Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (2 page)

He was in a deep dark courtyard. He stood beside the dustbin. And suddenly he started singing in a resonant voice, singing towards the walls. He took his hat off, like an organ-grinder. The echo resounded from the walls. That was fine. His voice filled his ears. He sang in such a very loud voice, he would never have been allowed to sing like that in prison. And what did he sing, that it should echo from the walls? “There comes a call like thunder’s peal.” Martially hard and pithy. And then: “Tra-la-lala-la-la-la,” a bit from a song. Nobody paid any attention to him. The Jew received him at the gate: “You sang beautifully. You really sang beautifully. You could earn gold with a voice like you’ve go!. “ The Jew followed him to the street, took him by the arm, pushed him farther along, talking endlessly all the way, until they turned into Gormannstrasse, the Jew and the raw-boned, big fellow in the summer topcoat with his lips pressed tight together, as if he wanted to spit gall.

Still not There

He led him into a room, where an iron stove was burning, and sat him down on the sofa: “Well here you are. Make yourself at home. Can leave your hat on or take it off just as you please. I just want to get somebody you’ll like. As a matter of fact I don’t live here. Am just a guest like yourself. Well, that’s the way it is, one guest brings another, if only the room is warm.”

The discharged convict was sitting alone. There comes a call like thunder’s peal, like billows’ roar and clash of steel. He was riding in the car, looking out the window, the red walls were visible between the trees, many-colored leaves were raining down. The walls stood before his eyes, he looked at them from the sofa, kept on looking at them. A fellow’s very lucky to live within these walls, he knows at least how the day starts and how it goes on. (Franz, you wouldn’t hide, I hope, four years you’ve been hidden, courage, look around, this hiding will have to stop some time.) All singing, whistling, and noise is prohibited. The prisoners must immediately rise in the morning at the signal to get up, they must put their bunks in order, wash, comb their hair, clean their clothes, and dress. Soap should be issued in adequate quantities. Boom, a bell, get up, boom five-thirty, boom Six-thirty, doors unlocked, boom boom, we go outside, distribution of breakfast, working hours, recreation hour, boom boom boom, noon, don’t make such a wry face, old boy, you’re not going to be fattened up here, singers should step forward, they are to appear at five-forty, I’ll report myself hoarse, at six the doors are locked, good evening, that’s that. A fellow’s lucky to live within these walls, they dragged me down in the dirt, I almost committed murder, but it was only manslaughter, bodily injury with fatal consequences, wasn’t as bad as all that, I had become a great reprobate, a hooligan-almost a real bum.

A big, long-haired old Jew, a little black skull-cap on the back of his head, had been sitting opposite him for a long time. Now in Shushan there was a certain Jew, whose name was Mordecai and he brought up Esther, his uncle’s daughter, and the maid was fair and beautiful. The old man looked away from him and turned his head back to the redbeard: “Where did you pick this one up?” “He was running around from house to house. He stood in a courtyard and he sang.” “Sang?” “War songs.” “He must be freezing.” “Maybe.” The old man looked at him. Jews must not handle a corpse on the first feastday, nor shall Israelites do this on the second feastday; and this applies to both New Years’ days, as well. And who is the author of the following rabbinic teaching: If a man eats from the carcass of a clean bird, he is not unclean; if, however, he eats of the intestines or of the craw, he is unclean? With his long yellow hand the old man groped for the hand of the discharged prisoner lying on the topcoat. “Heh, don’t you want to take your coat off? It’s warm here. We’re old people, we freeze all the year round, maybe it will be too much for you.”

He sat on the sofa, he squinted down at his hand, he had walked from courtyard to courtyard through the streets, gotta look and see where something can be found in this world. And he wanted to get up, walk out of the door, his eyes looked for the door in the dark room. And the old fellow pushed him back to the sofa: “Why don’t you stay, what do you want?” He wanted to get outside. The old man, however, held his wrist and squeezed and squeezed: “Just want to see who is stronger, you or 1. Now are you going to remain seated, or not? You are going to listen to what I am saying, young fellow. Pull yourself together, rascal.” And turning to the red-haired chap who grasped the man by the shoulders: “Get out of here, you. Did I call you? I’ll fix him up.”

