Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (10 page)

Franz knew it. In the cafe she forthwith sank
stante pede
to that part of his anatomy below his woolen shirt which she took for his heart but which was in more exact terms his sternum and the upper lobe of his left lung. She was triumphant as she poured down her first Gilka: “And now he can pick up his rubbish in the street.”

Oh immortality, thou art my very own, beloved what sheen is now outspread, haiL all haiL to the Prince of Homburg, victor in the battle of Fehrbellin, all hail! (Court ladies, officers, and torches appear on the castle terrace.) “Waiter, how ‘bout another Gilka.”

Hasenheide, Neue Welt, Life’s one damned Thing after Another, we shouldn’t make Life harder than it is

And Franz sits with Miss Lina Przyballa in her room, laughing: “Lina, y’know what a stock-girl is?” He gives her a poke in the ribs. She gapes: “Well, that Fölsch girl, now, isn’t she a stock-girl, she gets out the phonograph records at the music-store.” “That’s not what I mean. When I give you a shove and you’re lying on the sofa, and me next to you, then you’re a stuck-girl and I’m a stock-man.” “You’re a nice one, all right.” She squealed.

So once again, and once again lets umptidumtididdlcdiddledee, roll along, roll along, merrily we roll along, tidumtididdledee, and once again merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.

And they get up from the sofa-you’re not sick, sir, are you? If so, you’d better visit Uncle Doctor-and merrily stroll towards the Hasenheide, into Neue Welt where the high-steppers go, where bonfires blaze, prizes for the slimmest calves. The musicians sat on the stage in Tyrolese costumes. Soft music: “Drink, drink, brother, let’s drink, Leave all your worries at home, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain.”

It got into their bones, with every measure and between beer-mugs, they tittered and smirked, they hummed with the music. moved their arms in rhythm; Booze, booze, guzzle and booze. Leave all your trouble at home. Booze, booze, guzzle and booze, Leave all your trouble at home, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain.

Charlie Chaplin was there in person, he whispered in northeastern German dialect, waddled about up there on the balustrade in his wide pants with the giant shoes, pinched the leg of a not too young lady, and raced with her down the coaster. Numerous families gobbled up food around a table, leaving a lot of dirt. You may buy a long stick with a paper tuft on top for 50 pfennigs and establish any connection with it you want, the neck is sensitive, so is the knee cap, afterwards you move your leg and turn around. Who is here anyway? Civilians of both sexes, then a handful of soldiers from the Reichswehr with feminine accompaniment: Drink, drink, brother, let’s drink, Leave all your worries at home.

The air is thick, full of clouds from pipes, cigars, and cigarettes, the whole huge hall is enveloped in fog. The smoke, when it finds it is getting too smoky. tries to escape upwards because of its light weight, and, as a matter of fact, finds slits, holes, and ventilators ready to push it along. But outside, outside it is dark night and cold. Then the smoke repents of its levity, resists its constitution, but it can’t find the way back, for the ventilators all turn to one side. Too late. It finds itself surrounded by physical laws. The smoke doesn’t know what’s happened, it grasps its brow, and has no brow, it wants to ponder-but in vain. The wind, the cold, the night have seized it; ‘twas never seen again.

At a table sit two couples, looking at the passers-by. The gentleman in the salt-and-pepper suit, his mustache bent over the prominent bosom of a dark, stout woman. Their tender hearts tremble, their noses sniffle, he leans over her bosom, she over the pomade-covered back of his head.

Beside them, a woman in a yellow-checked dress sits laughing. Her gentleman friend puts his arm around her chair. She has prominent teeth, a monocle, her open left eye seems blind, she smiles, puffs, shakes her head: “What funny questions you ask.” A young chicken with blond water-waves is sitting at the next table, or rather she covers, with her powerfully developed, though concealed backside, the iron seat of a low garden chair. She hums happily through her nose to the music, the after-effect of a beefsteak and three glasses of light beer. She chatters and babbles, lays her head on his neck, on the neck of the second fitter of a firm in Neukölln, this chicken being his fourth affair this year, while, on the other hand, he is her tenth, or rather eleventh this year, if we figure among them also her first cousin, who, be it said, is her official fiance. She opens her eyes suddenly, for Chaplin might fall down up there any moment. The fitter grabs with both hands after the coaster, where something seems to be happening sure enough. They order salted pretzels.

