Reinhold of course has nothing to say, he’s thinking of an appeal some time down the road, he’s glad to be talked to in that way, nothing will happen to him inside. So after two days everything’s put behind him, everything, and we’re over the worst. Bloody nuisance that business with Mitzi and that idiot Biberkopf, but for now we’ve done it, and things are on course, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
This is the point things have got to therefore. By the time they nab Franz and take him back to the station, the real murderer Rein-hold is already in Brandenburg, no one’s thinking about him, he’s lost and forgotten, and the world could end before it occurred to anyone to investigate him. He’s not racked by any guilt pangs, and if things pan out the way he imagines, then he’d either still be sitting there, or else he’ll have done one on a transport.
However, the world is arranged in such a way that the daftest sayings have their truth, and if a man thinks that’s enough, it’s by no means enough. Man supposes, God disposes, and the jug goes to the well every day till it breaks. The way they eventually found out about Reinhold and his grim implacable course thereafter is something I am coming to. But if the reader is not interested in pursuing that, he can simply skip the following few pages. This Berlin Alexanderplatz book of mine is about the fate of Franz Biberkopf and everything in it is correct, you will want to read and inwardly digest it, it has its palpable truth. But Reinhold has fulfilled his function in this narrative. Only because he represents cold violence, which is always the same, I will show him in his last hard struggle. You will see that he is hard and stony to the very end, his life moves on unmoved – whereas Franz Biberkopf bends, and finally is like an element that is subjected to radiation and turns into a different element. It’s an easy thing to say, but we’re all human. If there is a God, then we differ from him not only in point of good and evil, but we all have a different nature and a different life, we are different in kind and whither and whence. And now listen to the end of Reinhold.
•
So Reinhold is in the penitentiary in Brandenburg, weaving, of all things, mats, with someone who is also a Pole, but a genuine one, and a real pickpocket, and a tricky customer, and he also knows the real Moroskiewicz. When he hears ‘Moroskiewicz’ and thinks I know that name, so where is he, and then claps eyes on Reinhold, he says to himself: he’s changed, and how can such a thing be possible. And then he pretends he doesn’t know the guy at all and has never heard of him, and in the toilet one day he sidles up to Rein-hold where they go to smoke, and gives him half a cigarette and talks to him and it turns out the guy don’t even speak Polish. Rein-hold doesn’t like being addressed in Polish, and he tries to weasel out of the mat-weaving shop, the supervisor takes him, because he sometimes has these fainting fits, and uses him as a trusty in the cell wing, where the others can’t get at him so easily. But Dluga the Polack doesn’t give up. Reinhold goes from cell to cell calling out: put out your finished work! And they’ve got to Dluga’s cell with the master, and the master is just counting up the finished mats, when Dluga whispers to Reinhold that he knows Moroskiewicz from Warsaw, a pickpocket, is he related to you? Reinhold gets a shock, and he slips the Pole a package of tobacco, and he goes on his way: put out your finished work.
The Pole’s happy with his tobacco, but thinks there must be more mileage in this thing, so he starts blackmailing Reinhold, who always seems to have funds from somewhere.
The business could have turned nasty for Reinhold, but luck’s still on his side, and he manages to parry the blow. He puts it about that his countryman Dluga is in the mood to make a general confession, a little birdie told him. So one day in the middle of recess there’s an enormous free for all, and Reinhold manages to give the Pole a bit of a skelping. That earns him a week in solitary, with bedding and warm food from day three. And when he comes out everything’s nice and peaceful.
But then our Reinhold gets above himself. All his life it was women this, women that, and now it’s love once more that does for him. The episode with Dluga brought him irritation and rage at having to sit here all this time, and be bossed around, and there’s no joy in his life, and he’s so all alone, and the feeling deepens with each passing week. While he’s sitting around, wishing he could murder Dluga, he gets involved with a young fellow, a burglar, also in Brandenburg for the first time, but due for release in March. It’s the tobacco trade, and badmouthing Dluga that first gets them associated, but eventually they get to be really close friends of a kind Reinhold never had before, too bad he’s a boy and not a woman, but it’s still nice, and Reinhold in the fortress of Brandenburg is happy again: at least the damned business with Dluga has been good for something. Too bad the boy’s time is almost up.
