Berlin Alexanderplatz

by Alfred Doblin

  “But after a man has experienced much and learned neither to hold fast, nor to go down, nor to die, but to stretch himself, to stretch himself, to feel, not evade things, but to stand straight, with a steadfast soul, that is something. You don’t know, Sarug, how you came to be what you are, what you were, and how it comes about that you are walking with me here, protecting other beings.” “That is true, Terah, I do not know that, my memory is all blotted out.” “It will slowly come back to you. A man is never strong by himself, through himself, alone, unless there is something back of him. Strength must be acquired, you do not know how you acquired it, but you stand there and things which destroy others are no longer dangerous for you.” “But he does not want me, this Biberkopf. You yourself say he wants to shake us off,” “He’d like to die, Sarug. No man has ever made that great step forward, that terrible step, without desiring death. And you are right, that is how most men fail.” “So you have hope for this man?” “Yes, because he is strong and unimpaired, and because twice already he has stood his ground. So let us stay beside him, Terah, I ask that favor of you.” “Granted.”

  A young doctor, a giant of a man, is sitting before Franz. “Good morning, Herr Klemens. You’d better go on a trip, this often happens after a death in the family! You ought to get a change of air, the whole of Berlin will oppress you now, you need another climate. Don’t you want to get a little diversion? You are his sister-in-law, aren’t you, has he anybody to accompany him?” “I can start off alone, if necessary.” “Necessary, I tell you, Herr Klemens, that’s the only thing you can do. Just a little quiet diversion, something to take your mind off this, yes, but not too much of it, otherwise it might have the contrary effect. Always in moderation. There’s still good weather everywhere just now. Where would you like to go?” Eva: “How about a tonic, Lecithin, wouldn’t that be good for him, and then more sleep?” “I’ll write it all down, wait a minute, Adalin.” “I’ve given him Adalin already.” (Don’t want that poison!) “Then you had better take Phanodorn, one pill at night, with peppermint tea. Tea is good, it helps in taking the medicine; and then you might go to the Zoo with him.” “Nope, I’m not interested in animals.” “Well, then to the Botanical Gardens, a little diversion, but not too much.” “Why not prescribe some nerve-tonic to strengthen him?” “We might give him a little opium to raise his spirits.” “I drink already, Doctor.” “No, opium is different. But I’ll prescribe Lecithin, it’s a new preparation, the instructions are written on the label. And then you must take baths, calming baths, of course, you have a bathroom, madame, haven’t you?” “Certainly, Doctor.” “Well, you see, that’s the advantage of these new houses. That’s why we all say ‘certainly.’ It wasn’t like that in my place. I had to have everything installed, had to pay a wad of money, and then getting the rooms painted, you’d be astonished, if you saw it, that’s what we haven’t got here. All right, then, Lecithin and baths, one every other morning. And then a masseur should give his muscles a good kneading, to give his whole body some exercise.” Eva: “That’s right.” “A good massage, you’ll see, you’re going to feel much freer, Herr Klemens. Don’t worry, you’ll feel all right again. And then, travel.” “It’s not easy with him, Doctor.” “Doesn’t matter, it’ll come. Well, then, Herr Klemens, how about it?” “How about what?” “Don’t let your spirits droop, take these things regularly, also this sleeping potion and the massage.” “All right, Doctor; good-bye, and I thank you for the advice.”

  “Now you got what you wanted, Eva.” ‘Til fix up the baths, and the nerve-medicine.” “Yes, go ahead.” “And you’ll stay upstairs till I get back.” “All right, Eva, all righty.”

  Eva puts on her coat and goes downstairs. And a quarter of an hour later Franz goes, too.

  The Battle begins. We ride to Hell with Trumpets and Drums

  The battlefield calls, the battlefield!

  We ride to hell with trumpets and drums. This world no longer interests us. It can go to hell with everything that’s on it and below it and above it. With all its human beings, women and men, with all its infernal scoundrels, I’ll never trust any of ‘em again. If I were a little bird, I’d take a bag of slush, I’d toss it behind me with both feet and away I’d rush. If I were a horse, a dog, a cat, it would be best to drop dung on the earth, and then hustle off, as quickly as possible.

