She sits down on the stool and stares at him. Then she starts crying, without a word. ‘So that’s it. It’s the way he is. I helped him out. He’s my friend. I’m not keeping nothing from you.’ The way she’s glaring at me. The fury: ‘You dirty rotten bastard, you rotten so-and-so. You know if Reinhold’s a bastard, you’re worse – you’re worse than the lowest pimp.’ ‘No, that’s not true.’ ‘If I was a man. . .’ ‘Well, I’m happy you’re not. But no need to get all het up about it, Cilly. I’ve told you everything that transpired. Just looking at you now, I’ve had a rethink. I’ve decided I’m not going to take Trude off his hands, I want you to stay where you are.’ Franz gets up, picks up his boots, tosses them on the chest of drawers. It’s not gonna happen, I’m not doing it, he wastes people, I’m not doing it. Something needs to be done about him. ‘Cilly, you stay with me tonight. Tomorrow, when Reinhold’s out, you can go and see his Trude and have a word with her. I’ll help her, she can rely on me. Tell her, hang on, get her to come up, and we can both of us talk to her.’
And the next day when blonde Trude is up with Franz and Cilly, she’s already very pale and sad-looking, and Cilly is telling her to her face about how Reinhold is just a drag and not doing anything for her. Which is all true. When Trude starts howling, without knowing what the two want her to do, Franz declares: ‘The man’s not a villain, though. He’s my friend, I won’t have anything said against him. But what he does is cruelty to dumb animals. It’s torture.’ She’s not to allow herself to be turned against him, and anyway, he, Franz . . . well, we’ll see.
That night, Reinhold comes to pick up Franz from his newspaper pitch, it’s effing cold, Franz is happy to be treated to a hot toddy, he ignores Reinhold’s preamble, then sure enough Reinhold starts in on Trude, and how she was too much for him, and he wanted to get shot of her tonight.
‘Reinhold, I’m thinking you’ve got another girl already lined up?’ He does, and doesn’t mind saying so. Then Franz says he’s not about to give Cilly the boot, she’s settled in nicely with him and his ways, and she’s a proper bit of woman, and he, Reinhold, needs to take his foot off the gas as befits a proper man, that’s no way to carry on. Reinhold doesn’t get it, and wants to know who give him the collar, the fur collar. Why, Trude might be good for a silver watch, or a fur hat with flaps, surely Franz could use something like that. No, nothing doing, just enough chit-chat. I can get it meself. Franz wanted a friendly word in Reinhold’s ear. And then tells him what he’s been thinking, today and yesterday as well. Reinhold was to hang on to Trude for the foreseeable. He’s to get used to her, then it won’t be such a problem. A person’s a person, same with a woman, and then he can always go and buy himself a bird for 3 marks, she’ll be happy to be allowed to trot off afterwards. But first ensnaring a woman with love and feeling, and then giving her the heave-ho, serially, that wasn’t on.
Reinhold hears him out, in his way. He sips his coffee, and seems to be in a drowse. He says quietly that if Franz won’t take Trude off his hands, so be it. He’s managed without his help in the past. Then he pushes off, he’s got stuff he needs to do.
•
In the night Franz wakes up and doesn’t get off to sleep again. It’s freezing. Cilly beside him is asleep and snoring. Why can he not sleep? The vegetable carts are trundling on their way to the market hall. I wouldn’t want to be a horse, not in this weather, at this hour. Stables is warm, I’ll be bound. My God, that woman can sleep. Can she ever sleep. Not me. My toes are frozen, I can feel the itch and tickle. There’s something inside of him, his heart, his lungs, his inner self, it’s there and it’s being buffeted and bent, who by? It doesn’t know, the mystery thing don’t, who by. All it can say for sure is that it’s not asleep.
A bird sits up in a tree, a snake just slipped by while it was asleep, the rustle it made woke the bird, and now it’s sitting there with its feathers all fluffed up, it didn’t register there was a snake. Keep breathing, draw even breaths, one after the other. Reinhold’s hatred is weighing on him and attacking him. It makes its way through wooden doors, and has woken him up. Reinhold too is lying there. He is lying fast asleep, in his dream he is a murderer, in his dream he is making room for himself to breathe.
