Berlin Alexanderplatz
They are still singing and talking round the table, so far Franz Biberkopf has been dozing, now he feels fresh and alert. He kits himself up again, buckles on his arm, we lost it in the war, we’re forever going to war. The war doesn’t end as long as you live, the main thing is standing on your own two feet.
Then Franz is standing on the street, in front of the iron stairs to the Kaffeeklappe. Outside it’s piddling and sheeting, it’s dark, and there’s a crowd on Prenzlauer Strasse. And there’s some commotion opposite, on Alexanderstrasse, the cops are on the scene. And Franz turns and slowly directs his feet to see what’s what.
The Police HQ is on Alexanderplatz
It’s twenty past nine. In the well of the headquarters building, two fellows are standing around talking. They are telling jokes and stretching their legs. A young detective comes along and says hello. ‘It’s ten past nine, Herr Pilz, did you specify that we needed the car at nine sharp.’ ‘There’s someone upstairs right now calling the Alexander barracks; we ordered the car yesterday.’ Someone else chips in: ‘Yes, they say the car’s been sent, it went out at five to nine and lost its way. They’re sending another one.’ ‘Great. Lost its way, and meanwhile we’re waiting.’ ‘Well, so I ask about the car, and he says: who am I speaking to, I say Secretary Pilz, he says, this is Lieutenant Such-and-Such. So I say: well, Lieutenant, I’m asking on behalf of the commissioner, we booked cars yesterday for a raid at nine o’clock, the order was put through in writing to the Vehicular Department, I just want confirmation that you’ve received the order. You should have heard him, the lieutenant, butter not melting in his mouth, of course everything’s in train, a mishap, and so on and so forth.’
The vehicles roll in. A few ladies and gentlemen pile into one of them, detectives, commissioners and some lady officers. This is the wagon in which Franz Biberkopf will shortly draw up, in the presence of fifty assorted men and women, his good angels will have quit him, his expression will be different from what it was when he left the Kaffeeklappe, but the angels will dance, ladies and gentlemen, whether you believe it or not, it will happen.
The car with the male and female occupants is on its way, not a military vehicle, but a vehicle of law and public order, a truck, people sit on long benches, it drives across Alexanderplatz with innocent commercial vehicles and taxis, the people in the truck all look cosy, this is an undeclared war, they are going out in furtherance of their work, some are quietly smoking pipes, some have cigars, the ladies ask: that one gentleman at the front, he’s from the press, isn’t he, so this will all be in the papers tomorrow. They drive contentedly up the right of Landsberger Strasse, they take roundabout routes to their destinations, otherwise the places will know too early what’s coming. Passers by have a good view of the truck: they don’t look at it long, it’s a grim, frightening, thing but it’s soon past, they’re rounding up criminals, terrible that such a thing should be, let’s go to the movies.
They get off at Rückerstrasse, the police truck waits, they walk back up the street. The little street is deserted, the troop walk up the pavement, there’s the Rückerdiele.
Cover the entrance, sentries posted outside, more people opposite, everyone else inside. Evenin all. The waiter grins, he knows what’s coming. Can I get the gentlemen a drink? No thanks, no time; cash up, raid, everyone’s coming back to the station with us. Laughter, protests, well, really, don’t take on, scolding, laughter; easy does it, I’ve got papers, well, lucky you, then you’ll be back here in half an hour, what do we care, I’m busy, calm down, Otto, free tour of police HQ with atmospheric nocturnal lighting. Step this way. The truck is full to bursting, one man sings: ‘Who rolled the cheese to the station, rolled along the cheese, how dare he do such a thing, nobody’s paid the custom taxes for the cheese, for the cheese, so the cops looked down on it and began to frown on it, because they rolled along the cheese for which they hadn’t paid the fees.’[12]
The truck moves off, everyone waves: who rolled the cheese to the station.
Well, that was easy enough. We’ll go back on foot. A natty gent across the street tips his hat, evening, Commissioner, Captain. They walk into a house entrance, the others scatter, meeting point is the corner of Münz and Prenzlauer.