‘I gotta wear the black cap and brown jacket such a long time yet, and when I’m sitting here, where will you be, my little Kon-rad?’ Konrad is the boy’s name, or at least it’s what he goes by, he’s from Mecklenburg, and he gives every indication of becoming a major player. Of his two mates he did break-ins with in Pomerania, one is still here, doing ten. And when the two friends on a black Wednesday, on the eve of Konrad’s release, find themselves together in the cell once more, and Reinhold is doing his nut about being on his tod again, and not having anyone – oh, something’ll turn up, just you wait, you’ll get a cushy place in Werder or some other facility – then Reinhold can’t keep it down, he can’t get his head around the fact that his life has gone so badly off the rails, with that bitch Mitzi and that fuckwit Biberkopf, what have I got to do with pathetic specimens like that, I could be the big man on the outside, it’s just poor wretches who are stewing in here. Then it really gets to Reinhold, and he’s whimpering and wailing and begging Konrad, o please take me with you, take me when you go. The boy comforts him to the best of his ability, but there’s nothing doing, you can’t seriously urge someone to bust out of here.
They’ve got this little bottle of alcohol from one of the French polishers in the carpentry shop, and Konrad gives Reinhold the bottle, he takes a drink from it, and so does Konrad. He can’t escape, there’s a couple of guys who escaped or tried to escape, and one of them made it as far as Neuendorfer Strasse where he tried to hitch a ride when he was picked up, the man was bleeding all over him from the damned broken glass they left all over the tops of the walls, they had to lay him down in hospital, who knows if his hands will ever be the same again. And his mate, well, he was the wiser, he got as far as the broken bottles, and he said sod this, and dropped back into the yard.
‘Don’t even think about it, Reinhold.’ And then Reinhold was all crushed and soft, he’s got another four years of this to look forward to here and all on account of some stupid break-in on Motzstrasse and the bitch Mitzi, and the idiot Franz. And he knocks back more of the white spirits, and he feels a wee bit better, they’ve put their things out already, the knife is on top of the bundle, the key’s been turned in the lock, twice, the doors are bolted, the beds are fixed up. Then they’re whispering together on Konrad’s bed, Reinhold is in his hour of gloom: ‘Here, when you get to Berlin. Once you’re out, go look up my bint, who knows who she’s going with now, I’ll give you the address, and you tell me what’s what, know what I mean. And then listen out, see what you can pick up regarding my story, you know, Dluga got wise to something. I knew this guy in Berlin, a real fool, Biberkopf, Franz Biberkopf—’
And he whispers and he tells him and he clutches hold of Kon-rad, who opens his ears and keeps saying yes, and before long he knows the whole story. He has to help get Reinhold into bed because he’s so beside himself with desolation and rage at his condition that he’s incapable of doing it himself, and sits there caught in the trap. Nothing Konrad says makes any difference; Reinhold refuses and refuses, he can’t stand it, he can’t live like that, he has a regular case of stir-crazy prison blues.
So that’s black Wednesday. By Friday Konrad is with Reinhold’s bird in Berlin, and gets a warm welcome from her, and gets to talk for days, and she gives him mo
ney and all. That’s Friday, and by Monday it’s all over for Reinhold. Because that’s when Konrad meets a friend on Seestrasse, a bloke he was in borstal with, currently out of work. And Konrad starts prating to him about how well he’s doing, and he pays for their drinks, and they pick up a couple of birds and go to the cinema. Konrad tells wild stories about his time in Brandenburg. Once the girls have gone home, they spend half the night till Tuesday up at the friend’s place, and Konrad talks about Reinhold, only he goes by Moroskiewicz, and he’s a top man, it’s not easy to meet blokes like that on the outside, he’s wanted for big crimes, who knows what reward is offered for information leading to, etc. And no sooner has he said that than he realizes it was stupid of him, but his friend swears by all that’s holy not to say a dicky bird, honest, and he puts the bite on Konrad for another tenner.
Then it’s Tuesday, and the friend is in police HQ, squinnying at the wanted posters to see if it’s true that Reinhold, that was his name, is really wanted, and if there’s a reward going, or if Konrad was just showing off.