Local news
It was the second week of April in Berlin, the weather could be balmy at times, and, as the press unanimously proclaimed, the gorgeous Easter weather was bringing people out of doors. In Berlin at that time a Russian student, Alex Fränkel, shot his fiancée, the twenty-two-year-old arts and crafts worker Vera Kaminskaya, in her digs. The same-aged au pair, Tatiana Sanftleben, who had been in on the suicide pact, got scared at the very last moment, and slipped off as her friend was already lying lifeless on the floor. She ran into a police foot patrol, told them the terrible details of the past few months, and led the officials to the place where Vera and Alex lay dying. The serious crime squad was alerted, and murder detectives despatched to the site. Alex and Vera had wanted to marry, but their economic circumstances would not allow it.
In other news, the investigations over responsibility for the tram accident on Heerstrasse are still unconcluded. Eyewitnesses and the driver, one Redlich, are being questioned. Technical reports are not yet completed. Only when they have come in will it be possible to decide whether the catastrophe was due to human error (driver slow to apply the brakes) or a tragic combination of circumstances.
The stock exchange was largely quiet: in the open market, prices were a little firmer, in view of a recently published Reichsbank report that took a positive view of the disposal of 400 million in obligations and another 350 million in credit notes. In individual shares, as of n a.m. on 18 April, I. G. Farben traded over a narrow range from 260.5 to 267, Siemens & Halske 297.5 to 299; Dessau Gas 202 to 203, Waldhof Cellulose 295. German Petroleum steady at 134.5.
To return to the tram accident on Heerstrasse, all the injured passengers were said to be improving in hospital.
On 11 April, editor Braun mounted an armed escape from Moabit prison. In scenes reminiscent of the Wild West, a pursuit was staged, the prosecution reported to justice department officials. Eyewitnesses and law enforcement officers are still being questioned.
Public media in Berlin were less exercised at this time by one of the leading American auto manufacturers inviting offers from established German partners for exclusive rights to sell six-to eight-cylinder models across Northern Germany.
Cultural news now – and this is of particular interest to inhabitants of the Steinplatz telephone exchange – s he drama Knave of Hearts, coupling exuberant comedy with deeper significance, is extending its run to 100 performances at the Renaissance Theatre on Hardenberg Strasse. Berliners are called upon by a poster campaign to help the piece attain still higher levels of popularity. Several things need to be borne in mind here: while Berliners may be called upon, they may be kept by a plethora of factors from hearing the call. They may have left town already, and be ignorant of the play’s existence. They may be in Berlin without having seen the postings on advertising pillars, because they are ill, for instance, and in bed. In a city of 4 million inhabitants, such a number may be quite sizeable. They may have been alerted by radio advertisements on the six o’clock news that the charming French drama Knave of Hearts, coupling exuberant comedy with deeper significance, is extending its run at the Renaissance Theatre. Such news, though, could only move them to regret that they are unable to betake themselves to Hardenberg Strasse, because if they are indeed bed-bound, they cannot possibly get there. Sources close to the Renaissance Theatre have confirmed that there are no arrangements in hand for the accommodation of bedridden spectators, perhaps to be delivered by ambulances.
A further factor: there could well be people in Berlin – doubtless there are – who read the Renaissance Theatre’s posting, but question its veracity, not in the sense that they doubt the existence of the poster, but the truthfulness and pertinence of its contents. They might read with distaste, with annoyance and irritation,
the claim that the comedy Knave of Hearts is ‘charming’, charming whom, charming what, charming insomuch as what, how can they think of charming me, did I ask to be charmed. They might set their lips in a frown on reading of a play pairing exuberant comedy with deeper moments. They don’t care for exuberant comedy, they take life seriously, their attitude is melancholy and grave, some recent fatalities have taken place in their family. Nor do they believe the claim that deeper seriousness is paired with the lamentable exuberant humour. For it is their opinion that a cancellation or neutralization of exuberant humour is not actually possible. Deeper meaning must and can only stand alone. Exuberant humour should be got rid of, the way Carthage was got rid of by the Romans, or various other cities in various ways they don’t presently recall. Other people again don’t believe in the deeper meaning that inheres in the play Knave of Hearts that is being celebrated on the advertising pillars. A deeper meaning – deeper than what? Is deeper supposed to be deeper than merely deep? So they carp and carp away.
