And for all that, we are pleased when kindly light returns, white and powerful, and it shines down on the roads, and in the rooms the colours come to life, and the faces and their features are all there. It is a good thing to feel shapes with your hands, but it is a boon to see colours and outlines. And we can be happy and show what we are and do and feel. Even in April we are happy about the marginal increase in warmth, and how happy are the flowers to be allowed to grow. There must be some mistake, some miscalculation in those terrible numbers with all the zeroes.
So go on and rise, sun, you don’t scare us. All those miles are a matter of indifference to us, the diameter and volume. Warm sun, climb, bright light, rise. You are neither big nor small, you are a joy.
•
She has just alighted from the Paris express, the little discreet person in fur-trimmed coat, with her enormous eyes, and her two little Pekinese, Black and China, in her arms. Photographers and whir of film. Softly smiling, Raquil allows it all to happen, what makes her happiest is a bunch of yellow roses from the Spanish colony, ivory is her favourite colour. With the words, ‘I can’t wait to see Berlin’, the famous woman climbs into her car and disappears from the waving crowds in the morning city.
Chapter Six
Now you don’t see Franz Biberkopf boozing or hiding himself away. Now you see him laugh: baffling. He is furious at having been violated, no one, not even the strongest man, may defy his will. He brandishes his fist against the dark force, but he can’t see it, something still needs to happen, the hammer must come down.
There are no grounds for despair. As I continue my story, and follow it through to its rough, awful, bitter conclusion, I will often have cause to repeat: there are no grounds for despair. For while the man whose story I am telling is no ordinary man, he is at least ordinary inasmuch as we exactly understand him, and sometimes tell ourselves: we would have done the same as he did at each point and put ourselves through what he did. I promise, although this is not customary, not to keep silent during the story.
It is the grisly truth that I tell about Franz Biberkopf, who left home in all innocence, against his will took part in a break-in, and was thrown under the wheels of a car. There he lies, under the wheels, having unquestionably tried his hardest to keep to the strait way. But is precisely this not cause for despair, where is the sense in this criminal, repulsive and pitiable nonsense, what twisted meaning can be imputed here, maybe even to become the fate of Franz Biberkopf?
I say again: no cause for despair. I have the odd surprise still up my sleeve, perhaps some readers can already sense something. A slow revelation is in progress, you will see Franz undergo it, and finally everything will be made clear.
Crime pays
Once having started, Reinhold carried on in the same way. He got home at lunchtime on Monday. Let us, my dear brethren and sustren, spread a charitable veil ten metres square over the intervening time. We unfortunately can’t lift it. Let us content ourselves with establishing that once the sun had risen punctually on Monday morning, and the familiar bustle of Berlin was getting under way – on the dot of one p.m. Reinhold threw out of his apartment the long-overdue Trude, who was living there and didn’t want to go. How well is me at the weekend, tirra lirra, when the billy goat runs to the nanny, tirra lirra. A different author would probably have come up with some punishment for Reinhold at this point, but – I’m terribly sorry – there was none offering. Reinhold was cheery and indicated his cheeriness by evicting Trude to the purpose of heightened cheeriness, though she was settled there and didn’t want to go. He himself didn’t really want to do it either, the thing came about by itself in spite of his not wanting it, which is to say it happened principally through the agency of his midbrain: for he was rather drunk. In this way, destiny assisted the man. The taking of strong drink was one of those things we have omitted from our account of the past night, now, in order to go forward, we must clear up a few things. Reinhold, the weakling, so laughable to Franz, incapable of saying a rough or a harsh word to a woman, could at one in the afternoon give Trude a terrible beating, tear out her hair, smash a mirror over her head, and finally, to stop her wailing, he could beat her mouth so bloody that when she showed it to the doctor in the evening it was still grotesquely swollen. In the space of a few hours the girl had lost all her beauty, and all through the vigorous measures of Reinhold, against whom she wanted to press charges. For the moment she could only apply ointment to her lips and keep shtum. All this, as I say, Reinhold could do because several glasses of schnapps had narcotized his cerebrum, leaving in charge his midbrain, which was, by and large, the more active in him anyway.
