Berlin Alexanderplatz
A man with a curly brown beard had been standing in the doorway for the past five minutes or so. He now walked up to the table, and sat down on a chair. He was about the same age, and had on a black velvet hat like the other man. He waved his hand about, and his voice shrilled: ‘Who’s this then? What’re you doing with him?’ ‘And what are you doing, Eliser? I don’t know the fellow, he won’t tell me his name.’ ‘You been telling him stories.’ ‘That’s none of your business.’ The brown beard to the convict: ‘Has he been telling you stories?’ ‘He doesn’t speak. He just walks around and sings in people’s yards.’ ‘Then let him go.’ ‘What do you care what I do.’ ‘I listened at the door to what was passing between you. You were telling him all about Zannovich. That’s all you ever do.’ The stranger eyed the brown beard, growled: ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here? Why do you care what he does?’ ‘Did he tell you about Zannovich, or didn’t he? Of course he did. Nahum my brother-in-law goes around and talks and talks and never does anything.’ ‘I never asked for help from you. Wicked man, can’t you see the man’s in trouble.’ ‘So what if he is. God didn’t make you responsible for him, no, God waited for you to come along. On his own God couldn’t do anything for him.’ ‘Bad man.’ ‘You stay away from him. He’ll just fill your head with nonsense about Zannovich and who else succeeded in this world.’ ‘Won’t you leave us alone now.’ ‘Listen to the cheat, the doer of good deeds. He wants to tell me what to do. Is this your flat? What did you tell him about Zannovich this time, your shining example? You should have been our rabbi, and we’d have had the pleasure of feeding you.’ – ‘I don’t need your charity.’ The brown beard raised his voice: ‘And we don’t need scroungers hanging on our apron strings. Did he tell you what happened to his Zannovich at the end?’ ‘Bastard, bad man.’ ‘Did he tell you?’ The convict blinked sleepily at the red-haired man, who shook his fist and stalked over to the door, then he growled after him: ‘Don’t run off, man, don’t get het up, let him speak.’
•
Then the brown beard started in on him, with jerky hand movements, slipping back and forth, with tongue clicks and head wags, a new expression every other second, now addressing the stranger, and now the redhead: ‘He makes people stupid. Let him tell what became of his Stefan Zannovich. He doesn’t like to say, why doesn’t he like to say, I wonder.’ ‘Because you’re a bad man, Eliser.’ ‘Better man than you. They chased his Zannovich (both hands raised in revulsion, terrible round eyes) from Florence like a thief. Why? Because they saw him for what he was.’ The redhead loomed dangerously in front of him, the other motioned him away: ‘I’m talking now. He wrote letters to the nobility, a nobleman gets lots of letters, you can’t always tell from a letter what manner of man is writing it. Then he puffed himself up, and he went to Brussels as Prince of Albania or some such, and he got involved in politics. Well, it must have been his bad angel who led him on. He presents himself to the government, the boy Stefan Zannovich, and promises them a hundred thousand men for the war, or two hundred thousand, don’t ask me which, the government writes him a letter, thanks but no thanks, it didn’t want to get involved in his uncertain business. Then the bad angel told Stefan: take this letter, and borrow money on it. Here’s a letter from the minister addressed to His Highness, the Prince of Albania. They lent him money, and then the swindler was finished. How old did he get to be? Thirty – that was the reward for his crimes. He couldn’t repay the loan, they tried him in Brussels, and it all got out. Your hero, Nahum! Did you tell the visitor about his grim death in prison, when he opened his own veins? And how once he was dead – nice life, pretty death, why not tell it all – once he was dead, the hangman came, the knacker with his cart full of dead dogs and dead horses and dead cats, and picked up his body, and wheeled him out of town to their gallows hill and covered the body with all sorts of rubbish from the city.’
The man in the summer duster sat there open-mouthed: ‘Is that right?’ (A sick mouse can groan.) The redhead had counted every word yelled by his brother-in-law. He waited with raised index finger in front of the brown beard’s face, as if for a cue, and then jabbed him in the chest and spat at his feet, ptui, ptui: ‘That’s for you. That’s what I think of you. My brother-in-law.’ The brown beard waggled over to the window: ‘There, and now you talk, and tell me it’s not true.’