It’s fair enough: in a big city like Berlin, there will always be a lot of people doubting, finding fault and questioning a lot of things and, among them, every word of the director’s expensively produced poster. They have no use for theatre. And even if they didn’t knock it, even if they adored the theatre, and especially the Renaissance Theatre on Hardenberg Strasse, and admitted that this piece successfully combined delicious humour with deeper sense, they still wouldn’t end up going there, simply because they had something else planned for tonight. With that, the number of persons streaming to the Hardenberg Strasse and extending the run of the play Knave of Hearts would be considerably reduced.
Following this instructive excursus on public and private events in Berlin in spring 1928, we return to the matter of Franz Biberkopf, Reinhold and his plague of women. It is to be expected that interest in their story is moderate at best. Let us not enquire into the reasons for this. I for my part will not be put off my dogged pursuit of the footsteps of my ordinary man in Berlin Mitte and east, in the end everyone does what he has to do.
Franz takes a calamitous decision. He fails to realize he is sitting in a nettle patch
Reinhold did not feel happy after his conversation with Franz Biberkopf. It was not in Reinhold’s nature, at least thus far, to be rough with women, as Franz was. He needed someone to help him, and in this instance he was beached. They were all after him, Trude, the incumbent, Cilly his ex, and her predecessor whose name had escaped him. They were all snooping on him, partly out of anxiety (the latest model), partly out of vengeance (the second last model), partly newly in love with him (antepenultimate model). The very latest to have appeared on the horizon, a certain Nelly from the Central Market, a widow, had lost interest when Trude, Cilly and last of all a man, a sworn witness, one Franz Biberkopf, friend to Reinhold, had gone up to her and warned her. It’s quite true, he did. ‘Frau Labschinsky – which was Nelly’s name, of course – I’m not doing this to get in with you, or to blacken the name of my friend or whatever. Not on your, whoops, nelly. I don’t like to get involved in other people’s dirty laundry. But what’s right is right. To push a woman out on the street, that’s not on where I’m concerned. And that’s not love neither.’
Frau Labschinsky gave a contemptuous huff of the bosom: Reinhold’d better not try anything with her. She weren’t born yesterday, you know. Continued Franz: ‘I’m happy to hear that, that’s good enough for me. Then I spect you’ll know the ropes. Because you’ll be doing a good thing, and that’s my mission to you. I’m sorry for womenfolk, which are human beings like us, and Reinhold too. It does his head in. That’s why he can’t drink beer or schnapps, only watery coffee. He can’t stand a drop. So he needs to get his act together. He’s got a good heart.’ ‘Oh, he does, he does,’ wailed Frau Labschinsky. Franz nodded earnestly: ‘And that’s why I’m here for him, he’s been through a lot already, but he can’t go on this way, and we need to hold up our hand and say enough’s enough.’
Frau Labschinsky offered Herr Biberkopf her powerful mitt when he left: ‘Well, I’m relying on you, Herr Biberkopf.’ She was absolutely right to. Reinhold did not move out. He was a man of habits settled, but opaque. He was already three weeks past the deadline with Trude, every day Franz was summoned for consultations. Franz was jubilant: the next one’s getting about due. Best look out. And indeed: one day a trembling Trude tells him Rein-hold’s been out for two nights running in his good suit. The following day she found out who it was: one Rosa, who sewed buttonholes, early thirties, she hadn’t got her last name, but she knew the address. Well, then everything’s as it should be, thought Franz.
But there is no accommodation to be made with the Fates. And destiny moves fast. It’s time to step out. Step out in Leiser’s shoes. Leiser’s is the biggest shoe shop on the square. And if you don’t want to foot it, then why not drive: NSU invite you to take a spin in their new six-cylinder. That very day, a Thursday, Franz was once more walking up Prenzlauer Strasse, alone, because it had occurred to him to look up his friend Mack, he hadn’t seen him in a while, and he wanted to tell him about Reinhold and the women, and Mack was to listen and marvel at the way he, Franz, set about taming such a fellow, and how he could get him under control, and get him used to stability and all.
