Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (62 page)

Franz trembles: Not me, and I know it.

Then let them come.

Somebody else is coming right away.

Franz draws himself up still higher, he has clenched his fists.

A loaf to be put in the oven, a giant oven. The heat is terrific and the oven crackles.

Ida! Now he’s gone. Thank God, Ida, you’ve come. He was the biggest crook the world has ever seen, Ida, it’s a good thing you’ve come. He made me mad and got me excited, what do you think of that? I’ve had a lotta trouble and now I’m here, you know where that is, Buch, the Insane Asylum, under observation or maybe I’m already crazy. Come on, Ida, don’t turn your back on me. What’s she doin’? She’s standin’ in the kitchen. Yes, the girl’s standin’ in the kitchen pottering about, probably wiping the plates. But why does she keep on crumplin’ up like that, her side is crumplin’ up as if she had sciatica, as if somebody was kickin’ her in the ribs. Don’t kick her, you fool, that’s inhuman, stop that, oh my, oh my, who’s that beatin’ her, she can’t stand up any more, stand up straight, girlie, turn around, look at me, who’s beatin’ you so terribly?

“You, Franz, it was you who struck me dead.”

Nope, nope, it wasn’t me, look it up in the Court Records, it was only mayhem, it wasn’t my fault. Don’t say that, Ida. “Yes, you killed me, look out, Franz.” He screams, no, no, he clenches his hands and puts his arm before his eyes, but he can see it nevertheless.

Then let it come. Let them come: the travelers, the strangers with potato-sacks slung on their backs, a boy is coming with a pushcart behind them, his ears are freezing, it’s 18 degrees below freezing. Breslau and its Schweidnitzer Strasse, Kaiser-Wilhelm Strasse, Kurfürstenstrasse.

Franz groans: Then I might as well be dead, it’s unbearable, it would be best if somebody came along and killed me, I didn’t do all this, I didn’t know anything about it, he whimpers, stammers, he can’t talk. The guard guesses that he wants something. He asks him. The guard gives Franz a sip of warm red wine; the other two patients in the room insist on his warming up the red wine.

Ida keeps crumpling up, don’t crumple up, Ida, wasn’t I in Tegel for it, I got mine, didn’t I? Now she stops crumpling up and she sits down; she hangs her head, grows smaller and darker. There she lies-in the coffin, and does not - move.

Groaning, Franz is groaning. His eyes. The guard sits beside him and holds his hand. Take that away, somebody move the coffin away, I can’t get up, no, I can’t!

He moves his hand. But the coffin does not move. He can’t reach it, and Franz weeps despairingly, staring dully and despairingly at it. Through his tears and his despair the coffin vanishes. Franz, however, continues weeping.

But, ladies and gentlemen, you who are reading all this, I ask you, why is Franz Biberkopf weeping? He weeps because he suffers, and about his suffering and himself as well. Because he had done all this, because he was like this, that’s why Franz Biberkopf is weeping. Now Franz Biberkopf is weeping about himself.

It is high noon, and the meals are being served in the house. The kitchen-wagon is moving about downstairs, then back to the main building, the kitchen attendants and two patients less seriously ill push it from the annex.

And now at noon, Mieze comes to Franz. Her face is very quiet, calm and gentle. She is in her street-dress with a tight-fitting hat that hides her ears and covers her forehead. She looks very quietly and tenderly at Franz, the way she did when he used to meet her in the street or in the saloon. He asks her to come nearer and she comes nearer. He asks her to give him her hands. She puts both her hands into one of his. She is wearing a pair of kid gloves. Take those gloves off. She takes them off and gives him her hands. Come here, Mieze, don’t be such a stranger, and give me a kiss. Calmly she comes up close to him, looks tenderly at him, so tenderly, and kisses him. Stay here, he says, I need you, you must help me. “I can’t, Franzeken. I’m a dead one, dontcha know that?” Please stay. “I’d like to, but I can’t.” She kisses him again. “Y’know all about Freienwalde, don’tcha, Franz? And you aren’t angry with me, are ye?”

She’s gone. Franz writhes and tears his eyes open. But he can’t see her now. What have I done? Why haven’t I got her any more? Why did I show her to Reinhold, if only I hadn’t started going around with that fellow! What have I done! And now...

A stammering sound comes from his terribly tortured face. She must, she must come back again. The guard who understands only the word “again” pours some more wine into his parched and gaping mouth. Franz has to drink, what else can he do?