  There’s nothing happening in the world and I’m not itchin’ to get soused again, I might do it, at that, boozing and boozing and boozing, and then the whole lousy show would start all over again. The good Lord created the earth, I wonder if a sky-pilot could tell me why. But still he made it much better than the sky-pilots know, he let us piss on the whole damned show, and he gave us two hands and a rope to use, to hell with the whole she-bang, that’s what we can do, then this hellish racket’s all over, happy days, my blessing to you, we ride to hell with trumpets and drums.

  If I could catch Reinhold, my rage would be over, I would grab him by the neck and break his neck, and not let him live, I’d feel better then, and satisfied, too, that would be the right thing to do, and I’d have peace. But that dirty rat has given me so much trouble, he made a criminal out of me again, he broke my arm, and now he’s laughing at me somewhere in Switzerland. Miserable as a mangy hound, that’s the way I go running around, he can do whatever he wants with me, not a man will help me, not even the criminal police, they want to catch me, that’s all, was it me who killed Mieze, didn’t that crook do it, and he got me in trouble along with him. As the proverb says: The pitcher goes to the well until it breaks. I’ve stood enough, I’ve done enough, I can’t do any more. Nobody can deny that I defended myself. But what’s too much is too much. Because I can’t kill Reinhold, I’ll bump myself off. I’ll just ride to hell with trumpets and drums.

  Who is it standing in Alexanderstrasse, very slowly moving one leg after the other? It’s Franz Biberkopf. What’s he done? Well, you know all that, don’t you? A pimp, a hardened criminal, a poor fool, he’s been beaten, and how-he’s in for it now. That cursed fist that beat him. That terrible fist that gripped him. The other fists hammered at him, but he escaped. A blow fell and the red wound gaped. But it healed one day. Franz didn’t change and went on his way. Now the fist keeps up the fight, it is terrible in its might, it ravages him, body and soul, Franz advances with timid steps, he has learned his role: my life no longer belongs to me, I don’t know what to set about. Franz Biberkopf is down and out.

  It is November, late in the evening, about nine. The fellows are idling around in Munzstrasse, the noise of the street-cars and busses and newsvenders is terrific, the cops, carrying rubber maces, start out from their stations.

  A group of people carrying red flags march along Landsberger Strasse: Awake, ye wretched of the earth!

  “Mokka fix,” Alexanderstrasse, excellent peerless cigars, well-brewed beer in fine mugs, card-playing is strictly prohibited, our guests are requested to watch their overcoats, as we are not responsible. Proprietor. Breakfast from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m., 75 pfennigs, one cup of coffee, two boiled eggs, bread and butter.

  At the coffee-joint, in Prenzlauer Strasse, they cheer and acclaim Franz: “The noble Baron! “ They take off his wig, he unbuckles his artificial arm, then orders a beer, and lays his overcoat across his knee.

  Three men are sitting there with gray faces, and, no doubt about it. they’re convicts, probably escaped. They’re gabbing away like anything, talking a blue streak.

  Well, so I’m thirsty, and I says to myself, why should I walk so far, there’s a cellar, Polacks livin’ in it, I’ll show ‘em my sausage and the cigarettes. They don’t ask me where I got that stuff from, they buy it, and give me the booze. So I leaves everything there, and in the morning I waits till they’re gone and then I slips down to the cellar. I got some hooks with me, everything’s still there, my sausage and the cigarettes, and I blows. Fine business, what d’y say?

  Police-dogs, a lot they kin do. Five of our men flew the coop through the wall. I can tel
l yez exactly how. The walls have metal on both sides, sheet-iron, a quarter of an inch at least. But those babies bore their way through the floor, yep, a cement floor, they dig a hole, workin’ at night, of course, and from there under the walls. And them police-bunglers come along and say we shoulda heard it. Well, we were asleep. How’d we hear anything, and why us?

  Laughter and merriment. Oh happy days, oh glorious days, at our table we sing a roundelay, hip-hip-hip-hurray!