What did these people want with him? He wanted to get out, he tried to rise, but the old man pushed him down again. Then he shouted: “What are you doing with me?” “Go ahead and curse, you’ll be cursing more than that.” “You better lemme go. I’ve got to be off” “Into the street again, I suppose, or the courtyard, maybe?”

Then the old man got up from his chair, went rustling up and down the room: “Let him scream as much as he wants to. Let him do as he pleases. But not in my house. Open the door for him.” “What’s the matter, haven’t you got noise here anyway?” “Don’t bring people here who make a noise. The daughter’s children are sick, they’re back there in bed, I got enough noise already.” “Eh, eh, what a shame, I didn’t know, you must excuse me.” The redbeard grasped the man by the hands: “Come along, The Rebbe’s got his house full. The grandchildren are sick. We’ll go somewhere else.” But the other chap did not want to get up. “Come along.” He had to get up. Then he whispered: “Don’t pull. Why don’t you leave me here?” “His house is full up, I tell you, didn’t you hear?” “Just lemme stay here,”

With sparkling eyes the old man looked at the strange man who was now pleading, Thus spake Jeremiah, we would have healed Babylon, but she is not healed; forsake her, and let us go everyone into his own country, A sword is upon the Chaldeans and upon the inhabitants of Babylon.

“If he doesn’t keep still, send him away.” “All right, all right, we won’t make any noise. I’ll sit with him, you can depend on me.” Without a word the old man rustled towards the door.

Instruction through the Example of Zannovich

And so the discharged prisoner in the tan summer topcoat was sitting on the sofa again. Sighing and shaking his head, the redbeard walked through the room: “Now don’t be angry because the old man was so excited. Are you from out of town?” “Yes, I am - I was -” The red walls, the beautiful walls, cells, he couldn’t help looking at them with longing, his back seemed glued to the red wall, it was a clever man had built it, he did not leave. And the man, like a doll, rolled from the sofa down to the carpet. In falling, he knocked the table to one side. “What’s that?” cried the red chap. The discharged convict stooped over the carpet, his hat rolled down beside his hands, he thrust his head downward, moaned: “Down into the ground, into the earth, where it’s dark!” The red-haired man rugged at him: “For God’s sake. You’re among strangers. Suppose the old man should come in. Get up.” But the other one did not let himself be pulled up, he held fast to the carpet, continued moaning. “Just keep quiet, for God’s sake, suppose the old man should hear you. We’ll get along all right.” “Nobody’ll get me away from here.” Like a mole.

And as he could not get him up, the redbeard rubbed the curls on his temples, locked the door, and resolutely sat down on the floor beside him. He drew up his knees and looked at the table-legs in front of him: “It’s O. K. with me. Just stay where you are. I’ll sit down, too. Of course, it’s not comfortable, but what of it? You won’t tell me what’s wrong with you, so I’m going to tell you a story.” The discharged prisoner groaned, his head on the carpet. (Why’s he groaning and moaning? He’s gotta make a decision, that’s why, he’s gotta walk down some road-and, Franze, you don’t know of any road? You’re through with that bunk from the old days, and in the cell too, all you did was groan and hide away, and you didn’t think about anything, Franze.) The red-haired fellow said fiercely: “You shouldn’t bother so much about your own person. You should listen to others. Who told you there’s such a lot the matter with you? God won’t let any man drop out of his hands, but then there are also other people, don’t forget. Didn’t you read what Noah put into his ark, into his ship, when the great flood came? A pair of each. God didn’t forget any of them. Not even the lice on our heads did he forget. All of them were near and dear to him.” The other man was whimpering on the floor. (Whimpering doesn’t cost anything, a sick mouse can whimper. too.)