And lo, when Franz walks into the bar with his carton of newspapers, who do mine eyes see but Mack. Sitting there with a couple of others, troughing. So Franz up and joins the company, and when the other two are gone they take a couple of big ones at Franz’s invitation, and now Franz is gleefully and gulpingly telling the story, and a startled and awed Mack is gleefully and gulpingly listening to it, some mothers do ave em. Mack promises to keep it under his hat, but it is an amazing yarn. Franz beams and tells him what steps he’s taken in the matter, how he kept Nelly, what used to be Frau Labschinsky, out of Reinhold’s clutches, and forced him to keep with Trude three weeks past due, and now there’s a certain Rosa on the scene, what sews buttonholes, but we’re not going to let him open those buttons. And Franz is sitting there well set with his beer and all, in clover. Praise ye, o tonsils, ye youthful choirs, there is a song arising up around our table, widdeboom, there is a song arising up. Three threes are nine, we drink like swine, three times three and one is ten, or men, we have another one, two, three, four, six, seven.
Who’s standing at the bar, the place of refreshment, the place of song and shongsong, who’s shmiling in the shmoke? Numero uno, Mijnheer von and zu Pums, if you please. He smiles, if you could call it a smile, but his little piggy eyes are searching. The fug in here, the brume, is so thick you’d need a broom to clear it. Here’s three lads making their way towards him. They’re the lads who always trade with him, good lads. Same types, same identical caps. Hanged early beats scavenging butts old. The four of them scratch their heads together, whinny together, look around together. It’d take a broom to see anything in here, or a ventilator would do at a pinch. Mack gives Franz a nudge: ‘You know, they’re not booked out yet. They’re still looking for men to hire, the fat man can’t find enough workers.’ ‘He’s come knocking on my door before now. But will I get involved with him. What do I care about fruit and veg? Has he got a lot to sell?’ ‘Who knows what he’s got. Fruit and veg, is all I know. Don’t ask too many questions, Franz. But it’s not bad advice to make up to him, something is bound to come your way. He’s an old reprobate, and the other fellows are too.’
At 8:23:17 another man steps up to the bar, the place of refreshment, one – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, my old mum, she cooks beets – who will it be? They say it’s the King of England. No, it’s not the King of England, on his way to the state opening of Parliament, to bear witness to the independence of the English government. Not him. So who is it? Is it the delegates of the nations, assembled in Paris to sign the Kellogg Pact, ringed by fifty photographers, the original inkwell could not be used because of its great size, so they had to make do with a set from Sèvres? No, not them either. It’s jus
t, shuffling up, bellying up, grey woollen socks round his ankles, Reinhold, unimposing, grey mouse in mouse-grey. All five scratch their heads, look about them in the bar. You’d need a broom to see something in here, or a ventilator might do the trick. Franz and Mack eye the five lads, watch what they do, and how they start off by occupying a table together.
After a quarter of an hour, Reinhold will get himself a cup of coffee and a fizzy lemonade, and take the opportunity of scanning the bar. And who will beam at him from the back wall, and give him a cheery wave? Not Dr Luppe, Mayor of Nuremberg, because he is giving the opening address today on Dürer Day, followed by the Minister of the Interior Dr Keudell and the Bavarian Culture Minister Dr Goldenberger, and the last-named gentlemen are similarly unable to be here. Wrigley P. R. chewing gum promotes healthy teeth, sweet breath and improved digestion. It’s only Franz Biberkopf, grinning all over his face. He’s thrilled to bits that Reinhold is coming over. Here’s his pupil, his apprentice, he can show him off to his friend Mack. Well, look what the cat brought in. I’ve got him on a leash, seems. Reinhold putters up with coffee and fizz, collapses into himself, and stammers a bit. Franz feels like giving him an affectionate and curious quizzing in front of Mack: ‘How’s everything at home, Reinhold, all well?’ ‘Well, Trude’s there . . . Getting used to it.’ He says it by instalments, it’s like listening to a leaky pipe drip. Well, and is Franz ever pleased to hear it. He almost leaps up in the air for joy. He’s made it. All on his lonesome. And he beams at his mate Mack, who doesn’t deny him a measure of admiration. ‘Hear that, Mack, we’re setting the world to rights, see if we ain’t.’ Franz pats Reinhold on the back, causing him to twitch: ‘See, mate, a man pulls himself together a bit, then the world makes sense. I always says: pull together and pull through.’ And Franz can’t get enough of his joy about Reinhold. One repentant sinner is better than 999 righteous men.