The walls melted away. There was a small space with a light bulb, two Jews running around, one with brown hair, one with red, both in black velvet hats, bickering. He applied to his friend, the redhead: ‘You, listen to me, you, is it true what he said about the man, and how he lost his way and they put him to death?’ The brown beard yelled: ‘Put him to death, when did I say put him to death? He killed himself.’ The redhead: ‘He did very likely kill himself.’ The freed man: ‘And what did they do, the others in with him?’ The redhead: ‘Who, who?’ ‘Well, there’ll have been others there besides him, besides Stefan. They won’t all have been ministers and bankers and crooks.’ The redhead and the brown beard exchanged glances. The redhead: ‘Well, what do you think they did? They’ll have sat and watched.’
The freed man in the yellow summer duster, the big fellow, picked up his hat, brushed it down, laid it on the table, all in silence, and unbuttoned his waistcoat: ‘Here, look at my trousers. I used to be so fat, and now I can stuff both fists inside the waistband, that’s what hunger did to me. It’s all gone. My whole belly gone to pot. That’s how you get ruined, for not always having been the way you were supposed to be. I don’t think the others are that much better either. No I don’t. They want to drive you crazy.’
The brown beard whispered to the redhead: ‘There you are.’ ‘Where am I?’ ‘Well, a jailbird.’ ‘So what if.’ The freed man: ‘Then it’s: you’re being released, and it’s straight back in it, the same shit you were in before. Snow joke.’ He buttoned up his waistcoat again. ‘You can tell that by what they’ve done. They get the dead man out of his cell, the man with the cart comes along, and throws a dead human being on it, who’s gone and killed hisself, poor bastard, I wonder why he wasn’t brained right away, for transgressing against a human being, never mind what he did.’ The redhead, sorrowfully: ‘What can I say?’ ‘Is it that we’re nothing, once we’ve done something? Anyone can get another go who’s been to prison, never mind what it is they’re in for.’ (Regrets? You want to breathe! Cut loose! Then everything’s in the past, fear and all.) ‘I just wanted to show you: you shouldn’t believe everything my brother-in-law says. Sometimes you can’t do everything you’d like to, sometimes things get fouled up.’ ‘That’s not justice, getting tossed in the garbage like you were a dead dog, and rubbish dumped on top of you, that’s not what I call justice towards a dead man. No sir. But now I want to say goodbye to you. Gimme your paw. You mean well and so do you (he shook hands with the redhead). Biberkopf is the name, Franz Biberkopf. It was nice of the pair of you to take me in. My bird was singing back then, in the courtyard. Well, cheers to you both, it’ll pass.’ The two Jews shook him by the hand, smiled. The redhead clasped his hand a long time, beamed: ‘Now, are you sure you’re all right? I’ll be happy to see you, whenever you have a moment.’ ‘Thank you kindly, I’ll do that, I’m sure I’ll have time, it’s the money that worries me. And give my best to the old gentleman, too. He’s got strength in his hand, he must have been a butcher or what? Oh, let me just straighten the rug, it’s all skew. No, no, I’ll take care of it, and the table too. There.’ He worked on the floor, laughed at the redhead over his shoulder: ‘So we sat on the floor and told each other stories. That’s a nice place to sit, if you forgive my saying so.’
They walked him to the door, the redhead still concerned: ‘Will you be able to walk on your own?’ The brown beard jabbed him in the ribs: ‘Don’t be such a mother hen.’ The freed man, walking upright, shook his head, displaced air with both his arms (You need to clear space for yourself, space is what you need, and nothing more): ‘Don’t you worry about me. You can let me go. You were telling
me all about how important it was to have feet and eyes. Well, I still got them. No one’s cut those off of me yet. Morning, gents.’
And he crossed the narrow, cluttered yard, the two of them peeking down after him from the stairway. He had his hat pulled down over his face, and was muttering as he jumped over a puddle of petrol: ‘Filth. What about a cognac. Whoever comes near me gets one in the face. Let’s see where I can get me a cognac.’
Markets opening directionless, gradually drifting lower, Hamburg out of bed the wrong side, London continuing weak
It was raining. On the left, down Münzstrasse, were blinking lights that indicated cinemas. On the corner he got held up, people were stood in front of a fence, there was a big hole there, the tramlines on their sleepers were crossing empty space, just then a tram slowly passed. Look at that, they’re building an Underground, there must be work to be had in Berlin after all. Another cinema, no admission to anyone under seventeen. On the enormous poster was a red gentleman on a staircase, and a sweet girl was clutching at his legs, she was sprawled over the stairs and there was smuggins at the top. Below he read: Orphaned, the story of a child in six acts. Yes, think I’ll treat myself to that. The orchestrion was grinding away. Admission: 60 pfennigs.