When he came round in the late afternoon, feeling a little under the weather, he noted to his surprise some excellent changes in his domestic situation. Evidently Trude was gone. Completely gone. Her things as well. Furthermore, the mirror was broken, and someone had rather vulgarly and bloodily spat on the floor. Reinhold inspected the damage. His own mouth was intact, so it was Trude who had spat, and he had smashed her in the kisser. Which gave rise to such a surge of exaltation and self-respect in him that he laughed out loud. He picked up a shard of the mirror and looked at himself in it: whoa Reinhold, you did it, I’d never have thought it of you! Little Reinhold, Reinhold babes! Was he ever happy. He patted himself on both cheeks.
He reflected: or perhaps did someone else throw her out, maybe Franz? The events of the previous evening and night were not yet clear in his mind. Doubtfully, he brought in his landlady, the old madam, and gave her a prompt: ‘Must have been a lot of noise here, eh?’ But then she let loose: he had been completely in the right with Trude who was a lazy slut, incapable even of ironing a petticoat. What, she wore petticoats, that was almost enough for him. So it was all his own work. How happy Reinhold felt to hear that. And then all at once the events of the previous evening and night swam into his mind. A neat job, a bumper crop of merchandise, put one over on fat Franz Biberkopf, and let’s hope they ran him over. And Trude thrown out. My God, what a list!
What do we do now? First of all gussy himself up for the evening. Don’t anyone talk to me about schnapps. That I didn’t and couldn’t and all that crap. All that energy saved, and now all the things we accomplished.
While he’s getting changed, one of Pums’s boys runs up whispering and hissing and fearfully het up, and shuffling from one foot to the other, and Reinhold is to go down to the bar right away. But it takes a good further hour before our Reinhold is downstairs. Tonight is all about girls, tonight Pums can just be Pums. Down in the bar they’re all shitting themselves, because of what Reinhold done to Biberkopf. He’ll shop us if he’s not dead. And if he is dead, then we’re really in the soup. They’re bound to investigate, and who knows what’ll come out.
But Reinhold is happy, and happiness stands by him. You can’t touch him. It’s the happiest day he can remember. He’s got schnapps and he’s got girls and he can move them on as much as he likes. He can get rid of the lot of them, that’s really the wonder of it. He fancies going off on a pub crawl, but Pums’s boys won’t let him go till he’s promised to spend two three days lying low out in Weissensee with them. They need to establish what’s happened to Franz, and what the damage is. Well, and so Reinhold promises to do that.
But that same night he’s already forgotten all about it and has charged off. And nothing happens to him. They’re all cowering out in Weissensee, trembling in their safe house. The next day they venture out to haul him in, but, no, he has to go see a certain Karla he’s met the night before.
And Reinhold is borne out. There’s no news of Biberkopf, neither squeak nor squat. The man seems to have vanished off the face of the planet. Well, see if we care. And they all pop out again and return merrily to their old haunts.
In Reinhold’s pad, meanwhile, is Karla, smoking, a straw-blonde, who’s brung him three big bottles. He sips at them now and again, she sips at them a bit more, sometimes even a whole lot more. He’s thinking: go on you, drink
, I’m only going to drink when it’s my time, and that’ll be sayonara for you.
•
There will be some readers who are worried about Cilly. What will become of the poor girl when Franz isn’t there, when Franz is either gone or dead and gone? Oh, she’ll get by, don’t you worry your heads about her, she’s really not someone you need to worry about, her sort always lands on their feet. Cilly has money for two days, and no later than Tuesday she runs into Reinhold, as I imagined she might, fancy-free, the nattiest gent in Berlin Mitte, in a knockout silk shirt. And Cilly is confused, she’s not sure when she sees him whether she’s still in love with the fellow or if she’d rather settle his hash once and for all.