The red chap let him go on whimpering and scratched his cheeks: “There’s a lot on earth-a man could tell a lot of stories about it, when he’s young and when he’s old. You see, I’m going to tell you the story of Zannovich, Stefan Zannovich. You never heard it. When you feel better, just sit up a bit. The blood goes to your head, it’s not good for you. My late father-God bless him-told us a good deal, he traveled a lot like the people of our race do, he lived to be over seventy, died after our dear mother, knew a lot, a clever man. We were seven hungry mouths, and whenever there was nothing to eat, he told us stories. It don’t fill your stomach, but you forget things.” The muffled groaning below continued. (A sick jackass can groan, too.) “Well, well, we know that in this world there ain’t only gold, beauty, and happiness. Now, who was Zannovich, who was his father, who were his parents? Beggars like most of us, hawkers, peddlers, tradespeople. Old Zannovich came from Albania, and went to Venice. He knew why he went to Venice. Some fellows go from the city to the country, others from the country to the city. In the country it’s quieter, people turn everything around and around, you can talk for hours, and if you’re lucky, you’ve earned a couple of pfennigs. Now, in town, too, it’s hard, but the people live closer together, and they have no time. If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. Got no oxen, but fast horses with cabs. You lose and you win. Old Zannovich knew that. First sold what he had with him and then he took to cards and played with the folks. He wasn’t straight. He made a bizniz out of it, he did, knowing that folks in the city have got no time and want to be amused. He entertained ‘em all rightl It cost ‘em hard cash. A swindler, a cardsharp-that was old Zannovich, but he had a head on him. The peasants made things hard for him, here he made a softer living. Things went well with him. Till one of them suddenly imagined he had been done a wrong. Noo, old Zannovich hadn’t exactly counted on that. It came to blows, the police mixed in, and finally old Zannovich had to scoot with his children. The law of Venice was after him, the old man thought he’d rather have no dealings with the law, they don’t understand me, they couldn’t catch him either. He had horses and money with him and settled again in Albania and bought himself an estate, a whole village, he did, and his children he sent to college. And when he became very old, he died peacefully and respected. That was old Zannovich’s life. The peasants wept over him, but he never could bear them, because he always thought of the time when he had stood before them with his trinkets, rings, bracelets, and coral chains, while they turned them around and around, fiddling with them, and finally went away and left him standing there.

“Y’know, when the father’s a WI plant, he wants his son to be a tree. When the father’s a stone, he wants his son to be a mountain. Old Zannovich said to his sons: ‘I was nothing here in Albania, as long as I went peddling for twenty years, and why not? Because I didn’t take my head where it belonged. I send you to the big school, to Padua, get horses and wagons, and when you’re through studying, think of me, who had many cares together with your mother and you and who slept at night with you in the forest, like a boar: it was my own fault. The peasants had drained me dry like a bad year, and I would have gone to pieces. But I went among people and I didn’t go under.”

The red-haired chap laughed to himself, wagged his head, rocked his body. They were sitting on the carpet. “If anybody should come in now, he might think we’re both
meschugge,
we’ve got a sofa and we sit on the floor. Noo, if we want to, why not? If we only get some fun out of it. Young Zannovich Stefan was already a great orator as a young man of twenty. He could scrape and bow, make himself popular, he could make goo-goo eyes at the women and act noble with the men. In Padua the nobles learn from the professors, Stefan learnt from the nobles. They were all nice to him. And when he came home to Albania, his father was still living, how happy he was about him and he liked him, too, and said: ‘Look at him, there’s a man of the world for you, he won’t trade with the peasants for twenty years as I did, he’s twenty years ahead of his father.’ And the youngster stroked his silk sleeve, brushed his beautiful curls from his brow and kissed his happy old father: ‘But you, father, you spared me those bad twenty years.’ ‘May they be the best of your life,’ said the old man, and patted and petted his youngster.

“And then things went like a miracle with young Zannovich, and yet it was no miracle. Everywhere people rushed to him. He had the key to all hearts. He went to Montenegro on an excursion as a cavalier with coaches and horses and servants, his father was overjoyed at seeing his son a big man-the father a little plant, the son a tree-and in Montenegro they called him count and prince. They wouldn’t have believed him, if he had said: My father’s name is Zannovich, we live in Pastrovich in a village and my father’s proud of it! They wouldn’t have believed him, he appeared on the scene so like a nobleman from Padua, and
he
looked like one, too, and knew them all. Then Stefan laughed and said: ‘You shall have your way.’ And pretended to the people he was a wealthy Pole, which they really believed, a Baron Warta, and then they were happy about it, and he was happy about it, too.”

The discharged prisoner had sat up with a sudden lurch. He was crouching on his knees and slyly watching the other from above. Now he said with an icy look: “Monkey!” The redhead replied contemptuously: “Well, then, I am a monkey. But monkeys know really more than many a man.” The other was forced down to the floor again. (Repent thou shalt; know what has happened; know what is needed.)