  And later. of course, who’s this comes rolling up? Why, it’s our friend, the police sergeant, First Sergeant Schwab, he wants to put on a lotta airs, and says he’s heard all that day before yesterday, but he was out of town, away on duty, on the q.t. When something breaks loose, they’ve always been away on the q.t. Another mug, me, too, three cigarettes.

  A young girl at the table is combing the hair of a tall blond man who sings: “O Sonnenburg, O Sunny Burg.” When there comes a pause, he starts off, he has to Sing something about the sun:

  “O Sonnenburg, O Sonnenburg, how green are all your branches! This summer I was twenty-nine, but not in Berlin or Danzig did I serve my time, nor in Konigsberg, either, where was it anyway? Don’t you know, you sap, why, in Sonnenburg, in Sonnenburg.

  “O Sonnenburg, O Sonnenburg, how green are all your branches! You’re a model jail all right, where humanity rules from morn till night. There they don’t beat you, don’t razz you, don’t mistreat you, they don’t make life hell for you, there a fellow gets his fill, grub and smokes and beer to swill.

  “Fine feathers in the beds, brandy, beer, and cigarettes. Say, boy, it’s certainly grand, our guards are devoted to us, with heart and with hand, we want to make a present of military boots to the officers, you could give us cigarettes, with heart and with hand, ain’t it grand. Just let us booze, with heart and with hand, we’ll let you sell your military boots and uniforms left over from the war, it’s grand, we won’t have them altered, and you can sell ‘em on the spot, we need the kale, for we are just poor prisoners in jail.

  “There are a few proud comrades who want to give us away, but we’ll break their bones for ‘em, so they’d better think well before they start to bray, or we’ll properly dust ‘em up, and sorry will be the day when we’ll bust ‘em up.

  “Only the warden is a boob, why-he never notices nothin’. The other day a fellow came and wanted to inspect the free penitentiary of Sonnenburg, it disagreed with him. Why it disagreed with him, why it disagreed with him. I’ll tell you all about it now. We’re in the saloon together. Two officers are sitting near and while we enjoy our booze and beer, who should turn up,-yes, who should turn up, yes, who turns up just then?

  “It’s, boom, boom, it’s, boom, boom, it’s the Inspector, what do you think o’ that? Here’s how, say we, long live our li’l Inspector, it’s he, long may he stick to the ceiling, you see, take a cognac and sit next to me.

  “What does the Inspector say? It’s me, the Inspector, boom, boom, make way for the Inspector, I am the Inspector, boom, boom, there he is. I’ll have you all locked up, convicts and officers, you’ll catch something, when I get through with you, when you have to face the music, you’ll feel blue, boom, boom, there he stands, boom, boom, there he is, boom, boom.

  “O Sonnenburg, O Sonnenburg, how green are all your branches! We made hell out of his life, till he ran home to his wife, and took his revenge on her; boom, boom, united they stand, boom, boom, ain’t he grand, boom, boom, the Inspector. Oh boy, now don’t you look like a fool! ah don’t be angry-just keep cool!”

  Brown pants and a black cloth coat! One of them pulls a brown prison coat out of a package. Auction Sale: To the Highest Bidder! All goods at sacrifice prices, brown sales week, a coat to be had cheap, the price of a cognac. Who wants it? Merriment, joy, oh happy days, oh glorious days. Listen, mate, what’s your sweetheart’s name, let’s drink another of the same. Then a pair of canvas shoes, familiar with local conditions of prison life, straw-soled, suitable for escapes, also a bed-cover. Gee, but you shoulda given that back to the old man.

  The saloon-keeper’s wife comes sneaking in and softly closes the door: not so much noise, there are some customers in the front room. One of the men looks towards the window. His neighbor laughs: the window’s out of the question. When things get hot-look! He puts his hand under the table, opens a trap-door below; the cellar, and then you’d better slip quickly across the other courtyard, you don’t have to climb, everything’s smooth sailing. But keep your hat on, otherwise they’ll notice something.

  An old fellow grumbles: “Nice song you sang there. But there are lots of others. Not bad. Know this one?” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, it’s letter-paper, torn in shreds. Somebody had written on it in an unsteady hand: “The Dead Convict.” “But not too sad!” “What d’y mean sad? It’s as true as yours.” “Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry, when you wake, you’ll have a little cake.”

