Franz Biberkopf gulps down what Willi gives him. Following one of these meetings there is a debate, where they stay in the hall and argue the toss with an old worker. Willi knows the man already, and the man takes Willi for a worker in his factory, and wants to get him to do more agitating. But Willi laughs in his face: ‘Christ, man, since when am I your comrade. I don’t work for the factory barons.’ ‘Well then, do something in your place of work.’ ‘I don’t need to do anything there. Where I work, everyone knows what they have to do.’ Willi falls over the table laughing. Rubbish, he gives Franz a pinch in the leg, next someone will run around with a pot of glue and a brush and put up posters. He laughs at the worker, who has long iron-grey hair and an open shirt: ‘You know, you sell the publications, the Pfaffenspiegel, Black Flag, Atheist; have you ever opened one and looked inside?’ ‘Listen, comrade, you open your mouth way too far. I’ll show you something I’ve written myself.’ ‘I suppose that makes you an authority. Don’t bother. But what about this: read whatever it is you wrote, and abide by it. See this: Culture and Technology. Now listen: “Egyptian slaves worked for decades without any machines on a king’s tomb, European workers spend years working with machines on an individual’s private fortune. Is that progress? Perhaps. But for whom?” Well. Soon I’m going to work myself, so that Krupp in Essen or Borsig has another thousand marks a month, one of those Berlin kings. Christ, comrade, when I look at you, what do I see? You claim to be a man of direct action. Where? I don’t see any. Do you, Franz?’ ‘Oh, leave him be, Willi.’ ‘No, tell me, do you see the least difference between our man here and the SPD?’
The worker sits doughtily in his chair. Willi: ‘For me there’s no difference, comrade. Just on paper, in the publications. All right, imagine you get your way. But then what will you do, that’s what I’m wondering. Well, I’ll tell you: the same as someone in the SPD. The same, exactly the same; stand at your lathe, cart your lousy wage packet home on Fridays, and the company pays dividends on your labour. European workers toil at their machines to build private fortunes for wealthy individuals. Maybe that’s even one of yours.’
The greying worker looks from Franz to Willi and back again, he looks around, there are still a few people at the beer table at the back of the room, the worker leans forward, whispers: ‘Well, so what do you do?’ Willi prompts Franz: ‘You tell him.’ But Franz is reluctant, he says he doesn’t like these political discussions. The grizzled anarchist persists: ‘This isn’t a political discussion. We’re just having a chat. What job do you do?’
Franz sits up on his chair and reaches for his beer mug, he fixes the anarchist with a look. There is a reaper, Death yclept, I must go up on the hills and weep and wail and lament with the herds in the desert, because they are so ravaged that none wander there, both the birds of the heavens and the beasts of the field are gone.
‘I’ll tell you what I do, colleague, because I’m not your comrade. I go around, I do odd things, but I don’t work, I let other people work for me.’
What’s he on about, is he having me on. ‘Then that makes you an entrepreneur, have you got employees, and how many? What are you doing here with us, if you’re a capitalist?’ I will make Jerusalem a ruin, and a den of dragons; and I will lay the cities of Judah desolate, so that none shall dwell in them.
‘Christ’s sake, man, can’t you see, I’ve only got one arm. I lost the other. That’s what I got from working. That’s why I’ve had it with work, understand?’ Understand, understand, you’ve got eyes to see, shall I buy you a pair of glasses, the way you’re staring at me. ‘No, I don’t understand, colleague. What line of work are you in? If it’s not regular work, then it must be irregular.’
Franz bangs on the table, points at the anarchist, lowers his head: ‘See, he’s understood. That’s just what it is. Irregular work. Your regular work is slavery, because that’s what regular work is, you said so yourself. I remembered.’ Without your help, I don’t need you for that, you soft-soap scribbler and chatterbox.
The anarchist has white tapered hands, he is a precision-tool manufacturer, he inspects his fingertips and thinks: it’s good to unmask these bastards, they’d only compromise me otherwise. I’ll get someone else along to listen with me. He gets to his feet, but Willi holds him back: ‘Where are you off to, colleague? Are we done already? Why don’t you settle things with your brother here, surely you won’t duck out of it?’ ‘I’m just getting someone else to listen. There’s two of you against me.’ ‘What’s that about you getting someone, I don’t want anyone else. You can say what you want to Franz here.’ The anarchist sits down again, in that case we’ll do it by ourselves: ‘OK, then. He’s no comrade, and he’s no colleague neither. Because he doesn’t work. Doesn’t seem like he goes on the dole either.’
