They are two older men, construction workers from Rosenthaler Strasse. The one speaks, the other takes issue. ‘But that’s enough to break your heart. If you saw something like that in the theatre or read about it in a book, you’d cry over it.’ ‘You might, Max. But you shouldn’t.’ ‘The woman, the three little ones, what more do you want?’ ‘The way I am, I think it’s funny, I like the feller, sure I feel sorry for the kids, but all at one fell swoop, the entire family, that commands respect, and then—’ He can’t contain himself: ‘I just think it’s fucking hilarious, sorry, I think it’s hilarious the way they fall out till the very end. The wife tells him to use a rope, and he says: sorry, Julie, old thing, no can do, and he drops the children overboard.’
The other puts on his steel-rimmed glasses and reads the story again. ‘The man’s alive. They’ve arrested him. Well, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’ ‘Who knows. How can you tell?’ ‘Oh, I know all right.’ ‘Oh, get away. I picture him like this. He’s sitting in his cell, smoking his baccy, if he gets any, and he says: take a walk.’ ‘That’s all you know. What about his conscience. He’s crying, he’s that eaten up about it. Can’t sleep at night. My God, you’re talking yourself into sin.’ ‘Oh, I’m not having that. If he’s such a determined fellow as that, then he’ll be sleeping soundly, and probably have better food and drink than outside. I bet.’ The other gives him a serious look. ‘In that case he’s just an animal. If they want to hang someone like that, I’ll give them my blessing.’ ‘You’re right. Tell you what, though. He’d agree too. He’d say you’re right.’ ‘Now stop your nonsense. I’m going to order a gherkin.’ ‘There’s interesting stories in the paper. A rabid dog, but maybe he feels sorry for what he’s done, you can overdo it.’ ‘I’m having a gherkin and brawn.’ ‘Now you’re talking. Me too.’
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‘I can’t do nothing, say all you like, Frau Wegner: a man missing an arm, and his right at that, is done for.’ ‘I can’t deny that, it’s hard, Herr Biberkopf. But that’s still no reason to wail and lament and pull long faces so that a person’d fear for you.’ ‘Well, what am I supposed to do, with one arm?’ ‘Go on the dole, or open a small business or something?’ ‘A small business?’ ‘Newspapers or flowers, or selling sock-suspenders or ties outside Tietz’s.’ ‘A news-stand?’ ‘Or fruit and veg.’ ‘I’m past that, I’m too old.’
That’s something I’ve done before, I’m through with that, that’s over and done.
‘You need a mate, Herr Biberkopf, who’ll tell you what you need to do, and stand by your side when you need her. She can help pull the wagon, or sell at a stall, if you happen to be called away.’
Cap on, down, all nonsense, next of all I’ll strap on a hurdy-gurdy and go busking. Where’s Willi?
‘Morning, Willi.’ Afterwards, Willi says: ‘Nah, there’s not a lot you can do. But if you’re smart about it, there is something. If I give you something to sell every day, or pass on under the counter, and you’ve got some good friends, and they stand by you, then you can log it and earn a decent percentage.’
And that’s what Franz sets himself to do. He is ambitious. He wants to stand on his own two feet. He wants whatever brings in money fast. Work is bullshit. He spits at newspapers, his blood boils when he sees those blockheads of vendors, and sometimes he is astonished to see how a man can be so stupid as to stand there slaving away while others careen past in their automobiles. I can just see myself doing that. Back in the day, lad. Tegel prison, the avenue of dark trees, the buildings wobbling, the roofs sliding off down on your head, and there’s me going straight! Franz Biberkopf insists on respectability, oh, pull the other one! I must have had brain fever from prison, Manoli mania.[8] I want money, money makes money, a man needs money.
•
Now behold Franz Biberkopf as a fence, a criminal, a new man has a new profession, before long he’ll take another turn to the bad.
There is a woman arrayed in purple and scarlet, and bedecked with jewels and pearls, holding in her hand a golden cup. She laughs. On her forehead her name is written, a name of mystery, great Babylon, the mother of harlots and of earth’s abominations. She has drunk of the blood of saints, she is drunken with the blood of saints. There sits the harlot Babylon, she is drunken with the blood of saints.