A gentleman, 36 years old, part-owner of a little provision business, buys himself six big balloons at 50 pfennigs each, lets one after another go up in the aisle in front of the band, by which means he succeeds, because of his lack of other charms, in attracting attention to himself from girls, women, virgins, widows, divorcees, adulteresses, and other unfaithful lassies, who are wandering about alone or in couples, and so he finds company without much difficulty. You pay 20 pfennigs in the adjoining gangway for weight-lifting. A glance into the future. You dab, with your finger well wetted, on the chemical preparation in the circle between the two hearts and then smear it a few times on the empty page above, whereupon the picture of the future sweetheart will appear. You have been on the right road since childhood. Your heart knows no deceit, but, nevertheless, with fine sensitiveness, you scent every trap that envious friends would like to set for you. Continue to have confidence in your art of living, for the star under the light of which you stepped into this world, will be your constant guide and help you to find a life companion who will make your happiness perfect. This companion in whom you may have confidence has the same character as you yourself. He will not woo you impetuously, but your silent happiness at his side will be the more constant for that.

Near the cloak-room in another hall a band was playing on a balcony. The members of this band wore red waistcoats and kept yelling they had not enough to drink. Below them there stood a corpulent man of upright mien, in a frock-coat. He had on a curiously striped paper cap and wanted to put a paper carnation into his buttonhole while singing, an occupation in which, however, as a result of eight light beers, two punches, and four cognacs, he was not successful. In the tumult he sang up towards the band, then hopped, skipped, and jumped in a waltz with an old, tremendously bulbous person with whom he drew wide circles like a merry-go-round. While dancing, the person in question grew more and more diffuse, but she had enough instinct left to sit down on three chairs shortly before her explosion.

Franz Biberkopf and this man in the frock-coat met during an intermission, below the balcony, on which the band was still crying for beer. And a beaming blue eye stared at Franz, lovely moon thou roam’st so silently, his other eye was blind, they raised their white beer-mugs, this veteran croaked: “You’re a traitor too, ain’t you, the others are sitting around the feedbin.” He gulped: “Don’t look at me so hard, tell me, where did you serve in the army?”

They drank each other’s health, flourish of trumpets by the band, we have nothing to drink, we have nothing to drink. Hey there, cut that out, cheer up, perk up, three cheers for good old Gemütlichkeit. “Are you a German, are you German to the bone? What’s your name?” “Franz Biberkopf. Say, Fatty, he don’t know me.” The veteran whispered, his hand before his mouth, he belched: “Are you a German, honest and true? If you run with the Reds, you’re a traitor. He who is a traitor isn’t my friend.” He embraced Franz: “The Poles, the French, the fatherland for which we bled, that’s the nation’s gratitude.” Then he pulled himself together, danced again with that expansive person whom he had collected once more, the same old waltz, no matter what the tune. He staggered, seemed to be looking for something. Franz shouted: “Over here.” Lina went and got him, then he danced with Lina, arm in arm they appeared before Franz at the bar: “Excuse me, with whom have I the pleasure, the honor? Your name, if I may ask.” Drink, drink, brother, let’s drink, Leave all your worries at home. Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain.

Two pig’s knuckles, one corned-beef the lady had horse-radish, yes, where did you leave your things, there are two cloak-rooms here, by the way, are prisoners held for examination allowed to wear their wedding rings? I say, no. The boat-club affair lasted until four o’clock. The automobile roads there, why, they’re something awful, a man bumps right against the roof of the car, might as well be diving.

Arm in arm the cripple and Franz sit at the bar: “Say, lemme tell you, they reduced my pension, they did, I’m gonna join the Reds. The fellow who drives us out of Paradise with a flaming sword is the archangel, and so we won’t go back there. And there we are sitting up on the Hartmannsweilerkopf says I to my captain, he’s from Stargard like me.” “Storkow?” “No, Stargard. Now I’ve lost my carnation no, there she is.” He who has kissed by the beautiful sea, while the billows listened and rippled with mirth, knows surely what life’s greatest charm can be, he has chatted with love upon this earth.

*

Franz now peddles racist, pro-Nordic papers. He is not against the Jews, but he is for law and order. For law and order must reign in Paradise; which everyone should recognize. And the
Steel Helmet,
he’s seen those boys, and their leaders, too, that’s a great thing. He stands by the subway exit, at Potsdamer Platz, in the Friedrichstrasse arcade, under the Alexanderplatz station. He shares the opinion of the cripple out there in the Neue Welt, the fellow with the one eye, the man with that fat madam.

