Reinhold doesn’t come forward, Berlin continues to clatter and trundle and din on its way, the papers don’t say they’ve nabbed him, he’s given them the slip, he’s abroad, they’ll never get him.
And there’s Franz in front of Eva, doubled over, howling. ‘I can’t do nothing, and I have to stick it out, he’s breaking me and he’s killed my girl, and I’m standing there like a weakling. It’s so unfair. So unfair.’
‘Franz, nothing’s changed.’ ‘I can’t do nothing. I’m finished.’ ‘Why do you think you’re finished, Franz?’ ‘Because I done what I could. So unfair, so unfair.’
•
There are the two angels flanking him, Sarug and Terah are their names, talking together. Franz is in the throng, walking in the throng, he is silent, but they can hear his wild crying. Policemen walk down the street, they don’t recognize Franz. Two angels are flanking him.
Why is Franz being flanked by two angels, and what sort of game is this, where angels flank a human being, two angels on Berlin’s Alexanderplatz in 1928 alongside a former manslaughterer, then burglar and pimp. Yes, this story of Franz Biberkopf, of his difficult, true and illuminating existence, has now gone so far. The more Franz Biberkopf doubles up and froths at the mouth, the clearer everything will become. The point is approaching at which everything will become clear.
The angels speak next to him, Sarug and Terah are their names, and their conversation – while Franz is studying the window displays at Tietz’s – runs as follows:
‘What do you say, Sarug, what would happen if we left this person to his own devices, abandoned him to be arrested?’ Sarug: ‘It wouldn’t make that much difference, I think, he would be picked up one way or another, that’s inevitable. He’s been to look at the red building, and rightly so, in a few weeks he’ll be in it.’ Terah: ‘In that case we’re basically superfluous?’ Sarug: ‘To some extent – given that we’re not permitted to whisk him away.’ Terah: ‘I think you’re a child, Sarug, you’ve only been studying these scenes for a couple of thousand years. If we take him away from here and move him somewhere else, into a different existence, has he done what he could have done here? For every thousand existences, as you must know, there are at least seven hundred, no, more like nine hundred that are stymied.’ ‘What reason is that then, Terah, for sheltering this one particular individual, he is an ordinary human being, I don’t see why we should step in.’ ‘Ordinary, extraordinary, those are words. Is a beggar ordinary and a millionaire extraordinary? The millionaire may be a beggar tomorrow, and the beggar a millionaire. This man here is close to regaining his sight. Many have made it that far. But he is also close to feeling, do you hear me. You see, Sarug, someone who has experienced much and learnt much has a tendency merely to know, and then to slip away, to die. He is used up. He has been through the span of experience, and he has grown tired, and his body and spirit are exhausted. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes.’
‘But after one has experienced and understood many things, to cling on, not to go down into death, not to slip away, but to stretch, to feel, to present oneself with one’s soul and stand there, that amounts to something. Sarug, you don’t know how you came to be what you are or what you were, or how it came about that you were put here to go with me and protect other creatures.’ ‘That’s true, Terah, I don’t know that, my memory has left me.’ ‘It will come back to you. One is never strong on one’s own, from one’s own doing, there is always something at one’s back. Strength is not innate but acquired, you don’t know how you acquired it, but somehow you one day stand there and things that are lethal to others are harmless to you.’ ‘But he doesn’t want us, your Biberkopf, you said so yourself, he’s trying to shake us off.’ ‘He wants to die, Sarug, no one has yet taken such awful strides without wishing to die. And you’re right, most are vanquished.’ ‘But you have hopes of this one?’ ‘Yes, because he’s strong and not used up, and because he has twice already stood firm. Let’s stay with him, Terah.’ ‘Yes.’