The dough lies in the heat, it rises, the yeast thrusts it up, bubbles form, the bread rises, it browns.

The voice of Death, the voice of Death, the voice of Death:

What is the use of all your strength, what is the use of all this being respectable. Oh, yes, oh, yes, look upon it. Know and repent. All that Pranz possesses now surrenders. He keeps nothing back.

Now we must depict what Pain is

Now we must depict what pain and suffering are. How pain burns and ravages. For it is pain that now surges up. Many have described pain in their poems. And every day the cemeteries witness pain.

Now we must describe what pain does to Franz Biberkopf. Franz does not resist, he surrenders and gives himself up as pain’s victim. He lies down in the blazing flame in order that he may be slain, destroyed, and burnt to ashes. Now let us acclaim what suffering makes of Franz Biberkopf. Let us set forth the annihilation achieved by pain. A breaking asunder, a lopping off, an overthrow, a dissolution. That is what pain achieves.

To everything its season. A time to strangle and a time to heal, to cast down and to build, to weep and to laugh, to wail and to dance, to seek and to lose, to rend and to sew. Now is the time to strangle, to wail, to seek and to rend.

Franz wrestles, awaiting Death, merciful Death.

Now, he thinks, Death, the Merciful, the All-Ending One, is coming near. He trembles, as towards evening he lifts himself up again to receive him.

They who cast him down at noon come now for the second time. Franz says: So be it, it is I. Away with you goes Franz Biberkopf, take me away with you.

With a deep shudder, he greets the specter of that wretch Hiders. Evil Reinhold sloshes up to him. With a deep shudder he encounters Ida’s voice, Mieze’s face, it is she, everything is fulfilled. Franz weeps and weeps. I’m guilty, I’m not a human being, I’m just a beast, a monster.

Thus died, in that evening hour, Franz Biberkopf, erstwhile transport-worker, burglar, pimp, murderer. Another man lay in the bed, and that other one has the same papers as Franz, he looks like Franz, but in another world, he bears a new name.

This then has been the fall of Franz Biberkopf which I have tried to describe, beginning with Franz’s discharge from Tegel Prison up to his end in the Buch Insane Asylum during the winter of 1928-1929.

Now I will append a report about the first hours and days of a new man, having the same identity papers as he.

Exit the Evil Harlot, Triumph of the Great Celebrant, the Drummer and Wielder of the Hatchet

Dirty snow covers the fields of the bleak landscape before the red walls of the institution. There is a beating of drums and again a beating of drums. The whore of Babylon has lost. Death is the victor and he drums her away.

The harlot hisses and fusses, drools and screams: “What about him, what can you get out of this fellow, Franz Biberkopf? Preserve him in alcohol, if you want, this funny man of yours!”

Death beats a tattoo on his drum: “1 cannot see what you have in your cup, you hyena. This man Franz Biberkopf is here. I have beaten him to a pulp. But since he is strong and good, he may now start a new life. So get out of my way, our argument is ended.”

But she becomes mulish and keeps on drooling. Now Death makes a move, gets in motion, his huge gray cloak flutters; scenes and landscapes become visible, they are swimming around him, winding themselves about his feet and upwards towards his breast. And screams and shots and clamor and triumph and rejoicing resound about him. Triumph and rejoicing. The beast whereon the woman rides shies and kicks.

The river, the Beresina, marching legions.

The legions march along the Beresina, icy cold, an icy wind. They have crossed from France and the great Napoleon leads them. Roaring wind, flurries of snow, bullets whine. They fight on the ice, they charge and fall. And always that cry: Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor! The sacrifice, the sacrifice-and that is Death!

Rolling of railroads, thunder of guns, bursting hand-grenades, curtain-fire, Chemin des Dames, Langemarck, Dear Fatherland be comfort thine, be comfort thine! Shattered dug-outs, fallen soldiers. Death folds his cloak singing: Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

Marching, marching. We march to war, with iron tread, a hundred minstrels march ahead. Red of morning, red of night, shines on us death’s early light. One hundred minstrels beat the drum, drumm, brumm, drumm, if we can’t walk straight, well walk crooked, by gum, drumm, brumm, drumm.