To the German people on the First Sunday in Advent: Destroy your illusions once and for all and punish those who lull you to sleep with their juggling wiles! For the day will come when truth will rise from the battlefield with her sword of right and her unstained shield to conquer every foeman’s guiles.

“While these lines are being written, there is in progress the trial of the Knights of the Reichsbanner, the Knights who, thanks to a superiority of about from 15 to 20 times, were able to express their programatic pacifism as well as the courage of their convictions by attacking a handful of National-Socialists, knocking them down and killing our party member Hirschmann, in a most bestial manner. Even from the testimony of the accused, who have the legal right, and, we suspect, their party’s command, to lie, it is obvious with what premeditated brutality, so characteristic of their party principles, they acted.”

“True federalism is anti-semitism, the struggle against Jewry is also the struggle for the autonomy of Bavaria. Long before the time set for the opening, the big Mathäser banquet hall was crowded, and the public continued to pour in. Up to the time of the opening of the meeting, our crack S.A. band entertained us with a smart rendition of sprightly marches and melodies. At half-past eight, our party member, Oberlehrer, opened the meeting with cordial greetings and then our party member, Walter Ammer, began his speech.”

In the Elsasser Strasse the boys laugh themselves sick when he makes his appearance in the cafe at noon, his arm-band discreetly tucked in his pocket; they pull it out. Franz talks them down.

Turning to the jobless young locksmith, who puts down his big mug in amazement, he says: “So you’re laughing at me, Richard, what for, I’d like to know? Because you’re married? You’re twenty-one and your wife is eighteen, and what do you know about life? Zero minus three. I tell ye, Richard, while we’re at it, talking about the girls, seeing you got a little boy, I’ll let you have your way on account of that bawling brat. But what else? Heh?”

Georg Dreske, the polisher, 39 years old, locked-out at present, plays with Franz’s arm-band. “Take a peep at it, Georgie, there’s nothing on that band I can’t account for. I skidooed out there, old man, the way you did, I’ll tell the world, but what came out of it afterwards? Whether a fellow has a red belly-band on his cigar or a gold band or a black-white-red band, the cigar won’t taste any better for it. It depends on the tobacco, old fellow, wrapper, filler, and properly rolled and dried, and where it comes from. That’s what I say. What did we do anyhow, Georgie, tell me that.”

The latter quietly lays the band on the bar-counter in front of him and gulps down his beer. talking very hesitatingly with an occasional stutter and wetting his gullet frequently: ‘Tm only looking at you, Franz, and I’m only telling you, haven’t 1known you for ages-since Arras and Kovnoyes, they certainly did put one over on you.” “On account of the band, you mean?” “Oh everything. Leave that stuff alone. You needn’t do that, running around in the crowd that way.”

Now Franz gets up, pushing aside young Richard Werner, the locksmith with the big Schiller collar, just as the latter is about to ask him something: “Nope, nope, Dick, you’re a nice enough kid, but this is a man’s job. Simply because you got the vote, don’t think you can join in the talk between Georgie and me any time you want to.” He stands for a while meditatively beside the polisher at the bar, while the proprietor in the big blue apron waits attentively inside, in front of the liqueur-shelf opposite them, his fat hands in the sink: “Well, Georgie, what was that about Arras?” “What do you mean? Don’t you know that yourself? And the reason you skidooed. And about the band. Listen, Franz, old man, I’d rather hang myself with that. They certainly have soft-soaped you.”

Franz stares with a very steady gaze at the polisher, who begins to stutter, throws his head back, and gazes straight into his eyes: “I want to hear about Arras. We’ll find out if you were in Arras.” “You must be having pipe-dreams, Franz, 1 didn’t say anything. You must be tight.” Franz waits and thinks to himself. I’ll make him eat his words, he acts as if he didn’t understand anything, he’s playing the fool. “Why, of course, Georgie, we were certainly together at Arras, with Arthur Bose and Bluhm and the little non-com., what was his name, he had a funny name.” “I forget.” Let him talk, he’s tight. the others notice it, too. “Wait a minute what was his name, Bistra or Birska, or something like that, that little fellow.” Let him talk, I won’t say anything, he’ll get himself all tangled up, then he won’t say anything more. “Yes, we know ‘em all. But I don’t mean that. Where we stayed afterwards, at Arras, after it was all over, after’ 18, when that other junk started, here in Berlin and in Halle and Kiel and ...”