The Alexander-Quelle is heaving, it’s Friday night, whoever’s earned a wage drops in there for a drink, music, radio, the police barge past the bar, the young commissioner speaks to a gentleman, the band stop: this is a police raid, everyone back to the station. They are sitting round tables, laughing, unbothered, they go on talking, the waiter goes on taking orders. One girl is in tears with two of her friends in the passage: I’ve just moved, and I’m not reregistered yet, well, then you’ll spend the night with us, it’s no big deal, I’m not coming, I’m not letting any of you lay a finger on me, don’t get worked up, it’s not good for your health. Let me go, what do you mean let me go, you can go when your turn comes, the car’s just left, then why don’t you have more cars, you leave that up to us. Waiter, a bottle of champagne to wash my legs. You, I need to go to work, who’s going to pay for my lost hour, I have to go to my building site, this is distraint of trade, everyone’s coming with us, you too mate, calm down, they just need to do a raid, otherwise they won’t know what they’re here for.
People leave in dribs and drabs, the cars keep shuttling back and forth between the bar and the police headquarters, the police go back and forth, there’s a certain amount of hysterics in the ladies’ loo, one damsel is lying on the floor, her swain is standing by, what’s he doing in the ladies’. She’s got her cramps, can’t you tell; the police smile, have you got papers, right, well, why don’t you keep her company. She’ll go on screaming her head off, you mark my words, then when everyone’s gone she’ll get up, and the two of them will dance a tango. I tell you, the first one to touch me gets a haymaker, and one more of those would be vivisection. The bar is almost empty. By the door stands a man who’s been grabbed by a couple of officers. He’s yelling: I’ve been to Manchester and London and New York, and these kinds of things don’t happen in Manchester or London. They move him along. All right, let’s be having you, how’re you, thanks, by the way, commiserations on your dog.
•
At a quarter to eleven, by which time the raid is pretty far advanced, and only a few of the tables at the side and at the back, going up the stairs, are still occupied, someone walks in, even though the joint is supposed to be sealed off. The police are energetic and won’t let anyone through, but now and again a girl peeks in at the window: I’m sposed to meet my boyfriend here, no miss, come back at twelve, we’ll be keeping your Romeo at the station till then. But the old gentleman watched the last consignment leave, finally the police were weighing in with their nightsticks at the entrance, because more people were coming out than would fit in the car, now it’s gone, and the crowds have thinned out a bit. The man walks calmly past the two cops on the door, each of them looking the other way because more people are trying to get into the bar, and are shouting at them. From the barracks a column of police is just advancing, to ribald commentary, up the other side of the road, the men tightening their belts as they march. The grey man makes his way through the bar, orders a beer and takes it up the steps, where the woman is still screeching away in the ladies’ and the other customers, the few still left, are talking and laughing and generally carrying on as though they hadn’t a worry in the world.
The man sits down at a table by himself, makes a hole in his beer, and looks round the bar. His foot nudges something against the wall; well, fancy, he reaches down, a revolver, someone must have got rid of it, well that’s nice, now I’ve got two of em. One on each finger, and if God asks me why, I say: I’m coming with a big team, something I never had down below is OK up here. They’re doing a raid, and quite right too. Somebody’s had an extra cup of coffee at HQ, he says, we have to have a raid, summing needs to happen that I can read about in the paper. It’s time they realized upstairs that we work too, and maybe someone wan
ts his promotion, and his wife wants a fur coat, that’s why they go out and on a Friday of all days when people have just had their pay packets.
