Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (57 page)

The cars arrive. Some ladies and gentlemen, detectives, inspectors, policewomen, get into one of them. That’s the car in which later on Franz Biberkopf will come riding along, among fifty men and women, the angels will have abandoned him, his expression will be different from the one he had, when he left the coffee-joint, but the angels will dance, ladies and gentlemen, whether you believe or don’t believe, it will certainly happen.

The car with its male and female occupants is on its way, it’s not an armored car, albeit a vehicle of combat and law, a truck, people sit on benches, and it travels across Alexanderplatz between harmless trucks and taxis, and the people in the war car all look so comfortably at ease, it is an undeclared war, they ride in the performance of their duty, some of them quietly smoke their pipes, some of them their cigars, and the ladies observe: that gentleman in front must be a newspaper man, so everything will be in the papers tomorrow. Contentedly they ride up Landsberger Strasse to the right, they journey towards their goals by a roundabout way, lest the dives should know what’s in the wind. But the people walking below get a good look at the car: they don’t look very long, it’s rather terrible, rather alarming, but it’s quickly over, they’re out to capture criminals, dreadful that such things should happen, let’s go to the movies.

The car stops in Rückerstrasse, the passengers get out and go up the street on foot. The little street is empty, the raiding party wanders along the pavement, here’s the Rucker Bar.

They occupy the doorway and stand guard in front of the entrance; a few take up their position across the way, the others enter the place. G’d evenin’. The waiter smiles. We know all about that! What’ll you have, gentlemen? Thanks, got no time, get your accounts settled, it’s a raid; everybody’s to come along to headquarters. Laughter, protests, imagine it, don’t get excited, damning and swearing, laughter; keep your shirt on, why, I got my papers with me, you’re in luck, you’ll be back in half an hour, that won’t help me any, I gotta work, don’t holler so much, Otto, free sightseeing at headquarters, night-illuminations. Hop right in. The car’s as full as a sardine can. Somebody sings: Who’s the guy rolled the cheese to the station, rolled along the cheese, the fresh louse, how dare he do such a thing, nobody had paid the custom-house fees for the cheese, for the cheese, so the cops got down on it and started to frown on it, ‘cause they rolled along the cheese for which they hadn’t paid the fees.

The car leaves. Handkerchiefs flutter: who’s the guy rolled the cheese to the station, the cheese, the cheese, the cheese?

Well, that went pretty slick. We’ll go on foot. A refined-looking gentleman crosses the street and salutes. Captain from the local station, the Commissioner? They enter a hallway, the others divide up, meeting-place Prenzlauer, corner Münz.

The Alexander Quelle is full up, it’s Friday, everybody who’s had his payday, has come to get a drink or two, music, radio, the bulls slide along the bar, the young commissioner talks with somebody, the band stops: Raid, Criminal Squad, everybody’s to come along to headquarters. People are sitting around the tables, they laugh and don’t let themselves be disturbed, they go on gabbling, the waiter continues serving. A girl standing in the aisle screams and weeps, between two others: but I left the other place and reported myself offa the register, only that woman in the new place hasn’t sent my name in yet, well, then, you’ll simply have to stay overnight, that’s nothin’, I won’t go along, I won’t let a cop touch me, don’t get yourself all worked up, nobody ever got healthy with that. Lemme get out, what d’y mean out, you’ll get out when it’s your turn, the car’s just left, why not get more cars then, now don’t start telling us what we ought to do. Waiter, a bottle of champagne to wash my feet with. Heh, I gotta go to work, I gotta work at Lau’s, he pays me by the hour, well, you’ve got to come along, that’s all, I’ve gotta go to my building job, this is an attack on liberty, everybody’s got to come along, you’ll go along, Christ, don’t get so excited, these people gotta make a raid once in a while, that’s all, otherwise they wouldn’t know what they were here for.

Out they go, in droves, traveling back and forth to headquarters, the bulls walk to and fro. There’s noise of screams in the Ladies’ Toilet, a virgin is lying on the floor, her friend stands over her, what’s that man doing in the Ladies’ Toilet? The girl has cramps, can’t you see that? The bulls smile, have you got your papers, well, all right then, you can stay with her. She goes on screaming, watch out, when the coast’s clear, she’ll get up and they’ll dance the tango together. I say the first guy that touches me gets a hook on the chin, a second would simply be violation of a corpse. The place is almost empty. At the door a man stands between two cops and roars: I’ve been in Manchester, in London, in New York, this never happens in a big city, things like this don’t happen in Manchester or in London. They trot him off. Off with ‘em, how do you feel, thanks, my regards to poor dead Towser.