•
A young doctor, a bit of a knock-out, sits in front of Franz: ‘Good morning, Herr Klemens. Go away somewhere, this is often the way of things after a fatality. You need a change of scene, in your present condition Berlin will get you down, you need a change. Wouldn’t you like some distraction? You are his sister-in-law, does he have anyone to accompany him?’ ‘I could go, if required.’ ‘It is; I’m telling you, Herr Klemens, it’s the only thing for it: peace and quiet, recuperation, a little gentle distraction; not too much. That can be counter-productive. Moderation in all things, eh. It’s prime season, now; where would you like to go?’ Eva: ‘Would a tonic be good, lecithin, for better sleep?’ ‘I’ll write it all down for you, here, adalin.’ ‘I’ve given him adalin already.’ (That junk does him no good at all.) ‘Then try phanodorm, one last thing at night, with some mint tea; tea is good too, it’s an excellent solvent, and makes for quicker absorption. Take him to the zoo.’ ‘Nah, I don’t like animals.’ ‘Well, then the botanical gardens, a bit of distraction, not too much.’ ‘Can you give him something to strengthen his nerves?’ ‘Maybe he could take a little opium to improve his mood.’ ‘I drink, doctor.’ ‘No, on second thoughts, opium’s a different box of tricks, but I will give you some lecithin, a new compound, instructions on the packaging. And baths, baths are soothing. I take it you have a tub, madam?’ ‘Everything’s there, of course, doctor.’ ‘Aha, that’s the advantage of these new flats. You may say “of course”, but there’s no “of course” about it for me. I had to get all that installed, it cost an arm and a leg, the room, the decoration, you’d rub your eyes if you saw it, you don’t have that to deal with. So: lecithin and baths, say, every other morning, and a masseur, thorough kneading of all the muscles gets the organism going.’ Eva: ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘Thorough kneading coming your way, that’ll loosen you up a bit, Herr Klemens. You’ll be in the pink in no time. And then a trip somewhere.’ ‘It’s not easy with him, doctor.’ ‘Never mind, just a matter of time. Well then, Herr Klemens, how’re you feeling?’ ‘What?’ ‘Chin up, don’t forget to take the medication, plus sleeping draughts and massage.’ ‘I’ve got it all under control, doctor. Goodbye, and thanks for now.’
‘Well, Eva, you had it your way.’ ‘I’ll arrange the baths and the medicine.’ ‘Yes, you go.’ ‘And you wait here for me.’ ‘Yes. You bet, Eva.’
Eva puts her coat on and heads out. And so, a quarter of an hour later, does Franz.
Battle is joined. We ride into hell with a great fanfare
The battlefield beckons, the battlefield!
We’re riding into hell with a great fanfare, we’re fed up with this world, we don’t care what happens to it, with everything in and on and under it. All its humans, its men and women, the whole infernal kit and caboodle, there’s no one we can depend on. If I was a little birdie I’d take a great big pile of shit and throw it behind me with both feet and clear out. If I was a horse, a dog, a cat, there’s nothing you can do better than drop your dirt on the earth and move on.
There’s nothing going on in the world, I don’t feel like getting shitfaced again, though I know I can do it, drink, drink, drink, and then the infernal shit begins all over again. I know God made the world, but I wish a priest would tell me why. Though he made it better than the priests know, he gave us leave to piss on the whole thing, and gave us two hands and a length of rope, and away with it, that’s in our remit, and then the hellish shit is over, enjoy, blessings, we’re going to hell in a handcart.
•
If I could lay my hand on Reinhold, my rage would be over, I could grab him by the throat and break his neck and not let him live, and then I would feel better, I would feel satisfied, and everything would be in order, and I could have peace. But the bastard who has done me so much harm, who made me into a criminal again and broke my arm, he’s somewhere in Switzerland laughing at me. I’m running around like a dog, he can do what he likes with me, no one is on my side, not even the police, who are chasing
me, as if I was the one who done Mitzi, when it was that motherfucker, he’s managed to pin that on me too. Every day the jug goes to the well, until one day it breaks. I’ve taken enough and done enough, I’m at the limit. No one can claim I haven’t fought back. But too much is too much. So because I can’t kill Reinhold, I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to hell with a great fanfare.
•
Who’s this on Alexanderstrasse, very slowly pushing one foot after the other? His name is Franz Biberkopf, and you know his story. A ponce, a grave criminal, a poor man, a beaten man, his time has come. Damn the fists that beat him! The terrible fist that grabbed hold of him! The other fists hit him and let him go, there was a wound, an opening, it healed, Franz stayed the way he was, and hurried on his way. But this fist won’t let him go, this fist is incredibly big, it shakes him body and soul, Franz is walking along with little tiny steps, and he knows: my life is no longer mine. I don’t know what I have to do now, but Franz Biberkopf is finished.
•
It’s November, late evening, nine-ish, the boys are hanging round Münzstrasse, and the electric tram and the bus and the newspaper vendors are all making a lot of noise, the police march out of their barracks with their nightsticks.
On Landsberger Strasse there’s a protest with red flags: wake up, you damned of this earth.
