Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (26 page)

On April 11, Herr Braun, editor, was liberated from Moabit prison by an armed party. It was a regular Wild West scene. A search is being made for them. The Acting President of the Criminal Court immediately made a report on the matter to the superior authorities. Meanwhile, the examination of eye-witnesses and the officials involved continues.

The Berlin public at this time is not much interested in the desire of one of the most important American automobile factories to obtain offers from financially strong German firms to act as sole representatives for six-and eight-cylinder cars on a monopoly basis for Northern Germany.

A word to the wise. To the residents of the Steinplatz telephone area in particular: In the Renaissance Theater, Hardenbergstrasse, the 100th performance of “Coeur-Bube,” that charming comedy in which agreeable humor is united with a deeper meaning, was given with appropriate honors. The residents of Berlin are urged by means of bill-posters to help this play to reach a still higher commemorable record. We have to consider here, of course, several different things: Collectively, Berliners may be asked to do this, but it may also happen that, through various circumstances, they will be prevented from obeying the call. In the first place, they may be away on a trip and so not know anything about the existence of the play. Or, they may be in Berlin, but have no occasion to see the announcement of the play on the poster column, perhaps because they are ill in bed. In a city of four millions, that must apply to a considerable number of people. At any rate, it may be that they are notified through the advertising news of the radio, at 6 p.m., that “Coeur-Bube,” that charming Parisian comedy, in which agreeable humor is united with a deeper meaning, is now being played at the Renaissance Theater for the 100th time. The announcement, however, may have no effect other than to make them regret not being able to travel to Hardenbergstrasse, for the journey is out of the question, supposing they are really sick abed. According to reliable information, no arrangements have been made in the Renaissance Theater for the reception of sick-beds, which perhaps might be temporarily transported there by ambulances.

Nor can we ignore another possibility: there may be people in Berlin (and there doubtless are such) who read the poster of the Renaissance Theater, but doubt its truth, not the truth of the existence of the poster, but the truth and also the importance of its contents, as reproduced by the printed type. They may read with a feeling of discomfort, disgust, and reluctance, even with anger, the statement that the play “Coeur-Bube” is a charming comedy. Whom does it charm, what does it charm, with what does it charm, how do they contrive to charm me, I needn’t let myself be charmed, It might cause them to make a wry face when they think that in this comedy agreeable humor is united with a deeper meaning. They do not want agreeable humor, their attitude toward life is serious, their emotional state is sad, but lofty, there having occurred a recent bereavement in their family. Nor will they let themselves be bamboozled by the information that a deeper meaning is connected with this regrettably agreeable humor. For in their opinion agreeable humor can in no case be made innocuous or neutralized. Deeper meaning must always stand alone. Agreeable humor is to be eliminated, as Carthage was eliminated by the Romans, or as the same thing befell other cities, in other ways which they can no longer remember. Some people don’t believe at all in the deeper meaning that lies in the play “Coeur-Bube,” praised by the poster columns. A deeper meaning: why a deeper and not a deep one? Does deeper mean more deeply than deep? Thus they argue.

It is obvious that in a big city like Berlin, many people doubt a lot of things and carp and cavil considerably. And so it happens that they may also criticize the wording of that poster which has been placed there at such great expense by the producer. As a matter of fact, they are not interested in the theater. And even if they don’t carp at it, and even if they love it, especially the Renaissance Theater in Hardenbergstrasse, and even if they admit that in this play there is a union of agreeable humor with a deeper meaning, they do not want to participate in it, simply because they have other plans for tonight. Thus the number of people who will stream towards Hardenbergstrasse, and might perhaps force simultaneous performances 01 the play “Coeur-Bube” in adjacent theaters, would be considerably diminished.

After this instructive excursion into public and private ev’ents in Berlin we will now return, in April 1928, to Franz Biberkopf and Reinhold with his plague of girls. It may be assumed that for this news, too, there exists only a small circle of people who are interested. We prefer lIot to explain the reasons for this. But this shall not prevent me from following the traces of my little man in Berlin, Center and East; each of us does what to him seems necessary.

