Revolution? Unscrew the flagpole, fold the flag in an oil-cloth wrapper and shove it in the wardrobe. Get Mama to bring you your slippers and take off your fire-red tie. The only way you make a revolution is with your gob, your republic’s nothing but a train wreck!
Dreske thinks: he’s getting to be dangerous. Richard Werner, that young fool, opens his beak again: ‘Then probably you’d rather we had another war, that’s what you’d like, and us to fight it for you. Let’s get up and whip France. But I tell you, you’re making a big hole in your pants.’ Franz thinks: an ape, a mulatto, paradise for Negroes, the only way he knows war is from the movies, pop him one and he’ll shut up.
The landlord is drying his hands on his blue apron. A green flyer is in front of the rinsed glasses, the landlord puffs out his cheeks and reads: Nonpareil hand-picked come-again roasted coffee! Popular coffee (second grade and roast). Pure unground beans 2.29, Santos guaranteed, excellent Santos domestic blend strong and economical, Van Campina’s strong clean-tasting blend, exquisite Mexico melange, an attractively priced plantation coffee for 3.75, prompt despatch by rail, 36 pounds minimum, make your own selection. A bee, a wasp, some buzzy thing is circling high up under the ceiling by the stovepipe, a miracle of nature at this time of winter. Its fellows, fellows of species and genus and outlook are dead, already dead or not yet born; it is the ice age that this solitary hummer is living through, not knowing how and why. The sunshine, however, that silently covers the front tables and section of floor, divided in two by the sign ‘Löwenbräu Patzenhofer’, that is ancient, and actually everything looks transient and meaningless when you look at it. It has covered x miles to be here, having zipped past star y, the sun has been shining for millions of years, since long before Nebuchadnezzar, Adam and Eve and the ichthyosaur, and just now it is shining through the window of a small beer joint, is divided in two by a tin sign, ‘Löwenbräu Patzenhofer,’ spreads across the floor and tables, sliding imperceptibly forward. It covers them, and they are aware of it. It is cheerful, light, more than light, light-light, it has come down from on high.
Two large mature mammals, two fully clothed human males, Franz Biberkopf and Georg Dreske, a newspaper seller and a locked-out lens-grinder and polisher, are standing at the bar in an upright position on their trousered hindlegs, propping themselves on the bar with their arms, which are in cylindrical coat sleeves. Each of them thinks, notices and feels something, though not what the other feels, notices and thinks.
‘Then you might as well know and commit it to memory that there was no such thing as Arras, Orge. We just didn’t do it, I might as well say so. Or you, or whoever happened to be there. There was no discipline, we had no one in charge, it was always each man for himself. I ran away from the trenches, and you and Böse with me. Well, and then back home, what happened then, who fled here? Everyone did, without exception. No one stayed behind, you saw it for yourself, maybe a handful, the odd thousand, OK.’ So that’s where he’s coming from, the blithering idiot, well, he’s trapped now. ‘It’s because we were betrayed, Franz, in 1918 and 1919, by the politicians, they killed Rosa and they killed Karl. We shoulda stuck together and made common cause. Look at Russia, and Lenin, they stuck together, that binds. But let’s wait and see.’ ‘Blut muss fliessen, Blut muss fliessen, Blut muss fliessen knüppelhageldick’.[2] ‘I don’t care. But the world will go to pieces while we wait, and you with it. So sod that for a laugh. For me that’s the proof: they didn’t pull it off, and that’s enough for me. Not the least little thing came about, no different than that Hartmannsweilerkopf that geezer was banging on about, the invalid who sat at the top, you don’t know him, not even that. And now—’
Franz stretches, picks up his sash off the table, stuffs it inside his jacket, moves his left arm from side to side, as he slowly makes his way back to his table: ‘And I’ll say what I always say, listen, Krause, and put it behind your ear too, Richard: those causes of yours won’t produce anything. That’s not how it’s done. Who knows if anything will come of this sash here either. I’m not claiming it will, but that’s another story. Peace on earth, as they say, that’s the thing, and whoever wants to work should be allowed to, and it’d be a shame to come to blows over that.’