  The dead convict. Poor. yet full of youth’s enchantment, once he walked the righteous highway, sacred were to him things noble, mean things he left on the byway. But misfortune’s evil spirit lurked at life’s turn, him a-spying, held suspect of evil actions in the law’s nets he was lying: (The chase, the pursuit, the damned pursuit, them dirty dogs chased me, how they chased me, they almost killed me. It goes on and on, a man don’t know how to save himself. on and on, on and on, you don’t know, you can’t run fast enough, you run as fast as you can, but in the end they catch you anyway. Now they’ve got Franz, I guess I’ll give up the game, I’m that far gone, well, here’s how, happy days, old boy.)

  All his crying, all his protests, all his rage was idle prating, evidence was dead against him, and the chains for him were waiting. Though the judges were mistaken (the chase, the pursuit, the damned chase), when his sentence they had spoken (how those damned hounds chased me), what availed his guiltless conscience, since his honor’s shield was broken. Man, oh fellow-man, he whimpered, why oppress, why ruin me, did I do you injury? (It goes on, you can’t see your way out. And on and on, you run, you can’t run fast enough, you can just do the best you can.)

  When from prison walls returning, he came back, with outlawed feeling, things were now the same no longer, changed, in dust they found him kneeling. To the river’s bank he stumbled, but he found the bridge was sundered, sick at hean, and full of loathing, back into the night he wandered. All refused to still his hunger (the chase, the chase, the damned chase), bitterness oppressed him starkly, then he yielded to his fury-”Guilty this time,” said Life darkly.

  (Guilty, guilty, guilty, ah, that’s it, you have to be, you had to be guilty, you ought to be guilty a thousand times morel) Such a deed is punished harshly, custom, morals have this meaning, to a cell within the prison back he wandered, sadly keening. (Franz, hallelujah, you can hear it, doomed to be a thousand times more guilty, a thousand times more guilty.) Yes, once more a jump to freedom, murder, robbery, and plunder, and without the smallest pity, tear that Beast, Mankind, asunder! He was gone, but soon in fetters he came back again. How fleeting, was his final drunken revel! And “Life” was the judges’ greeting. (The chase, the chase, the damned chase, he was right; he did the right thing.)

  Now he wailed no more for pity. Let them curse! It doesn’t matter! Mute, he bore the yoke upon him, and he learned to fawn and flatter. Dully he went at his labors, always doing the same thing daily, long his spirit had been broken, like a dead man he walked palely. (The chase, the chase, the damned chase, they’ve kept on chasing me, I’ve always done the best I could, and now I’m down and out, but it’s not my fault, what could I do? My name’s Franze Biberkopf, and it still is, better watch out!)

  And today his course is ended, with the springtime’s golden gleaming, in the sod he’s being lowered, it’s the cell of convicts’ dreaming. Now the prison-bell is ringing its farewell with eerie sadness, to the man who lost his bearings and found death in prison madness. (Look out, gentlemen, you don’t know Franz Biberkopf as yet, he won’t sell himself for anythi
ng in the world, when that boy has to travel to his grave, he’ll have as many friends as he has fingers, friends who’ll have to present him to the Good Lord up above and say: First we’ll come and then it’ll be Franze’s turn. You needn’t be astonished, dear Lord, that he should come with a swell team like that, they chased him about so much, with the result that he now arrives in a handsome turn-out. He was so tiny on this earth, that now he’s in heaven he’s got to show what he is.)

  Around the table they continue to sing and to gossip. Franz Biberkopf has been moping all the time, and now he feels bright and fresh again. He fixes himself up, ties his arm on, lost it in the war, it’s always war with me. War never stops as long as you live, the main thing is to stand on your own feet.

  Franz stands on the iron step of the coffee-joint, out in the street. And it is raining and dripping and pouring, it’s dark, there’s lots of activity in Prenzlauer Strasse. A mob is standing around in Alexanderstrasse, opposite. Cops among them. Franz turns around and goes slowly in that direction.