A man said to the cashier: ‘Miss, is there a discount for an old reservist in good shape?’ ‘No, only for infants under six months with dummy.’ ‘That’s me, then. Newborn on the never-never.’ ‘All right, then, fifty, come on in.’ Behind him a skinny fellow with a kerchief round his neck cut in: ‘Please, miss, will you let me in for free.’ ‘As if. Ask your mama to put you on the potty.’ ‘Well, can I?’ ‘Can you what?’ ‘Go in the flicker.’ ‘This ain’t no flicker.’ ‘Oh, ain’t it.’ She called through the ticket window to the lookout by the door: ‘Maxie, come here a minute. Here’s someone who wants to know if this is a cinema. Hasn’t got any money. Show him what’s here.’ ‘You wanna know what’s here, young fella? Ain’t it clicked? This is the poorhouse, Münzstrasse section.’ He shoved the skinny fellow away from the box office, waved a fist in his face: ‘And if you like, you can have that in writing.’
Franz pushed on in. There was a break in the programme. The long space was chock-a-block, 90 per cent of them men in caps which they keep on throughout. Three overhead lamps with red shades. At the front a yellow piano with parcels on it. The orchestrion grinding on without a break. The lights go down and the film begins. A goosegirl is to be educated, why isn’t immediately clear. She wiped her nose with her hand, scratched her bottom on the steps, the whole cinema laughed out loud. Franz was exhilarated by the sniggering all round. Here were lots of people, at liberty and enjoying themselves, no one’s telling them what to do, how lovely, and yours truly in the midst of it! The show went on. The stuck-up baron had a lover who sprawled in a hammock and stuck her legs straight up in the air. She kept her knickers on though. There’s a thing. What did people see in that dirty goosegirl, now she was licking her plate. Once again the one with the long legs came up. The baron had dumped her, she flew out of her hammock and lay sprawled on the grass for a long time. Franz stared at the wall, there was the next scene already, but he could still see her spilling out of the hammock and lying there motionless. He chewed on his tongue, my word. Then, when someone who was the goosegirl’s beau embraced the lady, he got a rush of feeling across his chest, as if he was hugging himself. It affected him so much, he came over all weak.
A woman. (So there’s more in the world than bother and dread. What’s it all for? Christ, man, air, a woman!) How had he failed to think of that. You stand at the window of your cell, staring out at the prison yard through the bars. Sometimes women go by, visiting, or children, or cleaners for the governor. The way they stand pressed to the windows, the convicts, eyeing, all the windows full, gobbling up any passing woman. A sergeant had a conjugal visit lasting a fortnight from his wife in Eberswalde, it used to be he only went to see her once a fortnight, he saved em up and cashed em in, and at work he can hardly keep his head up he’s so shagged out.
•
Franz was already out on the street in the rain. What to do? I’m free – gotta have a woman. Where’s a woman. Delightful, life on the outside. Be able to stand still and walk wherever. His legs were shaking, he felt no ground under them. Then on the corner of Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse there was one behind the market cart, and he stopped in front of her, didn’t care what she was like. Crikey, where do these jelly legs come from all of a sudden. He sloped off with her, biting his underlip to stop it shaking, if you live any distance off, I’m not going. It was only diagonally across Bülowplatz, past the fences, through an entryway, across a yard and down half a dozen steps. She turned, laughed: ‘Hold on a minute, just let me park my umbrella.’ He squeezed, thrust, pinched at her, ran his hands over her coat, he was still in his hat, crossly she let the umbrella clatter to the floor: ‘Let go of me, man,’ he panted, faked a smile, ‘What’s the matter with you?’ ‘You’re ripping my clothes. I don’t spose you’ll pay for the damage either. Well, then. No one gives us anything.’ When he refused to let go of her: ‘I can’t breathe. What’s wrong with you. Idiot.’ She was sluggish, fat, short, he had to hand over the 3 marks first, she put them away carefully in her dresser and stuck the key in her pocket. He, not taking his eyes of her: ‘I been inside for a couple of years, gal. Tegel, you can imagine.’ ‘Where’s that?’ ‘Tegel, you can imagine.’