Death folds his cloak and sings: Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

An oven burns, an oven burns, before an oven stands a mother with seven sons and the groaning of a people is behind them. They shall deny the God of their people. Quietly radiant there they stand. Will you deny and submit? The first says No and suffers tortures, the second says No and suffers tortures, the third says No and suffers tortures, the fourth says No and suffers tortures, the fifth says No and suffers tortures, the sixth says No and suffers tortures, the seventh says No and suffers tortures. The mother stands there cheering her sons. Finally, she, too, says No and suffers tortures. Death folds his cloak and sings: Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

The woman with the seven heads tugs at the beast, but the beast cannot rise.

Marching, marching, we ride to war, a hundred minstrels march before, with fife and drum, drumm, brumm, for one the road goes straight, for the other it goes to the side, one stands fast, another’s killed, one rushes past, the other’s voice is stilled, drumm, brumm, drumm.

Cries and rejoicings. On they march, by sixes, by twos, and by threes, the French Revolution marches on, the Russian Revolution marches on, the Peasants’ Wars march on, the Anabaptists, all march behind Death, and they rejoice behind him, onward to freedom, to freedom they go, the old world must fall, awake, O morning breeze, drumm, brumm, drumm, brumm, by sixes, by twos, by threes, brothers towards the sun and freedom, brothers towards the light, from the darkness of past ages gleams our future blight, get in step, to the left, to the right, to the left, to the right, drumm, brumm, drumm.

Death folds his cloak and laughs and beams and sings: Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

Now Babylon, the Great, can at last pull her beast up onto its legs, it starts trotting, races across the fields, sinks down in the snow. She turns around, howls at the gleaming figure of Death. At her outcry, the beast falls on its knees and the woman sways over the neck of the beast. Death draws his cloak around him. He sings and beams: Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. The field murmurs: Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

The first Steps are the Hardest

In Buch the detectives and doctors question at great length the death-pale invalid who once was Franz Biberkopf, as soon as he has begun to talk and look around; the detectives, in order to find out what he’s been up to, the doctors for their diagnosis. The detectives inform him that a man named Reinhold who played a part in his life, his former life, is in the nets of the police. They talk about Brandenburg, and ask him if he knows a certain Moroskiewicz, and where he is to be found. He has them repeat this several times and keeps very quiet. Now they have left him in peace for a whole day. There is a mower, Death yclept. When he ‘gins his scythe to whet - sharper it grows and sharper yet. Look out, little blue flower!

Next day he made his statement to the Chief of Detectives: he had had nothing to do with that old Freienwalde case. If this man Reinhold says the contrary, then - he is mistaken. This pale man, this wreck of a man, is then asked to produce an alibi. It takes days before this is possible. Everything in the man struggles against walking back along that road. It seems a closed thoroughfare. Groaning, he utters a few dates. Groaning, he begs them to let him be. He looks anxiously ahead of him, like a dog. The old Biberkopf is gone, the new Biberkopf is still sleeping. He does not utter a single incriminating word against Reinhold. We all lie under the same ax. We all lie under the same ax.

His statements are confirmed, they agree with the statement made by Mieze’s gentleman-friend and the latter’s nephew. The doctors get a clearer view of the case. The diagnosis of catatonia moves into the background. It was a psychic trauma, involving a sort of twilight coma, his family history is not untarnished, he’s been on good terms with old John Barleycorn, that’s obvious. When all’s said and done, this fight about his diagnosis is the bunk, the fellow certainly was not a malingerer, he had a bat in his belfry, and it was some bat, and that’s all there’s to it. All right now, that’s that. As for the shooting affray in the Alexander Quelle, he is punishable under Paragraph 51. Wonder if we’ll get him back here again.

This wobbly fellow, whom we’ll call Biberkopf after the dead man, is unaware, as he moves about this house in the capacity of kitchen help, and no questions asked, that a lot of things are still going on behind his back. The detectives are still nibbling at him, what happened to his arm, where did he lose it, where did he receive medical treatment? They make inquiries at the Magdeburg Hospital, but that’s old stuff, still, the bulls are interested in old stuff, even what happened as far back as twenty years ago. As it is, they don’t get anything out of him, aren’t we near the happy end, Herbert’s a pimp, too, the boys’ve all got fine girls, they saddle them with everything and pretend they get their money from them. None of the bulls, of course, believes that, it’s quite possible they gel money from the girls here and there, but in the meantime they work independently as well. About this subject, however, the boys keep mum.