Franz has made a devasting Resolution. He does not notice that he is sitting on Nettles

Things did not go well with Reinhold after his conversation with Franz Biberkopf. Reinhold hadn’t it in him, at least not up till now, to be rough with women, the way Franz was. He always needed somebody to help him, and now he was in trouble. The girls were after him, Trude, who was still with him, Cilly, the last, as well as the penultimate one, whose name he had already forgotten. All of them were spying round him, either worried and anxious (the last specimen), or seeking revenge (the penultimate specimen), or greedy for more love (the antepenultimate specimen). The very latest to appear on his horizon, a certain Nelly, from the Central Market, a widow, had fallen in love with him, but had fallen out again at once, when, one after the other, Trude and Cilly and finally even, as chief witness, a man, a certain Franz Biberkopf, himself a friend of Reinhold’s, had appeared at her place and warned her. Yes, that’s what Franz Biberkopf did. “Frau Labschinsky - that was, of course, Nelly’s real name-I’m not doing this in order to blacken my friend or whoever he is. Not on your life. No, I don’t never mix up in other people’s dirty linen. No, but what’s right must stay right. To push one woman after the other into the street, that’s not my idea of things. And it’s not true love, either.”

Frau Labschinsky permitted her bosom to heave contemptuously: Reinhold, well, he mustn’t put on airs on account of her. She ain’t a beginner with men either. Franz continued: “I’m glad to hear it, that’s enough for me. So now you know all there’s to know. For you’re doing a good deed, and that’s exactly what I’d like to do. A fellow feels sorry for women-they’re human beings like us, and then for Reinhold himself. He’ll go to the dogs, you’ll see. That’s why he don’t drink no beer now and no liquor, only weak coffee, he can’t stand a drop. He’d better take care of himself. There’s good stuff in him.” “That’s right, there certainly is.” Frau Labschinsky was crying. Franz nodded gravely: “And that’s what I’d like to do, he’s been through a lot, but it can’t go on this way, and that’s where we gotta protect him.”

Frail Labschinsky gave Herr Biberkopf her vigorous paw when he left: “I depend on you, Herr Biberkopf.” She certainly could. Reinhold didn’t make a move. He was a sedentary man, but he didn’t let anyone look into his cards. He had now been living with Trude three weeks beyond his terlll; she gave Franz a daily report about it. Franz was exultant. The next one is going to be due soon. That means: watch out! And sure enough: Trude, trembling, reports to him one noon that Reinhold has been out for two nights in his best bib and tucker. The following noon she knew who it was: a certain Rosa, buttonhole-maker, in her early thirties, she hadn’t yet round out the last name, but the address. Well, then, everything’s O. K., laughed Franz.

But with destiny’s mighty power there’s no union that can flower. And fate moves with giant strides. If you have difficulty in walking, wear Leiser’s shoes, Leiser’s is the biggest shoe-store on the square. And if you don’t want to walk you might ride: N.S.V. invites you to a trial ride in a six-cylinder car. That Thursday Franz Biberkopf happened to be walking alone through Prenzlauer Strasse, having remembered that he wanted to look up his friend Meck, whom he hadn’t seen for a long time, just for general reasons; and then, too, he wanted to tell him about Reinhold and the janes, and Meck ought to just watch and admire him, how he, Franz, can bring a fellow like that to his senses, and how he makes him turn about face and he has gotta get used to law and order, and we’ll swing it, all right.

And sure enough, as Franz ambles into the cafe with his newspapers, whom do the apples of my eyes behold? Meck. There he is sitting with two others, jabbering away. So Franz sits down beside them right away and starts to jabber too, and, after the others are gone, they allow themselves to be treated, at Franz’s invitation, to a couple of big tankards, and Franz, gurgling and gulping away, tells him a lot of things, and Meck, gurgling and gulping too, hears from his lips, hears with amazement and satisfaction, what kind of people there are in the world. Meck is going to keep it all to himself, sure, but it’s really a crazy story. Franz beams as he tells of his own achievements in the matter, how he got Nelly, who was a Frau Labschinsky, away from Reinhold, and how he had to stay with Trude three weeks after the term, and that now there is a certain Rosa, a buttonhole-maker, but we’ll sew that buttonhole together again for him. And so Franz sits there with his tankard, feeling his oats, he’s sitting pretty. Rejoice, all ye young chairing throats, round our table rings a roundelay, hey-dey-dey-hey-dey-dey, round our table rings a roundelay. Three times three is ni-i-ine, we swig our drinks like swi-i-ine, three times three and one is ten, let’s swig another one like men-two, three, four, six, seven.