‘Mokka-fix’ on Alexanderstrasse, nonpareil cigars, cultured beers in mugs and glasses, card games forbidden, guests are responsible for their own coats, I’m not taking the rap. Signed, the Landlord. Breakfast from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m., 75 pfennigs, one cup of coffee, two eggs any style, bread and butter.
Franz sits himself down in the Kaffeeklappe on Prenzlauer Strasse, and they jeer at him: ‘Your Grace!’ They pull the wig off his head, he unstraps his artificial arm, orders a beer, folds his coat across his lap.
There’s three fellows in attendance, grey faces, and sure enough they’re cons, probably just released, can’t stop talking, all of them talking crosswise.
So I’m thirsty and I says why walk so far, there’s a basement with Polacks living in it, I show em my sausage and cigarettes, and they don’t ask me where I got them from, and they buy, give me a schnapps, I leave everything there. And in the morning I watch them go, and I scoot into the basement, I’ve got hooks with me, it’s all there, my sausage, my cigarettes, and I pick up the lot and scarper. Not bad, eh?
Police dogs, they’re smart. Five men got out through the walls. I can tell you how and all. Both sides lined with metal, tin sheets a quarter of an inch thick. What they do is they go through the floor, what’s that you’re thinking, cement floor, dig a hole, every night under the wall. Then the police comes along and they say how come we didn’t hear that. Well, we was asleep, weren’t we. Stands to reason. Why should we be the ones to hear it.
Laughter, merriment, o du fröhliche, o du selige, they strike up a song round the table, widdeboom.
And then of course someone turns up, police constable, senior constable, Schwab if you please, throws his weight around and says: he’s heard all this day before yesterday, only he was away on a business trip. Beezknees treep. Whenever there was anything going down, he was always on beezknees. Another half, me too, and three ciggies.
A girl is combing the hair of a tall blond gentleman at table, he’s singing: ‘O Sonnenburg, o Sunny Burg.’ And as soon as there’s a break, he starts singing again, always something involving the sun:
‘O Sonnenburg, o Sonnenburg, how green are all your branches! This summer I was twenty-nine, but not in Berlin or Danzig did I serve my time, nor in Königsberg, either, where was it anyway? Don’t you know, you mug, why, in Sonnenburg, in Sonnenburg.
‘O Sonnenburg, how green are all your branches! You’re a model jail all right, where humanity rules from morn till night. There they don’t beat you, don’t razz you, don’t maltreat you, they don’t make life hell for you; there a fellow gets his fill, grub and smokes and beer to swill.
‘Fevvers in the beds, brandy, beer and cigarettes. Yes, it’s certainly very grand, our guards are devoted heart and hand, we’d like to make a present of military boots to the officers, if they’d only give us cigarettes, heart and hand, isn’t it grand. Just let us booze, with heart and hand, we’ll let you sell your army boots and uniforms left over from the war, it’s grand, we won’t have them altered, and you can sell them on the spot, we need the cash, for we are just poor prisoners in jail.
‘There are a few proud comrades who’d like to give us away, but we’ll break their bonces for em, so they’d better think well before they start to bray, or we’ll properly dust em up, and sorry will be the day when we bust em up.
‘But the governor is a mug, why, he never notices anything. The other day a fellow came and wanted to inspect the free penitentiary of Sonnenburg, it disagreed with him. Why did it disagree with him? I’ll tell you all about it. We’re in the canteen together. Two officers are sitting near, and while we enjoy our booze and beer, who should turn up – yes, who should turn up, I ask you?
‘It is, boom-boom, it is boom-boom, it’s the Inspector, what do you say to that? We say cheers, we say bottoms up, Inspector, cheers, stick to the ceiling, have a jar, sit by my side.
‘What does the Inspector say? It’s me, the Inspector, boom-boom, make way for the Inspector, I am the Inspector, boom-boom there he is, I’ll have the lot of you behind bars, cons and screws, you’ve nothing you to amuse, you’ve got it coming, boom he stands there, boom-boom he stands there, boom-boom.