The man has kept his hat on, his right hand is stuck in his pocket, his left is too, when it’s not picking up his glass. A policeman with a badger brush on his little Bavarian hat walks through the bar, empty tables everywhere, cigarette packets on the floor, newspapers, chocolate wrappers: all right, get ready, the last ride’ll be along in a minute. He asks the old gentleman: ‘Have you paid up already?’ The old gentleman mutters something and stares into space: ‘I just got here.’ ‘Well, you shouldn’t have done, but we’ll have to take you in as well.’ ‘Let that be my worry.’ The policeman, a solid, broad-shouldered fellow, looks down at him, the expression on that man’s face, he wants trouble. He doesn’t say anything, just walks down the steps to the bar, then he notices the old man’s glittering eyes, Christ, what’s the matter with him, those eyes. He goes over to the door where the others are, a whispered consultation, and they go out together. A couple of minutes later the door swings open again. The police are back: last lot now, come on, let’s be having you. The waiter laughs: ‘Take me with you next time, I wouldn’t mind seeing this shower from above.’ ‘Oh, you’ll have em all back in an hour, mark my words, there are people waiting outside that we picked up in the first lot.’
‘You too, sir, if you please.’ He’s talking to me. If you have a bride you trusted, with a body for which you lusted, you don’t ask what sort of miss, just so long as she can kiss.
The gentleman doesn’t stir. ‘You, I’m talking to you. Are you deaf or something. Get up.’ You were sent me by the new year, because before I never had you near. I want to wait for a few more, this one guy won’t do me, I want more.
There are three police by the steps, the first of them comes up, the others after. The lanky young commissioner leads them, they’re in a hurry. They’ve chased me enough, I’ve done what I could, I am a human being or am I not.
And he pulls his left hand out of his pocket and, not getting up, shoots the first policeman who is heading angrily in his direction. Bang. So we’ve done everything we had to do on earth, and we can go to hell with a fanfare, with a great fanfare.
The man staggers and drops, Franz gets up, he wants to back against the wall, bag more where they came from. Let’s be having you then, the more the merrier. He raises his arm, there’s someone behind him, Franz barges him aside, then he feels a blow on the hand, a blow in the face, a blow on the hat, a blow on the arm. My arm, my arm, I’ve only got the one, they’re breaking my only arm, what shall I do, they’re killing me, first Mitzi, then me. It’s all no use. All no use, it’s all no use.
He collapses by the balustrade.
Before he can go on shooting, Franz Biberkopf has collapsed by the balustrade. He’s given up, curses existence, has handed in his weapons. Lies there.
The police push the table and chairs aside, kneel down at his side, turn him onto his back, the man has an artificial arm, two revolvers, where are his documents, hang on, this is a wig. And Franz Biberkopf opens his eyes to find them pulling his hair. Then they shake him, pull him up by the shoulders, set him on his feet, he can stand, he has to stand, they jam the hat on his head. Everyone is already outside in the car when they lead Franz Biberkopf through the door by a chain round his left wrist. There’s hubbub on Münzstrasse, a crowd had gathered, wasn’t that shooting in there, watch yourself, here he comes, he’s the one that done it. The wounded policeman has already been taken away by ambulance.
•
So this is the car that the commissioners and detectives and lady officers left HQ in at half past nine, they drive off, Franz Biberkopf aboard, the angels, as already indicated, have abandoned him. In the station yard the human freight is unloaded, marched up a flight of stairs to a long wide corridor, the women are put in a room by themselves, and whoever is released with his papers in order needs to exit through the barrier between the police, they pat everyone down, chest, trousers down to their boots, the men laugh, there is a continual scolding and pushing in the corridor, the young commissioner and the officers walk back and forth calming people down, asking for patience. The police watch the doors, no one gets to go to the toilet unaccompanied.
At the tables inside are officials in civvies, quizzing suspects, sifting through documents, where they can be produced, writing on large sheets: place, local jurisdiction, place of arrest, police station, IV K. So what’s your name, remanded to, last arrested at, believe me, I gotta go to work, Secretary of Police, section 4, delivered morning, afternoon, night, first name, second name, marital state or profession, date of birth, month, year, place of birth, vagrant or of no fixed address, supplied address turned out to be bogus after follow-up inquiries. You have to wait here till your local station gets back to us, bide your time, they’ve got other things to take care of, and they’ve had people who gave an address, which was the right address and there was someone living there of that name – only, we show up and find someone else living there, and he just had his papers, so they were stolen, or borrowed, or some other business. Check the list of open warrants, data on grey card, grey card is missing. Evidence on file and items associated with the present or previously committed crimes, items with which the detainee might hurt himself or others, personal items, stick, umbrella, knife, revolver, knuckle-duster.