She’s already, with a nod to Schiller, carrying a dagger in her blouse. Technically speaking it’s only a kitchen knife, but she wants to stick it to Reinhold for his cruelty, and she doesn’t much mind where. So there she is standing outside his front door with him, and he’s all friendly, two red roses and a peck on the cheek. And she thinks: you talk away till morning, then I’ll let you have it. But where? That confuses her again. You surely can’t cut through such nice material, the man is so exquisitely dressed, and it looks great on him. He’s supposed to have, she says, as she staggers down the street with him, he’s supposed to have took her Franz away from her. How does she know? Franz hasn’t come home, he’s still not home, and there’s no news of him, plus Reinhold’s Trude is on the loose again. So it stands to reason, and there’s nothing he can say different, that Franz is off with Trude, because Reinhold egged him into it, and that’s the limit.
Reinhold is astonished by how much she knows and so quickly. Well, it so happened she’s been upstairs and the landlady spills the beans about the row with Trude. You rotter, Cilly scolds, she is trying to get in the mood to pull the knife on him, you’ve got someone else again, I can tell from looking at you.
Reinhold in turn can tell at a dozen paces: i. she’s got no money. 2. she’s furious with Franz, and 3. she’s got the hots for me, the dandy Reinhold. When he’s in his glad rags he’s irresistible to all women, especially those with previous, so-called second-timers. Therefore on heading 1. he slips her 10 marks. On 2. he badmouths Franz Biberkopf. He wouldn’t mind knowing himself where the fellow’s keeping. (Pricks of conscience, where are pricks of conscience, Orestes and Clytemnestra, Reinhold doesn’t even know their names, he simply and sincerely desires Franz to be dead and disappeared.) But Cilly doesn’t know where Franz is either, and that’s an argument, argues Reinhold passionately, for the man’s being six feet under. And so to point 3. Reinhold says kindly, where a reprise is concerned: I’m tied up just for the moment, but you might try again in May. You’re barking, she scolds, and she’s almost beside herself with joy. Everything’s possible with me, he beams, takes his leave and strolls on. Reinhold, oh Reinhold, you’re my darling, Reinhold, oh Reinhold, you’re my only one.
He thanks his Creator at every bar that there is such a thing as schnapps. What if all the bars were to close down, or Germany went dry, what do I do then? Well, then I just have to be sure to lay in a supply at home in time. No time like the present. I really am a sharp lad, he thinks, as he stands in the shop, investing in a bit of this and a bit of that. He knows he has his cerebrum, and if need be his midbrain as well.
And so, at least for now, the night from Sunday to Monday was over for Reinhold. And anyone who still wants to ask if there’s such a thing as justice in the world, the bad news is: for the moment, no, at least not this week.
The night of Sunday-Monday, 9 April
The big private automobile in which Franz Biberkopf is laid – unconscious, he has been given camphor and scopolamine – races for two hours. At the end of that time, it’s in Magdeburg. He is taken out near a church, the two men bang on the doors of the clinic. He is operated on that same night. His right arm is taken off at the shoulder, part of the shoulder joint is reset, the bruising on chest and right thigh, is, for the moment, nothing to worry about. Internal injuries remain a possibility, a minor liver rupture, but probably not much. Wait and see. Has he lost a lot of blood? Where did you find him? On X-Y avenue, that’s where his motorbike was, he must have been struck from behind. You didn’t see the car that did it? No. We saw him lying there, we parted ways in Z, he took the left fork. We know, it’s very dark there. Yes, that’s where it happened. Will the gentlemen be staying in the area? Yes, for a couple of days more; he’s my brother-in-law, his wife is coming down today or tomorrow. We’re staying opposite, in case we’re needed. Outside the operating room one of the gentlemen stops to address the clinicians once more: I know this is an awful business, but we would like word not to get out from your side. Let’s wait till he comes round, and then see what he thinks. He’s not a litigious type. If you must know, he once struck someone himself, so you know, his nerves. – Whatever you say. For now, let’s just hope he pulls through.
