Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (19 page)

Happy pastures, damp warm stable.

The well-lighted butcher shop. The lighting of the store and that of the show-window should be made to harmonize. Predominantly direct or semi-indirect lighting should be used. In general, fixtures for predominantly direct lighting are practical, because store, desk, and chopping block, above all, should be well lighted. Artificial daylight obtained by the use of blue-filter lamps, cannot be considered for butcher shops, because meat always demands lighting under which the natural meat color does not suffer.

Stuffed pig’s feet. After the feet have been well cleaned, they are split lengthways, so that the rind remains whole; then they are laid together and tied with a thread.

-Franz, for two weeks you haven’t stirred out of your wretched room. Your landlady is soon going to give you the air. You can’t pay her, the woman doesn’t rent rooms for the fun of it. If you don’t pull yourself together soon, you’ll have to go to the poor-house. And then what: well, what? You don’t let any air into your hole, you won’t go to the barber, you’re getting a full brown beard, you certainly could dig up the necessary 15 pfennigs from somewhere.

Conversation with Job, it’s up to you, Job, you don’t want it

After Job had lost everything, everything men can lose, neither more nor less, he was lying one day in the cabbage garden.

“Job, you are lying in the cabbage garden, by the dog-kennel. just far enough away so that the watchdog cannot bite you. You hear the gnashing of its teeth. The dog barks at every approaching step. When you turn around, when you want to rise up, it growls, lunges forward, tears at its chains, jumps up, slavers and snaps.

“Job, there is the palace, and these are the gardens and the fields you yourself once possessed. You did not even know this watchdog, this cabbage garden, into which you have been thrown; you did not even know them, nor did you know the goats which are driven past you in the morning and which pull at the grass as they pass by and chew on it and stuff their cheeks full. They belonged to you.

“Job, you have lost everything. You are allowed to creep into the barn at night. People are afraid of your sore boils. You rode in splendor over your estate and they crowded about you. Now you have a wooden fence in front of your nose, with little snails creeping up on it. You may also study the earthworms. They are the only creatures which are not afraid of you.

“Only at times do you open your scale-covered eyes, 0 heap of misfortune, 0 living morass, that you are.

“What tortures you most. Job? That you have lost your sons and daughters, that you do not possess anything, that you freeze in the night. your sore boils in your mouth, or on your nose? Which is it. Job?”

“Who is asking?”

“I am only a voice.”

“A voice comes out of a throat.”

“You think I must be a human being?”

“Yes, and that’s why I do not want to see you. Go away.”

“I am only a voice, Job, open your eyes, as wide as you can, you will not see me.” “Ah, I am raving. My head, my brain, I am now being driven crazy, too, now even my thoughts are to be taken from me.”

“And if this happens, will it matter?”

“I don’t want it to happen.”

“Although you suffer so, and although you suffer so through your thoughts, you don’t want to lose them?”

“Don’t ask questions, go away.”

“But I shan’t take them away from you. I only want to know what tortures you most.”

“That’s nobody’s business.”

“Nobody’s but your own?”

“Yes. Yes. Not yours.”

The dog barks, snarls, bites. The voice comes back after a while.

“Is it for your sons you lament?”

“Nobody need pray for me when I am dead. I am poison for the earth. Men must spit after me. Job must be forgotten.”

“For your daughters?”

“The daughters, ah. They are also dead. They are well off now. They were wonderful women. They would have given me grandchildren, and now they have been carried off. One after the other they fell, as if God had taken them by their hair, lifted them up, and thrown them down so that they broke in two.”

“Job, you are unable to open your eyes, they are glued together, they are glued together. You lament because you are lying in the cabbage garden, and the dog-kennel is the last thing left to you, and your illness.”

“That voice, O voice, whose voice are you, and where are you hiding?”

“I don’t know the cause of your lamentation.”

“Oh, oh.”

“You groan and you don’t know it either, Job .”

“No. I have-”

“I have?”

“I have no strength. That’s it.”

“That’s what you would like to have.”

“No more strength to hope, no desire. I have no teeth. I am soft. I am ashamed of myself.” “That’s what you said.” “And it is true.” “Yes, you know it. That’s the most terrible thing about it.” “So it is already written on my brow. To such tatters have I fallen.”

