Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (17 page)

-Did you lose your heart in nature? That’s not where I lost my heart. To be sure, it seemed to me as if the essence of the primal spirit was about to carry me away while I was standing opposite the alpine giants or lying on the beach by the roaring sea. Yes, something also bubbled and boiled in my bones. My heart was shaken, but I did not lose it, neither where the eagle nests, nor where the miner digs for the hidden ore-veins of the deeps.

-Then where?

Did you lose your heart in sport? In the roaring stream of the youth movement? In the turmoil of political struggle? -I did not lose it there. -Didn’t you lose it anywhere? Do you belong to those who lose their heart nowhere, but keep it for themselves, to conserve it nicely and mummify it?

The road to the supernatural world, public lectures. All Souls Day: Does Death really end everything? November 21, 8 p.m.: Can we still believe today? Tuesday, November 22: Can man change? Wednesday, November 23: Who is just before God? We call your special attention to the development of the Declamatorium, “St. Paul.”

Sunday, quarter to eight.

Howdy, Preacher, why, my name’s Franz Biberkopf, I’m a handy-man. Used to be a furniture-mover, now out of work. You see I wanted to ask you something. Why, what can a fellow do for stomach trouble? I’ve got that sour feeling. Ouch, there it is again. Phew! Poison gall. Of course, comes from drinking too much. If you please, beg pardon, for gassing at you like this right out in the street. It’s interfering with your duties. But what on earth am I going to do for gall poison? One Christian man has got to help another. You’re a good man. I won’t get to heaven. Why? Just ask Frau Schmidt who always comes out of the ceiling up there. She comes and goes, and is always after me to get up. But nobody can tell me anything. If there are criminals though, then it’s me who can talk about ‘em. In honor true. We swore it to Karl Liebknecht, to Rosa Luxemburg we gave our hand. I’ll go to Paradise when I’m dead, and they’ll bow before me and say: That’s Franz Biberkopf, in honor true, a true-blue German, a handy-man, in honor true, high waves the banner blackwhite-red, but he kept it for himself, he didn’t become a criminal like the others, who want to be Germans and deceive their fellow-men. If I had a knife, I’d run it into his guts. Yes, I would. (Franz tosses about in bed, swings his arms in the air.) Now you want to run to the preacher, old kid. Little old kid, eh! Go ahead, if you like it, if you can still squawk! In honor true, I’ll keep my hands off o’ that, Preacher, yes, it’s too good for that, scoundrels shouldn’t even be in prison; I was in prison, I know it like a book, first-class affair, first-class merchandise, no use talking, scoundrels don’t belong there, especially when they’re like the one who’s not even ashamed before his wife, which he ought to be, and before the whole world, as well.

2 times 2 is 4, no use talking.

Here you see a man, excuse me, you’re a busy man. I’ve got such awful stomach trouble. I’ll know how to get hold of myself. A glass of water, Frau Schmidt. The bitch has got to stick her nose into everything.

Franz in Retreat. Franz blows a Farewell March to the Jews

Franz Biberkopf, strong as a cobra, but shaky on his legs, got up and went to the Jews in Münzstrasse. He didn’t go there directly, he took a roundabout way to get there. The fellow wants to be done with everything. The fellow wants to get things straightened out. There we go again, Franz Biberkopf. Dry weather, cold, but crisp, who would want to stand in the hallway now, be a street-vender, and freeze his toes off? In honor true. Lucky a fellow’s out of the room and can’t hear the squealing of the dames any more. Here is Franz Biberkopf, he’s walking along the street. All the bar-rooms empty. Why? The bums are still snoozing. The saloon-keepers can drink their manure-juice alone. Dividend juice. We’re not jus’ in the mood for it. We drink rum, by gum.

Franz Biberkopf quietly shoved his body in the gray-green army coat through the crowd and watched the little women buying vegetables, cheese, and herring from the push-carts. Somebody was hawking onions. People do what they can. Have children at home, hungry mouths, bird beaks, clap open, clap shut, clap open, clap shut, shut, open, shut, open, shut.

Franz walked faster, stamped around the corner. That’s it, fresh air. He slowed up in front of the big show-windows. What do shoes cost now? Patent-leather shoes, dance slippers, must look swell on the foot, how about a nice WI girl, with dance slippers on. That dumbbell Lissarek, the Bohemian, the old fellow with the big nostrils out there in Tegel, got his wife, or whatever she pretended to be, to bring him a pair of nice silk socks every three weeks, a pair of new ones and a pair of old ones. Makes me giggle. And if she had to steal ‘em, he was bound to have ‘em. Once they caught him with the socks on his dirty legs, what a fool, and now he pipes his legs and gets all worked up looking at ‘em, and his ears get all red, the fellow makes me giggle. Furniture on the installment plan. Kitchen furniture in twelve monthly installments.