At eleven his bandages are changed. It’s Monday morning – the ones who caused the accident are in their cups, roister-boister, out in Weissensee at their fence’s – Franz is conscious, lying in a nice bed, in a nice room, his chest feels pressed tight, he asks the sister where he is. She tells him what she heard from the night nurse and has managed to glean from conversation. He is awake. Understands everything, feels for his right arm. The sister takes his hand away: there now, lie still. In the slush on the road, blood had come out of his right sleeve – he had felt it. Then there were people next to him, and at that moment something happened in him. What had happened to Franz at that moment? He had come to a decision. When Reinhold had struck him those iron blows in the passage in the house in Bülowplatz he had trembled, the ground trembled under him. Franz didn’t get it.
When the car drove him away, the ground was still trembling. Franz didn’t want to acknowledge it, but it was.
But when he lay there in the slush, just five minutes later, there was a movement in him. Something tore free, broke through and gonged, gonged. Franz is stone, he feels it, I’ve been run over, he is cool and quiet. Franz realizes, I’ve had it – and he issues commands. Maybe I’m done for, never mind, I’m not done for. On, on. They make a tourniquet from one of his braces. Then they want to drive him to hospital in Pankow. But he’s like a pointer alert to every move: no, no hospital, and he gives them an address. What address? Elsasser Strasse, Herbert Wischow, a colleague from another life, a life before Tegel! The address is present in a moment. That’s what comes to life in him as he lies there in the slush, rips through, breaks through, and gongs, gongs. Instantaneously, without a moment’s doubt or hesitation.
They mustn’t catch me. He is certain Herbert is still living there, and will be in. They dash into the pub on Elsasser Strasse, asking for Herbert Wischow. A slimly built young man gets up next to a beautiful dark-haired woman, what is it, outside in the car, he runs out to the car with them, the girl too, followed by half the pub. Franz knows who’s coming. He gives commands to time.
Franz and Herbert recognize one another, Franz whispers ten words in Herbert’s ear, they make room for him in the back, Franz is carried in, laid down in a bed, a doctor is called, Eva, the dark-haired beauty, brings money. They put him into different clothes. An hour after the attack he is being driven by private automobile from Berlin to Magdeburg.
At noon Herbert visits the clinic, and is able to talk to Franz. Franz doesn’t want to spend so much as a day needlessly in the clinic, in a week Wischow will be back, for now Eva will stay in Magdeburg.
Franz lies there stock-still. He has a grip on himself. He forbids all reflection. Only when at 2 p.m. after visiting hours, the lady is announced and Eva walks in with a bunch of tulips, does he cry helplessly, cries and sobs and Eva has to wipe his face with a towel. He moistens his lips, squinches his eyes shut, grits his teeth. But his jaw is still trembling, he starts sobbing again, so that the nurse outside hears it, and knocks and tells Eva that’s enough for today, the visits were taking too much out of the patient.
The next day he is perfectly calm, and smiles at Eva. At the end of two weeks they come for him. He is back in Berlin, breathing Berlin again. When he sees Elsasser Strasse something stirs in him, but he doesn’t sob. He’s thinking of the Sunday afternoon with Cilly, the bells, the bells, this is my home and something is in store for me, I have to do something, something will happen. Franz Biberkopf knows that for sure, and allows himself to be carried quietly from the car.
I have a duty, something will happen, I’m not leaving, I’m Franz Biberkopf. So they carry him inside, into the flat of his friend Herbert Wischow, who calls himself the commissioner. It’s the same instinctive certainty that surfaced in him after the fall from the car.
Boomtime in the abattoir, boomboomtime: pigs 11,543, cattle 2,016, calves 920, sheep 14,450. One blow, bop, they lie there.
The pigs, the cattle, the calves, they are all slaughtered. There’s no call to think about them. Now where were we? Eh?
•
Eva is sitting at Franz’s bedside, Wischow keeps popping in: what happened, man, how did that happen? Franz doesn’t tell. He has erected an iron box around himself, and he sits there and won’t let anyone in.