And he sits down on the window seat, wipes his face, blinks into the sunny room, tweaks a hair out of his ear. The No. 9 tram grinds round the corner, Ostring, Hermannsplatz, Wildenbruchplatz, Treptow Station, Warschauer Brücke, Baltenplatz, Kniprodestrasse, Schönhauser Allee, Stettiner Bahnhof, Hedwigkirche, Hallesches Tor, Hermannplatz. The landlord props himself against a brass beer tap, his tongue prods a new filling in his lower jaw, it has a metallic taste, little Emilie needs to go out in the countryside this summer, or to Zinnowitz to summer camp, the girl’s ailing, his eyes encounter the green leaflet again, it’s lying a little slant, he straightens it, a touch of obsessiveness there, he can’t stand to see anything crooked. Bismarck herrings in gourmet spices, tender fillets no bones, roll-mop herrings, tender with pickled gherkins, jellied eels, big chunks, delicate flesh, fried herrings.
The words, sound waves, sonorities filled with meaning, rock him gently about the room, from the mouth of Dreske the stammerer, who’s smiling down at the floor: ‘Well, good luck to you, Franz, on your new chosen path, as the priests like to say. When we go marching in January to Friedrichsfelde, where Karl and Rosa lie, I guess you won’t be with us.’ Let him stammer, I’ll concentrate on logging my papers.
The publican smiles at Franz when they’re alone together. Franz stretches his legs under the table: ‘Why do you think they hightailed it, Henschke? The sash? They’ve gone to get reinforcements!’ He won’t leave it alone. They’ll come for him. ‘Blut muss fliessen, Blut muss liessen, Blut muss liessen knüppelhageldick.’
The publican probes his filling, I should move the goldfinch nearer the window, the little perisher needs some sunshine. Franz gives him a hand, knocks in a nail behind the bar, the publican carries the birdcage with its fluttering occupant: ‘It’s dark today, innit. The buildings got too much elevation.’ Franz clambers up on the chair, hangs up the birdcage, climbs down, whistles, raises his finger, whispers: ‘Now just leave the little birdie alone for a bit. ’ll get used to the new place. It’s a goldfinch, you know, a she.’ Then they’re both perfectly still, exchange nods, look up, smile.
Franz is a man of some scale, and he knows what’s what
That evening, Franz gets given the bum’s rush at Henschke’s. He comes trotting along at nine, looks for the bird, who’s sitting in the corner on her pole, with her beak tucked under her wing, amazing that a critter like that doesn’t just fall off; Franz whispers with the publican: ‘What about that, able to sleep in so much din, what do you say to that, I think it’s incredible, she must be so tired, and whether all that smoke is doing it any good for those little lungs?’ ‘She’s not known nothing else here with me, it’s always smoky in here. ’S not even all that thick today.’
Franz sits down: ‘Well, I’m going to hold off smoking for today, else it’ll get too thick, and we can throw open a window later, there won’t be a draught.’ Georg Dreske, young Richard and three other fellows are sat by themselves at another table, along with a couple more fellows, Franz doesn’t know them. That’s all that’s in the pub. When Franz walked in, there was a great to-do and talking and scolding. Then as soon as he walks in the door, it gets quieter, the two new fellows keep looking across in his direction, bend across the table and lean back cheekily, toasting each other. When dark eyes wink, when full glasses clink, then there’s one reason more, one reason more to drink. Henschke, the bald-pated publican, busies himself at beer tap and sink, he doesn’t step out like he normally does, there’s always something for him to do back there.
Then all of a sudden the conversation at the next-door table gets a little loud, one of the new fellows is speechifying. He wants a sing-song, there’s not enough going on here, there’s no piano neither; Henschke calls across: ‘It’s more than the business wi
ll provide.’ What they have it in mind to sing Franz already knows, either it’s the ‘Internationale’ or ‘Onward, brothers, to light and freedom’,[3] unless they’ve got some new addition to the repertoire. They begin. The ‘Internationale’ duly rings out.
Franz chews, thinks: this is for my benefit. I wouldn’t mind if it meant they smoked any less. Leastwise when they sing, they don’t smoke, which is noxious to the poor dicky bird. But old Dreske hanging out with such green guys, and not even coming over to say hello, that was something he wouldn’t have thought possible. The old geezer, he’s married, he’s an honest geezer, and he’s sitting with those flash harries listening to their banter. One of the youths calls over: ‘How’d you like our song, then, comrade?’ ‘Me, oh you don’t need me. You’ve got good voices.’ ‘Join in then?’ ‘I’d rather eat. Maybe when I’ve finished my dinner I’ll sing along or sing something on my own.’ ‘Deal.’