Franz’s face hardens, his eyes blaze out: ‘No, that he doesn’t.’ ‘Then he’s not my comrade and not my colleague and not unemployed either. Then I’m just asking, and nothing else concerns me: who is he and what’s he doing here?’ Franz puts on his most resolute expression: ‘I was just waiting for you to say that: what are you doing here. Here is where you sell leaflets and brochures and newspapers, and when I ask you about them, and what they say, then you say: who are you to ask? What are you doing here? Didn’t you write and talk about wage slavery and that we’re victims and can’t move freely?’ Wake up, damned of the earth, who are still forced to starve. ‘Well, then you weren’t listening very closely. I was talking about the workers’ movement. To be part of that, a man’s gotta work.’ ‘Well, I refused to.’ ‘That’s no good to us. You might as well stay in bed. I was talking about industrial action, collective action, the strike weapon.’
Franz raises his arm and laughs, he is enraged. ‘So what you do goes by the name of direct action, right: going round, putting up pieces of paper, making speeches? But for the time being you keep going to work, and strengthening the capitalists? Comrade idiot, you’re screwing together grenades for them to kill you with. Who do you think you are, preaching to me? Willi, say something! I’m floored.’ ‘Same question: what work do you do?’ ‘I’ll repeat myself: None! Shit! None at all. What’s the matter with you. I can’t. By your own theory. I’m not going to support any capitalist. And I shit on your moaning and your strikes and your little people who are supposed to be organized. Self-reliance. I see to what I need. I’m self-sufficient. Amen.’
The worker gulps his lemonade, nods: ‘Well, just try getting by on your own.’ Franz laughs and laughs. The worker: ‘I’ve told you this umpteen times: you won’t get by on your own. We need a fighting organization. We need to educate the masses about the state’s rule through force and economic monopoly.’ And Franz laughs and laughs. No higher being will come to our rescue, no god or emperor, no tribune to relieve us from misery, we can only do it ourselves.
They sit and face each other in silence. The old worker in his boiler suit stares at Franz, who scowls back, what are you staring at me for, sonny boy, you’ll not outstare me. The worker opens his mouth: ‘You know, I can see from your face, my words are wasted on you. You’re obstinate. You’re banging your head against a brick wall. You don’t know what the main thing is with the proletariat: solidarity. You don’t know.’ ‘You know what, colleague, I’m minded to take my hat and go. What do you say, Willi. I’ve had enough. You keep on saying the same thing over and over again.’ ‘Yes, so I do. You can go in the basement for all I care, and bury yourselves. But I don’t want you at our political meetings.’ ‘Excuse me, sir. We just happened to have half an hour to spare. And now we’d like to say thank you very much. Landlord, the bill please. Now watch this: three beers and two shorts, one mark ten, there, I paid for em, direct action.’
‘What is your story, mate?’ He won’t let up. Franz pockets his change: ‘Me? I’m a pimp. Can’t you tell?’ ‘Well, it’s not a complete surprise.’ ‘Me. Pimp. Got it. Did I say so or didn’t I? All right, Willi, your turn.’ ‘It’s none of his business.’ Those bastards were making
a fool of me, the wretches were riling me up. ‘You scum of the capitalist swamp. Get lost you, you’re not even proletarians. The word for you is parasites.’ Franz is already up on his feet: ‘We’re not going to the homeless shelter though. Good day to you, Mr Direct Action. I hope the capitalists grow fat on your labour. Back to the grindstone tomorrow at seven sharp, there’s fifty pfennigs in it for the missus.’ ‘Don’t ever show your faces here again.’ ‘No chance of that, direct hot air, we don’t hang around with capitalist lackeys.’
Calmly sauntered out. On the dusty street, the two link arms. Willi takes a deep breath: ‘You sorted his hash, Franz.’ He’s surprised that Franz is so taciturn. Franz is livid, odd. Franz has left the hall boiling with rage and hatred, he couldn’t say why.