They produce Franz Biberkopf. Franz Biberkopf is over. They’ve got him. They bring him in on a chain. His head is hanging. They want to question him downstairs, on the ground floor, in the room of the duty sergeant. But the man won’t speak, he is obstinate, he keeps touching his face, where the right eye is closed by a blow from a nightstick. He is quick to drop his arm, which also took a couple of blows.
Meanwhile, others who’ve been let go cross the dark courtyard to the street, gander arm in arm across the yard. Once you’ve got yourself a squeeze, and she does her best to please, and so we go with song, with song, with song, into one or other restaurant. I confirm that the information collected here accords with the truth. Signature of the detainee, name and number of the official making the booking. Court Berlin Mitte, section 151, to magistrate Herr—.
At the very end of all, Franz Biberkopf is presented and remanded in custody. This man fired a shot during the raid on the Alexander-Quelle, and has committed other infractions. He was found stretched out in the Alexander-Quelle, and half an hour later it was established that, in addition to eight other wanted individuals and the usual cluster of runaway juveniles, the police had pulled off a major coup. For the man who collapsed after the shooting had an artificial right arm and was wearing a grey wig. From that, and from a file photograph, it was established that the man was being sought as a person of interest in connection with the murder of the prostitute Emilie Parsunke in Freienwalde, being the previously punished Franz Biberkopf, guilty of manslaughter and prostitution offences.
He had been living unregistered for a long time, here’s one, it won’t be long before we nab the other.
Chapter Nine
And now Franz Biberkopf’s race is run. It is time for him to be broken. He has fallen into the hands of the dark power called Death, which seems fitting enough. But he learns what it thinks of him in a way he wasn’t expecting, and that exceeds everything he has so far experienced.
It talks turkey with him. It reveals to him the nature of his errors, his arrogance and his ignorance. And with that the old Franz Biberkopf collapses, his life is over.
The man is broken. A new Biberkopf appears on the scene, whose boots the old one is not worthy to lick, and of whom it is to be expected that he will fare better.
Reinhold’s Black Wednesday – but this section can be skipped
And, as the police assumed: ‘We’ve got the one, it won’t be long till we’ve got the other’, so indeed it comes to pass. But not in the way you might have expected. Because – it turns out they’ve got him already, he’s passed through the same r ed-brick HQ, and o
ther hands and rooms, and is already doing a stint in Moabit.
Everything with Reinhold happens quickly, and this was no exception. The boy don’t like to hang around. We know what happened with him and Franz the last time; it took him a day or two to work out what Franz’s game is, and then blam.
One night Reinhold headed off to Motzstrasse, and then he says, those wanted murder posters on the advertising pillar, I need to do a little job and get myself caught with false papers, a handbag or something. Prison is the safest place when there’s trouble brewing. And everything works out as planned, except maybe he hit the lady a little bit too hard. But never mind, thinks Reinhold, time to disappear for a while. In the police station they eye his false papers, a Polack pickpocket, name of Moroskiewicz, off to Moabit with the fellow, they haven’t got a clue who he is, and he’s never done time before neither, but then who can be expected to know the lists of every wanted man by heart anyway. And his case proceeds discreetly and unobtrusively, just the way he crept through the station. But because he’s a pickpocket wanted in Poland, and the rotter has gone out on the street in a nice part of town, and given a lady a whack over the head and ripped the handbag of her, that’s a scandal, this isn’t Russia, what were you playing at, we’re going to make an example of you, and they throw the book at him, he gets four years’ hard, and loss of civil rights for another five, placed under police supervision, and whatever else they can come up with, and his knuckle-duster is even taken away. The accused is to pay costs, ten minutes’ break, it’s stifling in here, please open a few windows, accused, have you anything to say?