What did Franz Biberkopf go around in when he was living at Herbert Wischow’s?
What is he wearing now? On a table, purchased for 20 marks, a spotless summer suit. For special occasions, an Iron Cross on the left tit, by way of legitimation for his arm, enjoys the respect of passers-by and the fury of workers.
A well-fed pub landlord or master butcher is what he looks like, knife-sharp creases, glove, stiff derby. In case of trouble he carries papers, false papers, made out in the name of one Franz Räcker, who died during the troubles of 1922 and whose papers have already helped a good many others. Franz knows all the details of pat, where his parents are living, when they were born, how many brothers and sisters he has, what job he last worked at, all the kinds of things it might occur to a policeman to ask, and the rest can take care of itself.
•
This was in June. Glorious June, when the butterfly hatches, having gone through its pupation. And Franz is doing well for himself by the time Herbert and Eva return from the spa at Sopot. A lot had happened in the spa, there is much to be said about it, as Franz learns to his pleasure. Eva’s old put was out of luck. He had success at the tables, but on the very day he drew 10,000 marks from the bank his hotel room is broken into while he is dining with Eva. How can such a thing be. The room was opened with a spare key, his gold watch is gone, plus another 5,000 marks he had loose in the bedside drawer. Of course that was remiss of the gentleman, but who would think of such a thing happening. That thieves can sneak into such a first-class hotel, why didn’t the porter see anything, I will press charges, what’s the matter with your security, we don’t guarantee valuables in hotel rooms. The man is livid with Eva because she insisted that they have dinner, and what for, just so you can catch a glimpse of the Baron, what next, you’ll be kissing his hands, sending him a box of chocolates, all paid for by me. Now that’s not very nice of you, Ernst. What about the 5,000 marks? Is that my fault too? Oh, let’s go home. The banker agrees furiously: not a bad idea, let’s get the hell out of here.
So Herbert is back in Elsasser Strasse, and Eva moves into a swish pad in the west of the city, nothing new to her, she thinks pretty soon he’ll have had his fill of me, and I’ll be back in Elsasser.
Even in the first-class train compartment where she sits with her banker, accepting his caresses with boredom and a semblance of delight, she dreams: wonder what Franz is up to. And when the banker gets off a little before Berlin and leaves her alone in the compartment, she has a little crisis and panics: what if Franz is gone again. So picture the joy and surprise and gossip among Herbert and Eva and Emil when, on 4 July (a Wednesday), who should walk in, well, you’ll have got there by yourselves. Trim and tidy, the Iron Cross on his hero’s chest, the brown eyes as doggishly true as ever, warm fist and strong handshake: Franz Biberkopf. Now stand up straight. Now don’t lose your balance. Emil is already familiar with the transformation, he pastures the little lambs of his gaze instead on Herbert and Eva. Franz is one slick dude. ‘Boy, you look like you wash your legs in champagne!’ is Herbert’s gleeful welcome. Eva sits there, stunned. Franz has tucked his empty right sleeve in his pocket, the arm doesn’t seem to have grown back. She hugs and kisses him. ‘My God, Frankie, to think of how we sat there racking our brains about what you’ll do, we were worried about you like you wouldn’t believe.’ Franz does the rounds, kisses Eva, kisses Herbert, even Emil gets a smacker: ‘Silly,
worrying your heads about me!’ He blinks at them cannily. ‘How’d you like me as a war hero, then, in my bomber jacket?’ Eva crows: ‘What’s going on, what’s going on, I’m so happy to see you looking like this.’ ‘Well, so am I as well.’ ‘And – and who are you seeing these days, Franz?’ ‘Seeing? Ah. No, no. Not the moment. I ain’t got no one.’ And he gets to talking and telling them how he’s been, and promises Herbert he’ll give him all his money back, every last penny, in a few months it should all be paid off. At that, Herbert and Eva laugh. Herbert waves a brown 1,000-mark note in front of Franz. ‘This any good to you, Franz?’ Eva implores him: ‘Just take it, Frankie.’ ‘No chance. Don’t need it. At the most, we can drink its health downstairs, that would do.’