‘O Sonnenburg, o Sonnenburg, how green are all your branches! We made his life a hell, till he had to run to his wife, and take his revenge on her; boom-boom, united they stand, boom-boom, isn’t he grand, boom-boom, the Inspector. Now don’t you look like a fool! Ah, don’t be angry, just keep cool!’[10]
Brown trousers and black serge jacket. One pulls a brown prison jacket out of a parcel. To the highest bidder, rock-bottom prices, the new black, one jacket, going cheap, just one shot of spirits. Who needs a jacket? Merriment, o friends, o du fröhliche, o du selige, brother, your sweetheart decrees, have one more on me. Next up: a pair of canvas shoes, detailed acquaintance with the layout of chokey, straw soles, ideal for doing a bunk, and then one blanket. Christ, you should have left that with the governor.
The landlady sidles along, shuts the door: keep it down, you lot, I’ve got customers. One sees to the window. His neighbour laughs: window, no chance. If there’s a hue and cry, look here. – And he reaches under the table and pulls up a trapdoor: the cellar, and from there straight to the next courtyard, no need to climb any walls, all nice level paths. Just keep your hat on, else you’ll catch someone’s attention.
An old fellow growls: ‘That was a nice song you sung. But there’s others too. They’re not too shabby either. Do you happen to know this one?’ He pulls out a piece of tatty paper with wobbly handwriting on it. ‘The Dead Convict’. ‘No sad songs, please!’ ‘What do you mean sad. It’s just as true as yours.’ ‘Now don’t cry in your beer, I do believe you’ve got a lump in your throat, don’t blub.’
•
‘The dead convict. Poor, yet full of youth’s enchantment, once he walked the righteous highway, sacred were to him things noble, mean things he left on the by-way. But misfortune’s evil spirit lay in ambush, him a-spying, held suspect of evil actions in the law’s nets he is lying. (The chase, the chase, the accursed chase, the accursed dogs were after me, how they chased me, they almost killed me. On and on, you don’t know what to do, on and on, you never knew you could run that fast, you run as fast as you can, and in the end they nab you anyway. Now they’ve caught Franz, now I throw myself to the ground, now it’s time, well cheers.)
‘All his crying, all his protests, all his rage was idle prating, evidence was dead against him, and the cell for him was waiting. The judges were mistaken (the chase, the chase, the accursed chase), when his sentence they had spoken (how those damned dogs did chase me), but what availed his guiltless innocence, since his hono
ur’s shield was broken. Man, oh fellow-man, he whimpered, why oppress, why ruin me, did I do you injury? (It happens, there is no answer. And further and further he runs, it’s not possible to run so fast, and he does what he can.)
‘When from prison gates returning, he came back with outraged feeling, things were now the same no longer, in the dust they found him kneeling. To the river’s bank he stumbled, but he found the bridge broken, back into the night he wandered, sick at heart, and full of loathing. All refused to still his hunger (the chase, the chase, the accursed chase), bitterness oppressed him starkly, then he yielded to his fury – “guilty this time,” said Life darkly.
‘(Guilty, guilty, guilty, he, that’s the thing you have to be, the thing to be, to be a thousand times over!) Such a deed is punished harshly, custom, morals have this meaning, to a cell within the prison back he wandered, void of feeling. (Franz, hallelujah, hear that, a thousand times over, a thousand times over.) Yet once more a leap to freedom, murder, robbery and plunder, and without the smallest pity, tear that Beast, Mankind, asunder. He was gone, but soon in fetters he came back again. How fleeting was his first revel! A life sentence was his greeting. (The chase, the chase, the accursed chase, he was right, he did it right.)
‘Now he wailed no more for pity. Let them curse! It doesn’t matter. Mute, he bore the yoke upon him, and he learnt to feign and flatter. Dully he went at his labours, always doing the same thing daily, long his spirit had been broken, like the dead he wandered palely. (The chase, the chase, the accursed chase, they were always on my trail, I always did my best, now I am stuck fast in the dirt and I am not at fault, what was I to do. My name is Franz Biberkopf, and that’s what I still am, watch out.)
And today his course is ended, with the springtime’s golden gleaming, in the sod he’s being lowered, that’s the cell the convicts dream of. Now the prison bell is ringing, it’s farewell with eerie sadness to the man who lost his bearings and found death in prison madness. (Watch out, gentlemen, you don’t know Franz Biberkopf yet, but he sells himself dearly, when he is compelled to go to the grave, he will take someone with him on every finger to announce him to the Almighty and say: first it’s us, and Franz is on his way. No surprise, God, that he comes riding along with such a team, you were hunting him yourself, now he’s joining the great team in the sky, he was no account here on earth, let him show his worth in heaven.)’[11]