At a quarter to eleven, when the raid is nearly over, and only a few tables remain occupied in the back where the staircase is and in the corner at the side, a man comes in, although, as a matter of fact, nobody is supposed to come in now. The coppers are energetic and won’t let anybody pass; but here and there a girl peeps in through the window: Say, I’ve got a date, no, young lady, you’ll have to come back at twelve, your sweetheart will be at headquarters till then. The old gentleman has been watching the rumpus that finally occurs, when the cops use their clubs, because more want to get out than can gel into the car. Now the car’s gone, things are less crowded. The man quietly walks through the door, past the two bulls both of whom are looking the other way, because some people are trying to get into the place and are argufying with the cops. Just at this moment, a squad of policemen marches out of the barracks and starts up the other side of the street with a lot of hallooing and hitching up of belts. The gray-haired man walks through the room and asks for a glass of beer at the bar; he gets it and goes upstairs where the woman is still yelling away in the Ladies’ Toilet. As for the others, the few who are left, they laugh and prattle, just as if the whole business didn’t concern them.

The man sits alone at a table, sipping his beer, he looks across the room. Then his foot knocks against something lying on the floor next to the wall; gee whiz, he reaches down, it’s a revolver, somebody got rid of it, not bad, now I’ve got two. One on each finger, and if the Good Lord asks why, I’ll say: I am traveling with a big turnout, all a fellow didn’t get below, he can get above. They’re pulling off a raid here, and they’re right. Somebody had a heavy meal at headquarters and so he said: Let’s pull off a raid, something’s gotta be done that will be headlined in the papers. The higher-ups oughta know we’re on the job all right, and then maybe one of those chaps wants to get an increase in salary, his wife needs a fur coat, and that’s why they nab people and pick out a Friday, when the ghost walks.

He has kept his hat on, his right hand is in his pocket, his left hand also, except when he’s reaching for his beer. A bull with a bristle brush on his hunter’s hat. marches breezily through the room, everywhere there are empty tables, cigarette boxes on the floor, newspapers and chocolate wrappers. Everybody get ready now, the last car’ll be here soon. He asks the old gentleman: “Did you pay up?” The old man grumbles and looks straight ahead: “I jus’ come in.” “Well, you didn’t have to do that, but you gotta come along.” “Jus’ leave that to me.” The bull, a sturdy, squareshouldered fellow, studies him from above, queer the way the man stares into space, he probably wants to start trouble. He does not say a word, but walks Slowly downstairs through the room, and just then the sparkling eyes of the old man strike him, say, but he’s got funny eyes, that one, there’s something wrong with that chap. He walks to the door where the others are standing, and they whisper together, then they all walk out. A few minutes later the door opens. The bulls are coming back. Now for the rest of you, get out, everybody come along! The waiter laughs: “Next time you might take me along, too. I’d like to get a look at your shebang up there.” “Oh, well. in another hour you’ll be busy again, don’t worry. There’s already a few outside, just come back from the first car-load, they want to get in.”

“Outside, sir, you gotta come along.” He means me. When you’ve a sweetheart true, who has given her heart to you, you don’t ask her when and how, if only she’ll kiss you now.

The gentleman does not get excited: “Heh, there, got cotton in your ears? I tell you, you’ve gotta get up.” You were sent me by the spring, my sweet, for until I came to know you, all my art was incomplete. Just let some more of ‘em come along, one isn’t nearly enough, there are five horses to my turn-out.

Three cops are already waiting on the stairs, the first comes up and then the bulls walk through the room. The tall young commissioner leads them, they’re in a hurry. They’ve chased me enough, I did all I could, am I a human being or not?

Then he pulls his left hand out of his pocket, and, without rising from his seat, fires at the first cop who is about to rush furiously at him. Bang, we have settled all our accounts on earth, now we’ll go riding to hell with trumpets, to hell with trumpets and drums.

The man staggers to one side. Franz gets up and wants to move towards the wall: the pack of them rush from the door into the room. That’s nice, hop in, babies. He raises his arm, there’s someone behind him, Franz thrusts him aside with his shoulder, and just then a blow crashes on his hand, another blow in his face, a blow on his hat, another on his arm. My arm, my arm, I’ve only got one arm and they’re gonna smash my arm to bits, what’ll I do, they’ll kill me, first Mieze, then me. It’s no use, it’s no use, nothin’s any use.