And he’s floored when he sees the name, Jesus Christ, murder of the prostitute Parsunke in Freienwalde, and there he is, it’s gorra be him, 1,000 marks’ reward, 1,000 bleeding marks. He’s so impressed, 1,000 marks, that he scoots off, and comes back in the afternoon with his girlfriend, who says she’s just seen Konrad, who asked about him, yes, he has some inkling of what might be coming, what should he do, should he do it, Christ, how can you doubt it, he’s a murderer, what’s that to do with you, and Konrad, what do I do about Konrad, just don’t see him for a while, and anyway so what, how will he know it was you, and think about the cash, 1,000 marks, you’re on the dole, and you’re wondering yay or nay. ‘Do you think it’s him?’ ‘Come on, let’s go in.’
Inside he tells the duty detective what he knows in so many words, Moroskiewicz, Reinhold, Brandenburg – only, he doesn’t say how he came to know it. Since he’s got no papers, he and his girlfriend are required to stick around. And then – everything pans out.
When Konrad goes out to Brandenburg on Saturday to visit Reinhold, and he’s got lots of things to take him, from Reinhold’s bird, and from Pums, there’s a newspaper in the train compartment, an old paper from Thursday, and it says on the front page: ‘Freienwalde Murderer Arrested: in Prison under False Identity.’ The train rattles under Konrad, the points clash, the train rattles on. When is the paper from, what paper is it, Lokal Anzeiger, Thursday, late edition.
They’ve got him. He’s been taken back to Berlin. And it’s all my fault.
The love of women brought fortune and misfortune to Rein-hold all his life, and so at the last it led him to calamity. They transported him to Berlin, where he behaved like a madman. He wasn’t far short of being taken to the same institution that housed his onetime friend Franz Biberkopf. So he waits, once he’s calmed down in Moabit, to see how his trial will go and what might come from over there, from Franz Biberkopf who was his accomplice or his mastermind, but there’s actually no knowing at this stage how things will pan out with him.
Buch insane asylum, closed ward
In remand, in the police headquarters called the panopticon, their first feeling is that Franz Biberkopf is putting it on, because he knows he’s facing a capital charge, but then the doctor takes a look at the prisoner, he’s taken to the infirmary in Moabit, and there’s not a word to be got out of him, the man seems really to be mad, he lies there perfectly rigid, just blinking his eyes a little. After he’s refused nourishment for two days, he’s driven out to the asylum at Buch, where they put him in the closed ward. Whichever way you look at it, it’s a prudent decision, because the man has to be kept under observation.
First they stick Franz in the day room, because of his habit of lying around buck-naked. He refused to cover himself, he even pulled off his shirt, for a few weeks that was just about the only sign of life coming from Franz Biberkopf. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, lay there stiffly and refused all nourishment, so that they had to have recourse to the feeding tube, and for weeks all he got was milk, egg and a little cognac. On such a diet the strongly built man dwindled rapidly, a single warder could carry him easily to the bath, which Franz seemed to enjoy, he even said a few words in the bath, and opened his eyes, and sighed and moaned, but there was no sense to be got from him.
The institution at Buch is just beyond the village of that name, the closed ward is just past the asylum where the others go, who are only sick and have committed no crimes. The closed ward lies on open terrain, in the middle of the flat land; the wind, the rain, the snow, the cold, the day and night can beset the building with all their force and vim. No streets block off the elements, a few trees and bushes and a handful of telegraph masts, but other than that it’s all rain, snow, wind, cold, day and night.
Voom, voom, the wind puffs out its chest, it sucks in its breath, then it exhales like a barrel, each breath heavy as a mountain, the mountain is approaching, it crashes against the building; the bass growls. Voom, voom, the trees sway, they can’t keep time, they have to go right, they’re still facing left, and they go over. Plunging weights, hammering air, cracking, creaking, crashing, voom voom, I’m yours, come to me, we’re almost there, voom, night, night.
Franz hears the calls. Voom, voom, without stop, why should it. The warder sits at his table reading, I can see him, he’s not put of by the gale. I’ve been lying here a long time. The chase, the accursed chase, they’ve been chasing me up hill and down dale, I’ve broken my arms and legs, my neck is broken. Voom, voom, listen to the wailing, I’ve been lying here a long time, I’m not getting up, Franz Biberkopf will never get up. Even at the sound of the Last Trump, Franz Biberkopf won’t get up. They can make all the noise they want, they can pierce me with their tube, now they’re feeding me through the nose because I won’t open my mouth, but eventually I will starve, what can they do with all their medicine. Filth, damned filth, that’s all behind me now. Now the warder’s drinking his beer, that’s all behind me now as well.