They go on chatting, Franz eats and drinks contentedly, thinks about Lina, and about how the little bird is managing not to fall off its perch in its sleep, and looks across to see who’s smoking a pipe. He’s had a good day today, though it was cold. From over there, there’s always someone checking on his eating. Must be ’fraid I’ll choke on something. There was a man once who ate a sausage sarnie, and when it was down in his tummy it had a think and it went back up his throat again and said: ere, no mustard! and only then did it go down properly. That’s what a self-respecting sausage sarnie does. And when Franz is finished, and is pouring his beer down after, the fellow calls over: ‘Now what about it, comrade, you gonna give us a song?’ They seem to be a choral society or something, perhaps we should charge admission, still, when they sing they don’t smoke. Well, I’m in no hurry. I keep my promises. And Franz is thinking, while wiping his nose, which started dripping the instant he walked in out of the cold, you can suck it back up but it doesn’t help, he’s thinking what’s keeping Lina, and perhaps I should order a couple more frankfurters, but I’m putting on weight too fast, what am I going to sing them, they don’t understand the first thing about life really, but a promise is a promise. And suddenly a sentence is going through his head, a line, something from a poem he learnt in prison, they used to recite it all the time, it went through all the cells. He’s all caught up in the moment, his head is hanging down and warm and red from the warmth, he is serious and thoughtful. With his hand on his beer mug, he says: ‘There’s a poem I remember from prison, I think his name was, wait a minute, Dohms.’
It was. He’s given it away, but it’s a nice poem. And he’s sitting all alone at his table, Henschke is working away at his sink, and the others are listening, no one coming in, the stove is crackling away. Franz, chin on his fists, recites Dohms’s pohm, and there’s the cell again, and the prison yard, he doesn’t mind them now, wonder what lads are in there now: now it’s himself going out in the yard, which is more than the fellows over there can do, what do they know about life.
He says: ‘If you, o man, desire to become a human male on this earth, then consider carefully before suffering the midwife to bear you into the light! The earth is a pit of lamentation! Trust the writer of these lines, who often chews over this foolish but tough food. Quote pinched from Goethe’s Faust: “The only time man is happy in this life is when he’s in the womb!” . . . There’s good father state, who torments you from early till late. He squeezes you and exploits you with his paragraphs and laws. His first law is: man, shape up! The second: shut yer trap! So you live in confusion, in a state of dimming. And if you try and drown your worries in beer, or in wine if that way inclined, then all you get for your trouble’s a hangover. And by now the years are rolling round, your scalp’s moth-eaten, the beams are creaking, the sinews are stiff and squeaking; the brains are eddled in your skull, and ever shorter is your human thread. In a word, it’s autumn now, you’ve had your chips, and you turn to face the wall and die. Now I ask you, friend, with trepidation, what is man, what is life? The great Schiller was wont to say: “Not a whole hell of a lot.” But I say, it’s like a chicken ladder, from top to bottom, and so on.’
No one spoke. After a pause, Franz says: ‘Well, that’s what he reckoned, he was from Hanover, but the one what committed it to memory was me. Good, eh, a piece of wisdom to accompany you through life, but harsh too.’
From over there comes the judgment: ‘Well, just you remember the bit about the state, good old father state, and the one who terrorizes you is the state. But rote learning isn’t enough, comrade.’ Franz’s head is still propped in his hands, the poem is still with him: ‘Yes, they haven’t got caviar and oysters, and we haven’t neither. A man needs to earn his daily bread, it’s difficult for a poor devil. You should be grateful still to have your own legs, and be breathing the air.’ They continue to plug away at him, surely the fellow will get riled up eventually: ‘You know, there’s various ways of earning your daily bread. In Russia there was spies back in the day, they earned a lot.’ The other new fellow trumpets: ‘And there’s others over here who’re sitting at the top table, because they’ve betrayed the workers to the capitalists, and are getting paid for it.’ ‘They’re no better ’n whores.’ ‘Worse.’