And he sinks down beside the railing.

Before he can shoot again, Franz Biberkopf has sunk down beside the railing. He has given up the game, he has cursed his life, surrendered his arms. There he lies.

The bulls and the coppers shove the tables and chairs aside and kneel beside him; they turn him over on his back, the man has an artificial arm, two revolvers, where are his papers, wait a minute, why, he’s wearing a wig. Franz Biberkopf opens his eyes as they tear at his hair. Then they shake him, pull him up by the shoulders and set him straight, he can stand all right, he’ll have to, they put his hat on. Outside they’re all sitting in the car, Franz Biberkopf is being led through the door with a handcuff on his left wrist. There’s a lot of noise in Münzstrasse, a mob, a shot was fired inside, look out, there he comes, that was him. They have already sent the wounded policeman away in an automobile.

This, then, is the car in which at half-past nine the commissioners, criminal police, and female officers, left headquarters, now they are starting back, Franz Biberkopf’s in the car, his angels have left him, as I have already reported. In the lighted courtyard at headquarters the load is discharged. The prisoners walk up a little stairway in the back to a long, wide hallway, the women are put in separate rooms, and those who are discharged, their papers having been found in order, have to pass through the line of bulls, who examine everybody’s chest, pants, right down to their shoes; the men laugh, the re’s a racket going on, a lot of cursing is heard in the corridor, the young commissioner and his officers walk back and forth, pacifying them, gotta be patient. The coppers are posted at the doors, no one can go to the toilet unaccompanied.

Inside officials in civilian clothes sit at their tables questioning the prisoners. They look at their papers, if they have any, then they write on a big sheet of paper: Place of Occurrence, District Court Area, Where arrested, Police Station, 4th Precinct. What’s your name? Details of Arrest. When were you arrested last? Why not take me first, I gotta go to work. Chief of Police, Section 4, Arrested in the forenoon, afternoon, evening: Christian name, surname, calling or vocation, birthday, month, year, where born, no address, was unable to give an address, his statement
re
address proved false after inquiries made in the district. You’ll have to wait till your station has answered, it doesn’t go that fast, they’ve only got two hands, and, moreover, they’ve had people before who gave an address of some kind, it seemed O.K., there was somebody living there by the same name, only when you went there, it was somebody else, he simply had the other fellow’s papers, hooked them from him, or he was his friend, or some other crooked game. Inquiries at the registry office for warrants of arrest, his gray card taken away, no gray card. Documents to be filed with the police report, exhibits concerning this or other misdemeanors, objects with which the suspect might injure himself or others, personal property, cane, umbrella, knife, revolver, brass knuckles.

They bring Franz Biberkopf in. It’s all over with Franz Biberkopf. They have nabbed him. They lead him in, handcuffed. His head is hanging on his chest. They are going to question him downstairs, in the room of the commissioner on duty. But the man does not talk, he is rigid, he often touches his face, his right eye is swollen from the blow with the rubber mace. He quickly lets his arm drop, at which he gets a few more whacks.

Downstairs, across the dark courtyard, those who have been released wander toward the street, arm-in-arm with the girls they wend their way across the lighted courtyard. When you’ve a sweetheart true, who’s given her heart to you, and so here we go, here we go, marching along, from one beer-saloon to the other, singing a song. I testify to the accuracy of the above statement, the signature has been taken, name and service number of the officer who seized the exhibit. To the District Court, Berlin Center, Section 151, Examining Judge 1 a.

At last Franz Biberkopf is introduced and held in custody. This man fired a shot during a raid in the Alexander Quelle, he has also committed other offenses punishable under the criminal code. They found him stretched out in the Alexander Quelle and half an hour later discovered that-in addition to eight other men wanted by the authorities, as well as the inevitable escaped reformatory inmates-the police had made an exceptionally good catch. As for the man who had fallen after the shooting, he had an artificial right arm and wore a gray wig. From this and from his photograph (which was in the records) they quickly established the fact that the disguised man was Franz Biberkopf who had been connected with the murder of the prostitute, Emilie Parsunke, in Freienwalde, and who had previously been convicted of manslaughter and procuration.