Biberkopf continued walking in a happy mood. Only here and there was he obliged to look at the pavement. He examined his steps and the nice firm asphalt. But then his glance slipped with a jerk up the housefronts, examined them, made sure they were standing still and did not stir, although really a house like that has lots of windows and could easily bend forward. That might get the roofs started, carry them along with it; they are liable to start rocking. They might begin to shake, to rock, to jolt. The roofs could slide down, obliquely like sand, like a hat falling down from a head. Why, they’re all, yes, all of them, standing obliquely over the roof-tree, along the whole row. But they’re nailed down fast, strong beams below and then the roofing, the tar. Firm stands and true, the watch, the watch on the Rhine. Good morning, Franz Biberkopf, here we are walking erect, chest out, back straight, old boy, along the Brunnenstrasse. God has mercy on all men, we are German citizens, just like the prison director said.

A man with a leather cap and a flabby white face scratched a little boil on his chin with his index-finger, his lower lip hanging out the while. Another man with a broad back and baggy pants-bottom stood leaning over beside him; they barricaded the way. Franz walked around them. The one with the leather cap poked into his right ear.

He noticed with satisfaction that people were quietly walking along the street, the drivers were unloading, the authorities were inspecting the houses, there comes a call like thunder’s peal, well then, we can walk here, too. A poster kiosk at the corner, on yellow paper there stood in black Roman letters: “Have you lived on the beautiful Rhine.” “The King of Football Centers.” Five men stood in a little circle on the asphalt, swung hammers, split the asphalt, we know the one in the green woolen jacket, that’s sure, he’s working all right, we can do that, too, later on maybe, you hold it tight with your right hand, lift it up, grasp it; then bang, down with it. That’s us, the working men, the proletariat. Right high, left swing, heave, right high, left swing, heave. Danger. Building site. Stralau Asphalt Company.

He was walking leisurely along the rattling trolley-line, look out, don’t get off while the car is in motion! Wait till the car stops! The cop regulates the traffic, a letter-carrier wants to get across quickly. I’m not in a hurry, just want to go to the Jews. They’ll still be there. What a lot of dirt you get on your shoes, but then they weren’t shined anyhow, for who’s going to shine ‘em, that Schmidt woman perhaps, she doesn’t do anything (spider webs on the ceiling, sour heartburn, he sucked his palate, turned his head towards the window-panes: Gargoyle Mobiloil Vulcanizing, Bobbed Hair Shop, Water Waves, against a blue background, Pixavon, refined tar product.) Wonder if stout Lina could shine his shoes? Now he had already acquired a speedier tempo.

That crook Lüders, the woman’s letter, I’ll box you a knife in the guts. OLORDOLORD, say, leave that alone, we’ll take care of ourselves, you bums, we won’t do anybody dirt, we’ve already done time in Tegel. Let’s see: custom tailoring, gent’s furnishings, that first, then in the second place, mounting rims on carriage wheels, automobile accessories, important, too, for quick riding, but not too fast.

Right foot, left foot right foot, left foot, marching slowly in step, don’t crowd, Miss. Careful! Cop and a crowd! What’s that? Make haste and you get laced. Hoohoohoo, hoohoohoo, the roosters crow. Franz was happy, the faces all looked nicer.

Joyously he meditated on the street. A cold wind was blowing, mixed, according to the houses, with warm cellar smells, native and Southern fruits, gasoline. Asphalt doesn’t smell in winter.

At the Jews’ Franz sat on the sofa for a whole hour. They talked, he talked, he was wondering, they were wondering, a whole long hour. What was he wondering about, sitting on the sofa, while they were talking and he was talking? That he was sitting here and talking and they were talking, and above all he was wondering at himself. Why was he wondering at himself? He knew and noticed it himself, he established it as an accountant does a miscalculation. He established something in his mind.

It was decided, he was wondering at the decision which he had arrived at. This decision said, while he looked into their faces, smiled, questioned, answered: Franz Biberkopf, they may say what they please, they’ve got the preacher’s outfit, but they’re not preachers, it’s a caftan; they’re from Galicia, near Lemberg, they’re clever, but they can’t tell me anything. I’m sitting here on the sofa and I won’t do business with ‘em. I’ve already done what I can.