Franz thinks about his poem, and wonders what the lads are doing out in Tegel, there’ll be a lot of new fellers, after all there’s transports every day, and then they’re calling out to him: ‘Here, what happened to our song? We’ve got no music, there’s a promise that weren’t kept.’ Well, they can have one: I keep what I promise. Wet my whistle.
And Franz orders a fresh mug of beer, makes a big hole in it, what shall I sing; just then he sees himself standing in the courtyard yelling something at the walls, the kind of thing people sing these days, what was it again? And with majestic slowness he sings, it seems to come into his mouth: ‘Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden, einen bessern gibt es nicht. Die Trommel schlug zum Strei-heite, er ging an meiner Sei-heite in gleichem Schritt und Tritt, in gleichem Schritt und Tritt.’ Pause. He sings the second verse: ‘Eine Kugel kam geflogen, gilt sie mir, oder gilt sie dir; sie hat ihn weggeri-hissen, er liegt zu meinen Fü-hüssen, als wärs ein Stück von mir. Als wärs ein Stück von mir.’ And then, loudly, the third verse: ‘Will mir die Hand noch reichen, dieweil ich eben lad. Kann dir die Hand nicht ge-heben, bleib du im ew’gen Le-heben, mein guter Kame-herad, mein guter Kame-herad.’[4]
Loud and slow, leaning back he finishes singing, bravely and full-throatedly he sings. As he finishes, they’ve got over their consternation and are growling along and beating on the table, and squawking and carrying on: ‘Mein gute-her Kame-kame-hera-had.’ But while Franz is singing, he remembers what it was he actually wanted to sing. He was standing out in the courtyard, now he’s happy he’s remembered it, he doesn’t care where he is now; he’s singing, and it must out, there are the Jews, they’re bickering, what was the name of the Pole, and that decent old gent; tenderness, gratitude: he roars out into the pub: ‘Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall, wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall: zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein, wir alle wollen Hüter sein! Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein, lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein. Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein! Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein!’ All that’s behind us, as we know, now we’re sitting here, and life is beautiful, everything’s beautiful.
Thereupon they go all quiet, one of the new fellers calms them down, they let it wash over them; Dreske’s sitting there slumped, scratching his head, the landlord comes out from behind the bar, sniffs and sits down next to Franz. As he ends, Franz greets the whole of life, he swings his pint mug: ‘Prost!’, bangs on the table, beams, all is well, he is full up, only where is Lina, he can feel his full face, he’s a hefty man, firm-fleshed with a little ruffle of fat. No one says anything. Silence.
One of the fellows over there swings his leg over his chair, does up his jacket, tugs the tails straight, a long lanky geezer, a new fellow, here comes trouble, and he stalks over to Franz, who thinks he’s going to cop one,
that is, if the guy swings at him. He jerks out a chair at Franz’s table and sits down astride it. Franz follows all this, waits: ‘Come on, surely to goodness there’s more free chairs in this pub.’ The guy points down to Franz’s plate: ‘Wassat you ad to eat?’ ‘I said, come on, there’s more free chairs in the pub, if you’ve got eyes to see. I’m thinking the bathwater must have been too hot when you were a kid.’ ‘Thassnot what we’re talking about. I wanna know what you ‘ad to eat.’ ‘Cheese sammidges, you oaf. Here’s a rind. Now get away from my table if you got any manners left.’ ‘I can tell they’re cheese sammidges. I can smell. Just where from.’
But Franz, with red ears, is up on his feet, them at the other table are as well, and Franz picks up his table, turns it over, and sends the new fellow, with plate, mug and mustard pot, sprawling on the floor. The plate is broken. Henschke was waiting for it to happen, and stamps on the shards: ‘No fisticuffs in here, I’m not having fights in my bar, if you can’t keep the peace, get out.’ The long tall fellow is up on his feet, barges Henschke aside: ‘You get out of my road, this ain’t fisticuffs. We’re having a settling of accounts. If either of us breaks anything, he’ll pay the damages.’ I gave in, thinks Franz, he presses himself against the window by the blinds, if anyone lays a hand on me I’ll explode. I hope to God they don’t, I get along with everyone, but if anyone’s stupid enough to lay a hand on me, there’ll be trouble.