They meet Mitzi in the Mokka-fix on Münzstrasse, where there’s a huge commotion. Franz is keen to take Mitzi home, he wants to sit her down and talk to her. He tells her about the conversation with the old worker. Mitzi is very gentle with him, but all he cares about is if he said the right thing. She smiles, doesn’t get it, strokes his hands, their bird wakes up, Franz sighs, she is unable to calm him down.
Conspiracy of females, our dear ladies take the floor, the heart of Europe is unchanged
Franz can’t get away from politics. (Why? What’s tormenting you? What are you protecting yourself against?) He sees something, he sees something, he feels like smacking them in the face, they provoke him continually, he reads the Red Flag and the Unwaged. He often turns up at Herbert and Eva’s with Willi in tow, but they don’t like him. Franz doesn’t much like him either, but he’s interesting to talk to, he knows more about politics than the rest of them put together. When Eva asks Franz to stop seeing Willi, who just costs him money and is nothing but a drain on him, then Franz completely agrees with her; Franz really has no use for politics, never did. But one day he promises to let Willi go, and the next he strolls up with the louse, and brings him rowing.
Eva says to Herbert: ‘If it wasn’t Franz, and if he hadn’t had that accident with his arm, then I’d know how to straighten him out.’ ‘Well?’ ‘He wouldn’t be seeing that wretched boy all the time who just exploits him. Who’re his real friends anyway. If I was Mitzi, I’d let him go.’ ‘Who, Willi?’ ‘Willi, or Franz. I wouldn’t care. But he needs to understand. If someone’s been locked up, they’ve surely had a chance to think about what’s right and what’s wrong.’ ‘You’re upset with him aren’t you, Eva.’ ‘Well, why did I play Mitzi to him, and set her up with the two fellers – just so Franz can go sounding off? No, it’s time our Franz listened a bit. Now he’s down one arm, where’s it going to end? He’s getting into politics, and he’s annoying the girl.’ ‘Yes, she’s fed up all right. She said as much last night. Sits around waiting for him to show. Not much of a life for a girl like that.’ Eva gives him a kiss: ‘And it’s no different for me either. Just you try staying away and doing stupid things like going to meetings! Herbert!’ ‘Well, sweetie, and what if I did?’
‘First I’d scratch your eyes out, and then you can come visit me by moonlight.’ ‘I’d like that, sweetie.’ She clips him across the mouth, laughs, gives him a shaking: ‘I’m not going to let my Sonia be ruined like that, she deserves better. As if the girl hasn’t had her fingers burnt already, and she’s bringing in money.’ ‘Well, you’d better take steps with our Franz. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s been a good and dear man, but talking to him is like talking to a brick wall, he doesn’t listen.’ Eva remembers how she wooed him when Ida turned up, and after, how she warned him, what the man has put her through, and she still isn’t happy.
‘Tell you what I don’t get,’ she says, standing in the middle of the room, ‘the man’s had his run-in with Pums, and they were flat out of order, and he won’t lift a finger. He’s all right now, but an arm is still an arm.’ ‘Agreed.’ ‘He won’t talk about it, you know that. But I’ll tell you something, Herbert. Of course Mitzi knows all about the business with the arm. Everything except who done it and why, she doesn’t know that. I tried asking her. Doesn’t know and doesn’t want to get into it. She’s a bit soppy, our Mitzi. Well, maybe she might get to thinking about it a bit, while she’s sitting there on her own waiting and wondering what’s keeping Franz, and of course he’ll be vulnerable then. Mitzi cries a lot anyway, only not in front of him. The man’s heading for misfortune. He needs to keep his end up. Mitzi needs to start him thinking about that Pums business.’ ‘Oh dear.’ ‘No, trust me. I know. That’s what Franz needs to think about. And if he takes a knife or a pistol, hasn’t he got right on his side?’ ‘As far as I’m concerned, of course. I’ve done enough asking around. The Pums gang is tight: no one’s saying anything.’ ‘Someone will know something.’ ‘Well, so what do you want?’ ‘Franz to start thinking about that, instead of Willi and his Communists and anarchists and all that worthless stuff that’s not good for nothing.’ ‘Mind you don’t get your fingers burnt, Eva.’
