scald them, pull them out nice and white, a man scrapes of the outer skin with a knife, making the animal still whiter and very smooth. Very mild and white, deeply contented as after a strenuous bath, a successful operation or massage, the pigs lie out on wooden trestles in rows, they don’t move in their sated calm, and in their new white tunics. They are all lying on their sides, on some you see the double row of tits, the number of breasts a sow has, they must be fertile animals. But they all of them have a straight red slash across the throat, right in the middle, which looks deeply suspicious.

  More smacking sounds, a door is opened at the back, the steam clears, they drive in a new collection of pigs, running in, I’ve left through the sliding door at the front, funny pink animals, funny thighs, curly-wurly tails, the backs with coloured scribbles. And they’re snuffling in this new bay. It’s cold like the last one was, but there is something wet on the floor that they’re unfamiliar with, something red and slippery. They rub their muzzles in it.

  A pale young man with fair hair plastered to his head, a cigar in his mouth. Look at him, he will be the last human with whom you will have dealings! Don’t think badly of him, he is only doing his job. He has official business with you. He is wearing rubber boots, trousers, shirt and braces. That’s his official garb. He takes the cigar out of his mouth, lays it aside on a bracket in the wall, picks up a long-handled axe that was lying in the corner. This is the sign of his official rank, his power over you, like the detective’s badge. He will produce his for you any moment now. There is a long wooden pole that the young man will raise to shoulder height over the little squealers who are contentedly snuffling and grunting and truffing. The man walks around, eyes lowered, looking, looking. There is a criminal investigation against a certain party, a certain party in the case of X versus Y – bamm! One ran in front of him, bamm, another one. The man is nimble, he has proved his authority, the axe has crashed down, dipped into the seething mob, with its blunt side against a skull, another skull. It’s the work of a moment. Something continues to scrabble about on the floor. Treads water. Throws itself to the side. Knows no more. And lies there. The legs are busy, the head. But it’s none of the pig’s doing, it’s the legs in their private capacity. Already a couple of men have looked across from the scalding room, it’s time, they lift a slide to the killing bay, drag the animal out, whet the long blade on a stick, kneel down and shove it into its throat, then skkrrk a long cut, a very long cut across the throat, the animal is ripped open like a sack, deep, sawing cuts, it jerks, kicks, lashes out, it’s unconscious, no more than unconscious, now more than unconscious, it squeals, and now the arteries in the throat are open. It is deeply unconscious, we are in the area of metaphysics now, of theology, my child, you no longer walk upon the earth, now we are wandering on clouds. Hurriedly bring up the shallow pan, the hot black blood streams into it, froths, makes bubbles, quickly, stir it. Within the body blood congeals, its purpose is to make obstructions, to dam up wounds. It’s left the body, but it still wants to congeal. Just as a child on the operating table will go Mama, Mama, when Mama is nowhere around and it’s going under in its ether mask, it keeps on going Mama till it is incapable of calling any more. Skkrrik, skkrrak, the arteries to left and right. Quickly stir. There, now the quivering stops. Now you’re lying there pacified. We have come to the end of physiology and theology, this is where physics begins.

  The man gets up off his knees. His knees hurt. The pig needs to be scalded, cleaned and dressed, that will happen blow by blow. The boss, feisty and well fed, walks around in the steam, with his pipe in his mouth, taking an occasional gander at an opened belly. On the wall by the swing doors hangs a poster: Gathering of Animal Shippers, Saalbau, Friedrichshain, Music: the Kermbach Boys. Outside are announcements for boxing matches. Germaniasäle, Chausseestrasse no, tickets 1.50 to 10 marks. Four bouts on each bill.

  •

  Today’s market numbers: 1,399 cattle, 2,700 calves, 4,654 sheep, 18,864 pigs. Market notes: prime cattle good, others steady. Calves smooth, sheep steady, pigs firm to begin with, then sluggish, fat pigs slow.

  The wind blows through the driveway, and it’s raining. Cattle low, men are driving along a large, roaring, horned
herd. The animals are obstinate, keep heading of in wrong directions, the drovers run around with their sticks. In the middle of the gathering a bull tries to mount a cow, the cow runs off to left and right, the bull is in pursuit, and repeatedly tries to climb her withers.

  A big white steer is driven into the slaughter hall. Here there is no steam, no bay as for the wee-weeing pigs. The big strong steer steps through the gate alone, between its drovers. The bloody hall lies before it, with dangling halves and quarters and chopped bones. The big steer has a wide forehead. It is driven forward to the slaughterer with kicks and blows. To straighten it out, the man gives it a tap on the hind leg with the flat of his axe. Then one of the drovers grabs it round the throat from below. The animal stands there, gives in astonishingly easily, as though it consented and, having seen everything, knows: this is its fate and there is no getting away from it. Possibly it takes the drover’s movement for a caress, because it looks so friendly. It follows the pulling arms of the drover, bends its head aside, its muzzle up.

  But then the knocker, with hammer upraised, is standing behind it. Don’t look round. The hammer, picked up in both hands by the strongly built man, is behind it and above it, and then: wham, crashes down. The muscular strength of a powerful man like an iron wedge in its neck. And at that same moment – the hammer has not yet been taken back – the animal’s four legs jerk apart, the whole heavy body seems to lift off. Then, as if it had no legs, the animal, the heavy body, lands splat on the floor, on its cramped stiffly protruding legs, lies there for a moment, and keels over onto its side. From right and left the knocker approaches him, gives him another tap on the head, to the temples, sleep, you’ll not wake again. Then the fellow next to him takes the cigar out of his mouth, blows his nose, unsheathes his knife, it’s as long as half a sword, and drops to his knees behind the animal, whose legs are already uncramping. It jerks in spasms, slings its rump this way and that. The slaughterer is looking for something on the floor, he doesn’t apply the knife point, he calls for the bowl for blood. The blood is still circulating sluggishly, little moved by the beating of the mighty heart. The marrow is crushed, but the blood is still flowing through the veins, the lungs are breathing, the intestines moving. Now the knife will be applied, and the blood will jet out, I can picture it, a beam of it thick as my arm, black, lovely, jubilant blood. Then the whole merry crowd will leave the house, the guests will go dancing out, a tumult, and no more lovely meadows, warm shed, fragrant hay, gone, all gone, a void, an empty hole, darkness, here comes a new picture of the world. Wa-hey, a gentleman has come on the scene who has bought the house, a new road, improved economy, and he is having it torn down. They bring the big basin, press it against him, the mighty animal kicks its hind legs up in the air. The knife is jolted into its throat next to the windpipe, feels for the artery, these arteries are thick and well protected. And then it’s open, another one, the flow, hot, streaming blackberry-red, the blood burbles over the knife, over the slaughterman’s arm, the ecstatic blood, the hot blood, transformation is at hand, from the sun is come your blood, the sun has been hiding in your body, now look at it come out to play. The animal draws a colossal breath, as though it had been throttled, a colossal irritation, it gurgles, rattles. Yes, the beams are cracking. As the flanks are so terribly aquiver, a man comes to help. When a stone wants to fall, give it a push. The man jumps on the animal, on its body, with both feet, stands on it, balances, steps on the guts, bounces up and down, the blood is to be expelled quicker, all of it. And the gurgling gets louder, it’s a long-drawn-out wheezing, with light futile tapping of the hind legs. The legs are waving now. Life is draining away, the breathing is stopping. Heavily the hips turn and slump. That’s earth, that’s gravity. The man bounces up. The other on the ground is already peeling back the skin from the neck.