A girl shows up, and now Franz is back to strength
They approve of everything Franz is doing. Eva, who still entertains tender feelings for the lad, would like to hook him up with a nice girl. He resists, no, I know the right girl, you don’t, nor does Herbert neither, how would you know, she’s new in Berlin, she’s from Bernau, she used to hang around the Stettiner Bahnhof at night, and I met her there one time, and I told her: you’ll get ground up in little pieces, sweetheart, unless you quit commuting, you can’t make a go of things in Berlin that way. You see, Franz – Herbert knows the story already, and so does Emil – one time she’s sitting in the café, and it’s midnight. I go up to her and I says: why are you making a face like that, girl, don’t take on so. Then she starts crying in front of me, she had to go to the police station, she’s got no papers and she’s under-age, she doesn’t dare go home. She had a job, but she lost it, and now her mum’s thrown her out as well. She says: and all because I wanted to have a bit of fun. Do you know what people do at night, in Bernau?
Emil, as ever, listens with his hands on his hips and puts in: ‘The girl’s right. I’ve been in Bernau. There’s nothin going on.’
Eva: ‘Well, so I take her under my wing; the Stettiner Bahnhof isn’t a place for her in future.’
Herbert is smoking an imported cigar: ‘If you’re a man that understands how to go about things properly, Franz, then you’ll be able to make something of that girl. I’ve seen her. She’s got class.’
Emil backs him up: ‘A bit young, but she’s got class. Good bones.’ They carry on tippling.
•
This girl, who promptly comes knocking on his door next day, delights Franz from the moment he first claps eyes on her. Eva has stimulated his imagination, and he would like to do her a good turn as well. But the girl really is a prime piece, sweet and charming, nothing like that has ever been on his bill of fare before. She is a small person, in her little white dress with bare arms she looks like a schoolgirl, she has slow gentle movements, she takes her place right away discreetly at his side. She’s hardly been there half an hour, but already he can’t imagine a time he didn’t know the little minx. Emilie Parsunke is her real name, but she prefers to go by Sonia, and that’s what Eva always called her, because of her high Russian cheekbones. ‘Cos Eva,’ says the girl reasonably, ‘Eva’s not her proper name neither, she’s an Emilie same as what I am. She told me so herself.’
Franz rocks her on his lap, takes in the delicate but solidly built little miracle, and is amazed at the happiness the Almighty has sent to him. Life is ups and downs, no doubt about it. The man who gave Eva her name is known to him, because it was himself, she was his girl before Ida, if only he could of stayed with Eva. Well, now he’s got this new one here.
She lasts only a single day with him as Sonia, though, then he begs her, he can’t get along with strange names. If she’s from Bernau, then it doesn’t matter if she takes a different name. He’s had a number of girls, as she will have imagined, but none yet by the name of Marie. He’d like one now. Whereupon he starts to call her ‘Mitzi’.
•
And it doesn’t take long – early July time – till something good happens to him with her. No, there isn’t a baby, and she doesn’t fall ill either. This is some other thing that shocks Franz to the core, but in the end it doesn’t turn out too badly for him. It’s the time Stresemann goes to Paris, or again perhaps he doesn’t, in Weimar the telegraph office ceiling collapses, and perhaps an unemployed man takes off after his missus who has travelled to Graz with another man, and he shoots the pair of them before putting a bullet in his own brain. Such things happen in all weathers, the wholesale dying of fish in the Weisse Elster is another instance. Astounding to read about; if you happened to be there, not so great; every building has its own stories to relate.