Who is that standing at the milling-bar, the swilling-bar, the rilling-bar, who is that smiling into the smoky stink-hole? The biggest of all big swine, Herr von und zu Pums. He smiles, what be calls smiling, y’know, but his little pig’s eyes are looking for something or somebody. He’ll have to get a broom and crack a hole in this reeking fume, if he wants to see anything. Three of them arc climbing towards him now. That’s so, those are the boys who Jre always doing partnership business with him, queer birds they are, too. Birds of a feather flock together. Better end young on the gallows, than have to go grubbing for cigar-butts in your old age. The lour of them scratch their heads, clack and drone together, they’re looking for something or other. They’ll need a broom, if they want to see anything here, or perhaps a ventilator would help. Meck nudges Franz: “Still someone missing. They need more people to handle their stuff, Fat there can’t never get enough people.”

“He tried to sound me, too. But I won’t join in. What would I do with fruit anyway? Must have a lot of stuff, hasn’t he?” “How do I know what kind of goods he carries? Fruit-that’s what he says. Better not ask too many questions, Franz. But it won’t hurt to stick to him, there’s always something might fall your way. He’s a clever bird, the old duck, and so are the others.”

At twenty-three minutes, seventeen seconds after eight, another man steps up to the bar, the milling-bar, the swilling-bar, a fellow-one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, all good children go to heaven-who might it be? You say it’s the King of England? No, it’s not the King of England, driving in grand style, to the opening of Parliament, as a symbol of the English nation’s sense of independence. It’s not he. Then who is it? Is it a delegate of the nations who signed the Kellogg Pact in Paris, surrounded by 50 photographers, the proper in k-well could not be brought in because of its enormous size, they had to content themselves with a Sèvres set? No. It’s only - in comes slouching, gray woolen socks a-dangle-our Reinhold, that quite insignificant figure, a mouse-gray lad in mouse-gray. The five of them scratch their heads, look around the place. Have to get a broom, that’s certain, to see anything here; or a ventilator would do. Franz and Meck, from their table, watch these five fellows intently, what’re they up to, the way they sit down at the table.

A quarter of an hour later Reinhold will fetch himself a cup of coffee and some mineral water, glancing keenly round the room at the same time. And who is going to smile at him from the wall or nod at him? Dr. Luppe, Burgomaster of Niirnberg? Not on your life, for that morning he had to deliver the address of welcome at the Durer Festival; after him spoke Dr. Keudell, Minister of the Interior, and Dr. Goldenberger, the Bavarian Minister of Education; this circumstance prevented them from being present on this occasion. Wrigley’s Chewing Gum for good teeth, pure breath, better digestion. It’s only Franz Biberkopf grinning all over his face, he’s mighty glad, when Reinhold arrives. Why, he’s his educational object, he’s his pupil, he might serve him up to his friend Meck now. Just watch him as he comes along. We’ve got a check on him. Reinbold marches up with his coffee and water, sits down beside them, shrivels into himself and begins to stutter a bit. Franz, his curiosity aroused, would like to draw him alit affectionately, so that Meck can hear it: “Well, how’s everything at home, Reinhold, everything all right?”

“Well, yes, Trude’s still there, a person gets used to it.” He says this very slowly, letting it trickle out like a plugged-up water-pipe. Well, Franz is certainly happy. He almost jumps up, he’s that glad. He fixed it, all right. Who else did it but me? He beams on his friend Meck, who doesn’t withhold his admiration. “What do you say, Meck, we’ll create law and order in this world, we’ll smash this thing, let ‘em come, if they want anything out of us.” Franz pummels Reinhold’s shoulder, it twitches. “Y’see, old boy, you’ve gotta get ahold of yourself, then everything’ll go all right in this world of ours. That’s what I always say: a fellow has gotta get ahold of himself and stick it out, then let ‘em come on.” And Franz can’t get over being happy about Reinhold. A penitent sinner is better than 999 just men.

“And what does Trude say, ain’t she astonished that everything’s going so peacefully now? And you, m’boy, ain’t you glad you’re rid of all this worry about the janes? Women are all right, Reinhold, and call give us lots of pleasure. But y’see, if you ask me what I think of ‘em, then I say: not too few of ‘em, and not too many. If it’s too many, it gets dangerous, hands off. I can tell you a thing or two about that.” That story about Ida, Paradiesgarten. Treptow, canvas shoes, and then Tegel. Victory. All that’s dead and gone, sunk in the deepest ocean, let’s take a drink. “I’ll help you all right, Reinhold, so there won’t be any trouble about them women. You needn’t go to the Salvation Army, we’ll do all that a lot better. Well Reinhold, here’s how, you can take one glass at least, can’t you?” Reinhold quietly clinked with his coffee cup: “What can you do about it. Franz, why, how call you do anything?”