The last time he had been here he had sat with one of them on the carpet below. Git, skidoo, I’d like to try it. But not today, that’s all over. We sit here nailed on our bottoms and look at the ole Jews.

Man can’t give any more, he’s not a machine. The eleventh commandment says: Don’t let ‘em bluff you. A nice place, these guys have, simple, in bad taste, and no show. They won’t knock Franz flat with that. Franz can hold his own. That’s over with. To bed, to bed, if you’ve got one, or if you haven’t, you must all go to bed, to bed. We won’t work any longer. The old boy’s gone on a strike. When the pump gets stuck in the sand you can work on the old thing as much as you want. Franz gets a retiring allowance without pension. How’s that, he thought maliciously, and looked down the edge of the sofa. Retiring allowance without pension.

“And when a man has the strength you have, a strong fellow like you, he should thank his Creator. What can happen to him? Does he have to drink? If he isn’t doing one thing, he’s doing another. Goes to the public market, stands in front of the shops, stands around the railroad station: what do you think one of those fellows took from me the other day when I came back from Landsberg, I was away one day, and what do you think he took from me? Just guess, Nachum, a man as big as that door, a Goliath, God save me. Fifty pfennigs. Yes sir, fifty pfennigs, I’m telling you, fifty pfennigs. For a small trunk from here to that corner. I didn’t want to carry it myself, it was Shabbes. To think that fellow took fifty pfennigs from me. But I gave him a look. Well, you could also-I know something for you. Isn’t there something open at Feitel’s, the grain dealer’s, say, you know Feitel, don’t you?” “Not Feitel, his brother.” “Well, he carries grains, too. Who is his brother?” “Feitel’s brother, told you.” “Do I know everybody in Berlin?” “Feitel’s brother. A man with an income that’s ...” He shook his head in despairing admiration. The red-haired man raised his arm, ducked bis head. “You don’t say so? And from Czernowitz.” They had forgotten all about Franz. They both were thinking intensely about the wealth of Feitel’s brother. The red-haired man walked around in great excitement, then gave a snort. The other one purred, streamed delight, smiled sardonically behind him and clicked with his nails: “Yep.” “Great. You don’t say so!” “Everything that family touches is gold. Gold is not the word. GOLD.” The red-haired fellow wandered around, then sat down by the window, deeply moved. What he saw going on outside filled him with contempt, two men in their shirt-sleeves were washing a car, an old car. One of them had his suspenders hanging down, they dragged along two pails of water, the courtyard was streaming with water. With a meditative look, dreaming of gold, he contemplated Franz: “What do you think of that?” What can he say, he’s a poor, half-crazy fellow, what does a poor devil like that understand about Feitel’s money in Czernowitz? He wouldn’t let that one clean his shoes. Franz answered his look. Good morning, Preacher, the trolleys keep on tinkling along, but we know what that means, a man can give only so much. They’re not working any more, and even if all the snow melts, we won’t lift a finger, we’ll make ourselves scarce.

The serpent had rustled down from the tree. Thou art cursed above all cattle, upon thy belly shalt thou go and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life. And I will put enmity between thee and the woman. In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children, Eve. Adam, cursed is the ground for thy sake, thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee, and thou shalt eat the herb of the field.

We won’t work any more, no use, and even if all the snow melts, we won’t lift a finger.

It was the iron crowbar which Franz Biberkopf held in his hands, with which he sat and went through the door later on. His mouth said something or other. Hesitatingly he had sneaked in, he had been discharged from Tegel prison a few months before, he had been riding in the trolley, sh-sh-sh-along the streets, past the houses, the roofs slipping by, he had eaten with the Jews. He got up, let’s move on, I went to see Minna that time, what’s keeping me here, let’s go see Minna, let’s look at everything accurately and just the way it was.

Off he went. He trailed up and down in front of Minna’s house. Li’l Mary sat upon a stone, all alone, on a stone. What do I care about her? He snooped around the house. Let her be happy with her old man. Sauerkraut with beets, they drove me away, if mother had only cooked meats, I would have stayed all day. The cats here don’t stink any different from other places. Li’l rabbit beat it, yes, like the sausage in the press. Am I going to stand around here with the blues looking at the house. And the whole bunch hollering cock-a-doodle-doo.