Franz is often to be found standing outside the pawnshop in Alte Schönhauser Strasse; inside in the dining room he deals with the odd acquaintance, or he studies the section of the paper headed Items, For Sale and Wanted; at lunchtime he sees Mitzi. Then one time he notices Mitzi steaming into Aschinger’s on the Alex, which is where they like to have lunch. She says she overslept – but something seems a bit off to him. He forgets about it by and by, the girl is tender like you wouldn’t believe, everything in her room is so clean and tidy, with flowers and ribbons and knick-knacks, like with a little girl. And it’s always so nicely aired, and sprayed with lavender water, that it’s a proper delight for him when they arrive home together at night. And in bed she’s as light as a feather, always so sweet and soft and happy, like the very first time. And with it, she’s a bit serious, he really can’t make her out at all. Is there anything on her mind as she sits there, not doing anything, and if so, what. When he asks her that, she always replies with a laugh: nothing at all. You can’t spend all day thinking. Which stands to reason.
But on the door outside there’s a letter box marked with Franz’s name, the false one: Franz Räcker, because that’s the one he likes to give for small ads and the mail. So one day Mitzi tells him she distinctly heard the postman drop something in the box and when she goes to look later, there’s nothing there. Franz is surprised, and wonders what that’s about. And Mitzi says someone must have fished out the letter; the people across the landing, they’re always at the peephole, and they will have seen the postie walk up, and they must have helped themselves to his letter. Franz goes purple with rage, and thinks: what’s this, people are after me, and that evening he goes round there. Knocks, there’s a woman comes to the door, and she says she’ll get her husband. There’s an old man – the woman is younger, the man’s about sixty, the woman half that. So Franz asks him whether a letter meant for him was mistakenly delivered there. The man looks at his wife: ‘Was a letter delivered here? I’ve just got home.’ ‘No, not here.’ ‘When was this, Mitzi?’ ‘About eleven, he generally comes at around eleven.’ The woman says: ‘Yes, he’s always here around eleven. But the young lady always takes in the mail in person, if there is any, because he always rings.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘I’ve met him on the stairs sometimes, and then he’s give it to me, and then I put it in the box.’ ‘I wouldn’t know if you put it in the box, but I’ve seen him giving it to you. Well, what shall we do?’ Franz: ‘So you’re saying there’s no letter for me, Räcker?’ ‘Heaven forfend, what would I be doing, taking in letters addressed to other people. We haven’t even got a letter box, that’s how rarely the postie comes for us.’ Franz slopes off unhappily with Mitzi, tips his cap: ‘Scuse the disturbance. Good evening to yer.’ ‘Evening. Evening.’
Franz and Mitzi argue the ins and outs of the thing. Franz wonders if the people are maybe snooping on him, he wants to tell Herbert and Eva about them. He dins it into Mitzi to tell the postie to ring. ‘I do, Franz, honey, but sometimes there’s a new one, or a replacement.’
A couple of days later, when Franz unexpectedly comes home in the morning and Mitzi’s already on her way to Aschinger’s, he finds the answer, something entirely new – and that’s the thing that strikes a chill into his bones, though finally it doesn’t hurt him all that much. He walks into the living room, of course it’s clean and empty, but there’s a box of fine cigars out for him, Mitzi’s stuck a piece of
paper on them saying: ‘For Franz’, and a couple of bottles of Allasch. Franz feels happy, he thinks the way that girl runs my household, I ought to marry her really, and he’s quite delirious, and what about that, she’s gone and bought me a little bird as well, it’s as if it was my birthday, well, you wait, my little mouse, I’m sweet on you too. And he’s just took out his wallet to see how much money he has when there’s a ring at the door, yes, it’s the postie, but he’s late today, it’s past twelve, I’ll tell him so myself.
•
And Franz goes out into the corridor, opens the front door, listens out, no postie. He waits, nothing, well, maybe he’s just popped into one of the other flats. Franz takes the letter out and goes into the drawing room. The unsealed envelope contains a further, sealed letter, and next to it a note, with a scribbled ‘Wrongly addressed’ and an illegible signature. So that must have come from over the way, who are they spying on now. The sealed letter is addressed to ‘Sonia Parsunke, c/o Herr Franz Räcker’. How peculiar, who’s she getting letters from, it’s postmarked Berlin, and it’s a man’s writing. And there’s someone writing, and this is when Franz feels a chill to his heart: ‘Dearly beloved, how long can you leave a fellow waiting for an answer—’ he can’t read on, he stops – and there are the cigars and the little birdcage.