The fat woman laughed full-throatedly. She was undoing her blouse at the top. There were two king’s children, who loved each other oh-so much. When the dog jumps over the kerb with the sausage in its teeth. She clutched him, pulled him to her. Chook, chook, chook, my little chicken, my little chickadee.
Before long he had sweat on his face, he was groaning. ‘What are you groaning for?’ ‘Who’s the fellow running around next door?’ ‘That’s no fellow, that’s my landlady.’ ‘Well, what’s she doing then?’ ‘How do I know. It’s her kitchen.’ ‘I want her to stop it. Why does she have to do that now. I can’t stand it.’ ‘Oh yes, I’ll just tell her to stop then, would you like that.’ What a sweaty man, won’t you be happy to be rid of him, layabout, I’ll put him out just as soon as I can. She knocked on the door: ‘Frau Priese. Would you mind being quiet for a few minutes, I’ve got a gentleman I’m trying to talk to, it’s important.’ There, that’s done, dear Lord, now you can be at peace, come to my bosom, but you’ll be flying out in a jiffy.
She thought, her head on the pillows, the yellow shoes could do with re-soling, Kitty’s new man will do it for a couple of marks if she doesn’t mind, I’ll not steal him away from her, or mebbe he could dye them brown to go with my blouse, which is an old rag already, it’ll about do for a tea-cosy, the lace trim needs ironing, I’ll tell Frau Priese as soon as I can, she’ll have her hearth on still, wonder what’s cooking today. She sniffed. Fried herrings.
Through his head rhymes rolled, incomprehensible stuff, a procession: cooking soup, Miss Stein, I’ll have a spoonful, cooking noodles, Miss Stein, give me noodles, Miss Stein, I fall down, I get up. He groaned loudly: ‘Don’t you like me then?’ ‘Why wouldn’t I sweetie, come here, love for a Sechser.’ He tumbled into bed, grunted, groaned. She scratched her throat: ‘You do make me laugh. You can lie still a moment. I’m not bothered.’ She laughed, extended her plump arms, pushed her stockinged feet out of the bed. ‘It’s not my fault.’
Out on the street! Air! It’s still raining. What can the matter be? I better find myself another one. Have a good sleep. Franz, my boy, what’s wrong with you?
Sexual potency in the male is produced by the following, working in concert: 1. the glandular system, 2. the nervous system and 3. the sexual organs. The glands involved are: the pituitary, the thyroid, the suprarenal, the prostate, the seminal vesicle and the epididymis. The lead role is taken by the sperm gland, the entire sexual apparatus from cerebral cortex to genitals is activated by its secretions. The erotic trigger releases the erotic tension of the cerebral cortex, the charg
e moves in the form of sexual excitement from the cerebral cortex to the switch centre in the interbrain. This charge then funnels down the spine. Not unimpeded, because before it quits the brain, it needs to pass the inhibitors, mainly intellectual inhibitors, moral scruples, lack of self-confidence, fear of humiliation, fear of infection and pregnancy, etc. etc. play a great part.
Then dawdled down Elsasser Strasse at night. Don’t hang about, mate, don’t pretend to be tired. ‘How much you asking?’ The dark-haired one is good, the hips on her like a pretzel. If a girl’s got a guy she likes. ‘You’re in a good mood, darling. You must have come into some money.’ ‘Sure I have. I’m good for a thaler.’ ‘Why not.’ But he’s still nervous.
And then up in her room, flowers behind the curtains, tidy little room, sweet little room, she’s even got a gramophone, she sings for him, in Bemberg’s artificial silk stockings, blouse off, eyes blacker than kohl: ‘You know, I’m a shantoose. Guess where? Anywhere that takes my fancy. I’m just between engagements now. I go to bars I like, and then I enquire. And then: my song. I’ve got a song. Hey, stop tickling me.’ ‘Come on, cut it out.’ ‘No, hands off, that’s bad for business. My song, be nice, sweetie, I conduct a proper auction in the bar, no passing round a hat. Anyone who can afford it gets to kiss me. Wild, eh. In the public bar. None under fifty pfennigs. I get it every time. Here on my shoulder. You can, too.’ She puts on a gentleman’s top hat, cackles in his face, waggles her hips, arms akimbo: ‘Theodor whatever did you have in mind when you eyed me up last night? Theodor what have you gone and done, you rotter when you trett me to champagne and trotters.’