“That’s it, Job, that’s what you suffer from most. You do not like to be weak, you would like to be able to resist, or rather be full of holes, your brain gone, your thoughts gone, and then become like a beast of the field. Make a wish.”

“You have asked me so many questions, O voice, now I believe you may question me. Heal me, if you can. Whether you be Satan or God, angel or man, heal me.”

“So you are ready to be healed by anybody?”

“Heal me.”

“Job, think it over carefully, you cannot see me. If you open your eyes, perhaps you will be frightened by me. Perhaps I demand a high and terrible price.”

“We shall see everything. You talk as though you were in earnest.”

“But suppose I should be Satan or the Evil One?”

“Heal me.”

“I am Satan.”

“Heal me.”

Then the voice retreated, grew weaker and weaker. The dog barked. . Anxiously Job listened: He is gone, I must be healed, or else I must die. He screamed. A ghastly night fell. The voice came back once more.

“And suppose I am Satan, how are you going to dispose of me?”

Job screamed: “You don’t want to heal me. Nobody wants to help me, neither God, nor Satan, nor angel, nor man.” “And you yourself?” “What of me?” “But you don’t want it.” “What?” “Who can help you, if you yourself don’t want it?” “No, no,” Job stammered. The voice facing him: “God and Satan, angels and men, all want to help you, but you don’t want it. God, for love, Satan, in order to seize you later, the angels and men, because they are the helpmeets of God and Satan, but you don’t want it.”

“No, no,” Job stammered, and shouted, and threw himself about. He screamed the whole night long. The voice called incessantly: “God and Satan, the angels and men, want to help you, you don’t want it.” Job incessantly: “No, no.” He sought to choke the voice, it grew in intensity, grew still more in intensity, it was always ahead of him one degree. All night long. Towards morning Job fell on his face. In silence lay Job.

That day his first sores began to heal.

And they all have the same Breath, and Men have no more than Beasts

Cattle-market supply: Hogs 11,543, Beef 2016, Calves 1920, Mutton 4450.

But what is this man doing with the cute little calf? He leads it in alone by a rope; this is a huge hall in which the bulls roar; now he takes the little animal to a bench. There are many benches side by side, next to each one there is a wooden club. He lifts the delicate little calf with both arms, puts it on the bench, it does not protest as he lays it down. Then he grasps the animal from underneath, takes hold of one hind leg with his left hand so it can’t kick. Now he grabs the rope with which he led the animal in, and ties it firmly to the wall. The animal is patient and still, there it lies, it does not know what is going to happen, it is lying uncomfortably on the wood, it bumps its ‘head against a stick and does not know what it is: but it is the end of the club which is standing on the ground and with which it will soon receive a blow. That will be its last encounter with this world. And sure enough, the man, the simple old man, who stands there all alone, a gentle old man with a soft voice-he talks to the animal-takes the butt-end, lifts it lightly, it does not require very much strength for such a delicate creature, and gives the gentle animal a blow in the neck. Quite calmly, in the same way in which he had brought the animal here and said: Now lie still, he gives it a blow in the neck, without anger, without great excitement, but also without melancholy, no, that’s the way it is, you’re a good animaL you know, of course, that’s the way it has to be.

And the little calf: prr-prr, quite, quite stiff and rigid, its little legs stretched out. The black velvet eyes of the little calf grow suddenly very big, stand stilL are edged with white; now they turn towards the side. The man knows all about that, well, that’s the way animals look, but we still have lots to do today, we must be getting on, and he looks under the little calf on the bench, his knife is lying there, with his foot he pushes the receptacle for the blood into place. Then zzing, the knife is drawn straight across the neck, through the throat, through all the cartilage, the air escapes, the muscles are slashed sidewise, the head is entirely severed, then clatters downward towards the bench. The blood spurts, a dark, red, thick, bubbling liquid. Well, that’s over with. But he keeps on cutting calmly and more deeply, his peaceful expression unchanged, he seeks and gropes in the depths with his knife, pushes through between two vertebrae, it is a very young, soft tissue. Then he takes his hand off the animal, the knife clatters down onto the bench. He washes his hands in a pail and goes off.