•
Eva’s gentleman is off to Brussels, so she can have Mitzi round and show her how very elegant people live. Because Mitzi has never seen anything like that. So besotted with Eva is the gentleman that he has even furnished a little nursery room for her, with two little monkeys. ‘I expect you think this is for the monkeys, Sonia? Not a bit of it! I just put them in there because it’s such a nice little room, and Herbert loves the monkeys and he always gets such a kick out of them when he comes.’ ‘Oh, so you bring him here too?’ ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I? The old man knows him, and he’s jealous as hell, which is lovely. I think if he wasn’t so jealous he’d probably have let me go long ago. The man wants a baby with me, that’s what the nursery room is for!’ They laugh, it’s a plush, colourful, beribboned room with a low children’s crib. The monkeys clamber up and down the bars of the crib; Eva picks one up and holds it to her breast, with a dreamy expression: ‘I’d have humoured him over the baby too, only I don’t want one with him. Not from him.’ ‘And I guess Herbert doesn’t want one.’ ‘Oh, I’d have one with Herbert all right. Or Franz. – Are you upset, Sonia?’
Sonia’s reaction is unexpected. She squeals, her face cracks open, she pushes the monkey away from Eva’s bosom, and vehemently, happily, blissfully, ecstatically embraces Eva, who doesn’t understand and turns away, because Sonia keeps trying to kiss her. ‘Oh, Eva. No, I’m not angry, I’m happy you like him. Tell me how much do you love him? If you want his baby, why’n’t you tell him?’ Finally, finally, Eva manages to push the girl away. ‘Are you crazy?! What’s the matter with you, Sonia. Tell me truthfully: do you want to palm him off” on me?’ ‘No, why would I, I want to keep him, he’s my Franz, isn’t he. But you’re my Eva too.’ ‘What did you say?’ ‘My Eva, my Eva.’
And Eva can’t keep her off. Sonia covers her with kisses – mouth, nose, ears, throat. Eva keeps still; then, as Sonia buries her face in Eva’s breast, she pulls her head up: ‘I never knew you were that way.’ ‘Not at all,’ stammers Sonia, frees her head, and presses it to Eva’s face, ‘I like you, I didn’t know that about you. The thing you said just now, about wanting a baby with him—’ ‘So? That makes you jealous?’ ‘No, Eva, I had no idea.’ And Sonia’s face is beet-red, and she looks up at Eva: ‘Do you really want his baby?’ ‘What’s the matter with you?’ ‘Do you?’ ‘No, it was just something I said.’ ‘No, now you’re just saying that. I know you do, I know you do.’ And again, Sonia burrows into Eva’s bosom and hums delightedly: ‘That’s so lovely, you wanting a baby with him, oh, that’s so lovely, it makes me so, so happy.’
Then Eva takes Sonia into the other room and lays her down on the couch: ‘You’re queer, girl.’ ‘No, I’m not queer, I’ve never touched a girl before.’ ‘But you want to touch me, don’t you.’ ‘Yes, because I like you so much, and because you want his baby. You should have it too.’ ‘You’re mad, girl.’ She is completely carried away, holding Eva’s hands, keeping her from getting up: ‘Oh, don’t deny it now, you want it, don’t you, you must pro
mise me you will. Promise me you’ll have a baby with him.’ Eva has to break free from Sonia, who lies there all floppy, eyes closed, her mouth making smacking noises.
Then Sonia gets up, sits down at the table next to Eva, where the maid serves them lunch with wine. For Sonia she brings coffee and cigarettes, Sonia is still dreaming away to herself confusedly. As always, she is wearing a plain white dress; Eva is in a black silk kimono. ‘Now, Sonia, can I talk to you properly?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘Well, how do you like all this here?’ ‘Love it.’ ‘You see. And you like Franz, don’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, if you like him, then you need to look after him a bit. He goes places that aren’t good for him, and always in the company of that dratted Willi.’ ‘He likes him, don’t he.’ ‘What about you?’ ‘Me? He likes me too.’ ‘That’s so typical of you, you’ve got no eyes to see, you’re too young. It’s the wrong company for Franz, I’m telling you, and Herbert agrees. He’s no good. He’ll lead Franz off the straight and narrow. Don’t you think his losing one arm is bad enough?’