•
Voom crash, voom crash, voom blow toss, voom gate bang. With heave and rush and crash and sway the forces of the storm come together and debate, it’s night, how to get Franz to wake up, not that they want to break his bones, but the building is sturdy and he can’t hear what they’re calling to him, and if he was closer to them on the outside, then he would feel them and hear Mitzi’s screams. Then his heart would be opened, his conscience would rouse and he would get up, and it would be good, but for the moment they don’t know what to do. If you have an axe, and strike hard wood, then even the oldest tree starts to scream. But this lying there rigidly, flinching and insisting on misery, that’s the worst thing in the world. We mustn’t let up, either we break into the sealed house with a battering ram, or we smash the windows, or prise open the roof; when he feels us, when he hears the screams, Mitzi’s screams which we carry with us, then he will come to understanding. We need to terrorize him, he’s not to have any rest, I will pluck up his blankets, I will spill the warder’s beer and blow his book away, voom voom, I will upset his lamp, smash the bulb, maybe there’ll be a short circuit in the house and fire will break out, voom voom, fire in the insane asylum, fire in the sealed institution.
Franz jams his ears shut and lies there rigid. Round the sturdy building, alternation of day and night, clear skies and rain.
•
By the wall stands a girl from the village, chatting to one of the warders: ‘Can you tell I’ve been crying?’ ‘No, just your cheek is a bit swollen.’ ‘It all is, my whole head, the back of my skull, everything.’ She cries, produces a handkerchief from her little handbag, pulls a face. ‘Even though I never done anything. I was supposed to go to the baker to get something, I know the girl there and ask her what she’s doing, and she says she’s going to the bakers’ party. Can’t always sit around at home in bad weather. And she’s got a spare ticket, and offers to take me. Won’t cost a penny. It’s nice of her, isn’t it?’ ‘Very nice.’ ??
?But then you should hear my parents, my mother. I’m not allowed. Why not, it’s a respectable ball, and you want to have a little fun from time to time in your life. No, we’re not letting you go, the weather’s so bad, and your father’s not well. And then I say, I’m going anyway, and I got such a beating, what do you think of that?’ She cries and wails to herself. ‘The whole of the back of my head hurts. Now you’ve learned your lesson, and you’ll stay here, says my mother. Isn’t that awful? Why shouldn’t I go out, I’m twenty years old, I’m gone for the weekend, says my mother, well, but this is a Thursday and the ticket was going begging.’ ‘If you want, I can give you the loan of a handkerchief.’ ‘Ach, I’ve got through six of them already, and I’ve caught a cold from crying all day, what will I say to the girl, I can’t go in the shop, not with my cheek looking like this. I wanted to go out, I wanted to think of something else, not just your friend Sepp the whole time. Now I’ve written to him to tell him we’re through, he hasn’t written back, so we really are through.’ ‘Leave him be. You can see him in town with a different girl every Wednesday.’ ‘I’m very fond of him. That’s why I was desperate to go.’
•
An old man with an alcoholic’s blue nose is sitting on Franz’s bed. ‘Hey, open your eyes, I know you can hear me. I’m in the same boat as you. Home sweet home, you know, well, for me that’s in the ground. If I can’t be home, I want to be in the ground. The peabrains want to make a troglodyte out of me, they’re trying to make a cave-dweller out of me. You know what I mean by troglodyte, don’t you, that’s us, wake up, damned of the earth, starved all your lives, you’ve been sacrificed in war, in love of country, you gave everything for your people and love and happiness and freedom. That’s what we are, man. The despot feasts in gaudy chambers, drowning his turmoil in wine, but the hand has already started to inscribe the menacing letters on the board. I’m an autodidact, I’ve had to learn everything by myself, in prison, and now they’ve locked me in here, they slapped a care order on the people, I’m too dangerous. Yes, that’s me. I’m a free-thinker. You see me sitting in front of you, I’m the calmest man in the world, but if I’m riled. There’s a time coming when the people will rise up, the mighty, powerful and free people, so rest, my brothers, you’ve sacrificed yourselves nobly and magnanimously for the cause.