And now the animal lies alone, wretchedly, on its side, just the way he tied it. All over the hall there is gay noise, people are working, dragging things around, calling to each other. The severed head hangs frighteningly by the hide, between the two table-legs, running over with blood and saliva. The tongue, thick-blue, is squeezed between the teeth. And terribly, terribly, the animal rattles and groans on the bench. The head quivers on the hide. The body on the bench becomes convulsive. The legs palpitate, jerk; childishly thin, knotty legs. But the eyes are quite fixed, blind. They are dead eyes. This is a dead animal.

The peaceful old man stands by a pillar with his little black notebook, looks across at the bench, and writes down figures. Living’s expensive these days, difficult to calculate, hard to keep going, what with all the competition.

Franz’s Window is open, funny Things, too, happen in the World

The sun rises and sets, there come bright days, the baby-carriages roll along the street, it is February 1928.

Franz Biberkopf with his loathing of the world and his disgust, boozes right into February. He spends everything he has on drink, doesn’t care what’s going to happen. He had wanted to be respectable, but there are rascals and skinflints and four-flushers in the world, and so Franz Biberkopf no longer wants to see and hear anything of the world, and even if he should get to be a real bum, he is going to booze until he’s spent his last pfennig.

February finds Franz Biberkopf still raging, and then one night he is awakened by a noise in the courtyard. In the back there is a wholesale house. He looks down in his woozy condition, opens the window, and shouts across the courtyard: “Get the hell away from there, you saps, you jackasses!” Then he lies down, thinks no more about it, the fellows back there have left in a flash.

A week later, the same thing happens. Franz is about to pull the window open and throw down a chunk of wood, when he remembers: it’s one o’clock now, he’ll take a good look at those boys. What on earth are those birds doing there at one in the morning? What are they up to, do they really belong in the house, let’s have a peep at this!

Yes, that’s it; there is a lot of cautious hustling back and forth going on down there, they glide along the wall, up above Franz is craning his neck. One man is standing at the courtyard door, he’s the look-out, they’re getting ready to pull off a job, they’re tinkering with the big cellar door. Three of them are at it. Funny, they’re not afraid of being seen. Now there’s a creaking sound, the door’s open, they’ve swung it, all right, one of them stays in the courtyard, in the doorway; the other two have gone down in the cellar. It’s mighty dark here, that’s what they wanted.

Franz gently shuts his window. The air has cooled his head off. That’s the kind of thing people do, all day long and even at night, that’s the way they go about their crooked business, I ought to take a flower-pot and lam it down into the courtyard. What business have they got in the house I live in? None at all.

Everything is quiet, he sits down on his bed in the darkness, then he has to go back to the window and look down: what are those fellows after in my house, anyway? He lights a candle, looks for the brandy bottle, and, when he finds it, does not drink. One ball wing’d by death came flying, is it sent for me or thee?

But when noon comes around, Franz goes down into the courtyard. A lot of people are standing around. Gerner, the carpenter, is also there, Franz knows him, they talk together: “They’ve been hooking something again.” Franz nudges him: “I saw the rats, I won’t give ‘em away, but if they come again to this courtyard where I’m living and sleeping and where they got no business, I’ll come down and as sure as my name’s Biberkopf they’ll have to pick up the pieces, even if they’re three of ‘em.” The carpenter clings to Franz: “If you know anything, there are some detectives here, go ahead and talk to ‘em, you might earn something.” “Leave me alone with those fellows. I ain’t never squealed on anybody. Let ‘em do their own work, ain’t they paid for it?”

Franz beats it. While Gerner is still standing there two detectives come up to him and insist on knowing where Gerner lives, that is to say, himself. I’m scared stiff. The man turns pale down to his corns. Then he says: “Let’s see, Gerner, he’s the carpenter, ain’t he, I can show you.” And says not a word, rings his own door-bell, the wife opens the door, the whole bunch piles in after him. Finally Gerner pushes his way through, gives his wife a shove in the ribs, a finger on his lips, she doesn’t know what’s the matter, he mixes in with the others, his hands in his trousers pockets. There are two other men in the party, gentlemen from the insurance company, they take a good look at his home. They want to know how thick the walls are here and how about the floor, they knock on the walls and measure and take notes. As a matter of fact, it’s getting to be a bit thick, these burglaries in this wholesale house, these crooks have some nerve, they tried to break through the wall, because there’s a bell system by the door and on the stairs, they knew that all right. Yes, the walls are dreadfully thin, the whole structure is ramshackle, a kind of magnified Easter egg.