Berlin Alexanderplatz

By Alfred Doblin

Berlin Alexanderplatz
Translation by Anne Thompson of Alfred Döblin's masterpiece set in 1920's Berlin towards the end of the jazz and music-hall era of the Roaring 20's.
Franz Biberkopf is released after four years in prison for killing his girl-friend in a fit of rage. He makes a vow that he will go straight and lead a decent life, but his corrupt environment makes it impossible and despite all his efforts he is plunged step by steps into the louche world of gangsters, prostitutes and pimps.
Anne Thompson's translation captures the atmosphere of cosmopolitan Berlin towards the end of the Weimar Republic, and of the life of people in the streets of the working-class area of Berlin around the Alexanderplatz square.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326279042

Book preview

Berlin Alexanderplatz

BERLIN ALEXANDERPLATZ

A NOVEL

By Alfred Döblin

Translated by Anne Thompson

frontcover

Dedicated to Manfred Schmitz and Regina Schmitz, who gave me courage and helped me to avoid omissions and errors of interpretation.

My gratitude to Joy Foster whose patience and expertise helped me to smooth out syntactical irregularities.

Cover: Central section of the triptych: Metropolis (Großstadt) by Otto Dix. Reproduction by kind permission of the Kunstmuseum Stuttgart.

Glossary

Biberkopf − literally Beaverhead. A mountain in the Alps on the German-Austrian border.

Berlin place names are in German.

Allee – avenue.

Bahnhof − railway station.

Brücke – bridge: Jannowitzbrücke, Warschauer Brücke.

Chaussee – avenue:  Rummelsburger Chaussee, Lichtenrader Chaussee.

Damm – roadway, carriageway. Many Berlin street names include Damm: Kurfürstendamm, Ostpreussendamm, Sachsendamm.

Ecke – corner: Prenzlauer Ecke.

Kirche – church: Michaeliskirche – St. Michael’s church.

Markt − market, e.g. Holzmarkt  − Timber Market

Mitte - centre (Berlin-Mitte is a district).

Platz − square.

Reichstag – Parliament of the German Reich.

S.Bahn – City railway.

Strasse (Straße) – street.

See – lake:  Müggelsee; sea – Ostsee (Baltic).

Tor – gate: Brandenburger Tor, Rosenthaler Tor.

Alfred Döblin

Berlin Alexanderplatz

The Story of Franz Biberkopf

Contents

First Book 

Tramcar 41 to town − Still not there − The example of Zannovich: A cautionary tale − Aim accomplished: story completed in an unexpected way and the ex-convict gains courage from it − Trend dull, later severe decline, depression in Hamburg, London weaker – A knock-out victory! Franz buys a veal fillet − And now Franz swears an oath to all the world and to himself, that he will always live a decent life in Berlin, with or without money.

Second Book

Franz Biberkopf enters Berlin − Franz Biberkopf starts his search, you have to earn money, man cannot live without money. About Frankfurt pottery market − Hasenheide, Neue Welt Entertainment Complex, if it’s not one thing it’s another, you shouldn’t make life harder than it already is − Stature of this Franz Biberkopf. He’s a match for the heroes of yore.

Third Book

Yesterday on horseback we did start − Today a bullet through the heart − Tomorrow in the cold cold grave, no thanks, we’ll give that one a miss.

Fourth Book

A handful of people around the Alex − Biberkopf is in a stupor, Franz crawls away and hides, Franz doesn’t want to see anything − Franz beats a retreat. Franz plays the farewell march for the Jews − For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; as the one dieth, so dieth the other − Conversation with Job, it’s up to you, Job, you just don’t want it − Yea, they have all one breath, so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast − Franz’s window is wide open, comical things happen in the world as well   − Quick quick quick, then horsey starts to trot again.

Fifth Book

Reunion on the Alex , icy cold.  Next year, 1929, it will be even colder − Nothing for a while, breathing-space, time to get back on our feet − Roaring trade trafficking girls − Franz reflects on trafficking in women, and suddenly he doesn’t want any more of it, he wants something different − Local News − Franz has made a disastrous decision. He does not notice that he is getting into hot water − Sunday April 8th 1928.

Sixth Book

Ill-gotten gains certainly do profit a man − Sunday night, Monday April 9th − Franz is not out for the count and they won’t manage to knock him out − Take courage my weak spirit, stand up on your two feet − Third Conquest of Berlin − Clothes make the man and a different person sees with different eyes − A different person gets a different head too − A different person needs a different profession or no profession at all − And now a girl turns up, Franz Biberkopf’s life is complete again − Defensive warfare against bourgeois society − Ladies’ conspiracy, our dear ladies have their say, Europe’s heart never grows old − An end to politics, but permanent idleness is much more dangerous − The fly crawls upwards, the sand falls off it, soon it will be buzzing again − Forward march, in step, beating of drums and battalions − The fist is on the table.

Seventh Book

Pussi Uhl, the Americans flood in, is Wilma spelled with a W or a V? − The duel begins! Rainy weather − Franz the burglar, Franz is not underneath the car, now he’s sitting up there inside it, he’s made it − Love’s sorrow and its joy − Brilliant prospects for a bumper harvest, but all might not go according to plan − Wednesday August 29th – Saturday, September 1st.

Eighth Book

Franz Biberkopf notices nothing and the world carries on − Things come into the open, the crooks fall out − Keep an eye on Karl the tinner, he’s up to something − The show-down arrives, Karl the tinner is run in and spills the beans − So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun − And behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter − Wherefore I praised the dead, which are already dead − The fortress is completely surrounded, the last sorties are made, but these are only feints − The battle is beginning. We’re riding to hell with trumpets and drums − On Alexanderplatz stands the police headquarters.

Ninth Book

Black Wednesday for Reinhold, but you can skip this chapter − Buch asylum, secure house − Glucose and camphor injections, but finally someone else intervenes − Death sings his slow, slow song − And now Franz hears the slow song of Death − Now we must depict what pain is − Retreat of the evil whore, victory for the great blood sacrificer, drummer and axe man − The hardest part is at the start − O my dear country know no fear, my eyes are wide open, they won’t fool me here − And forward march, and right and left, and right and left.

This book tells of a one-time furniture removal man and cement worker in Berlin, Franz Biberkopf. He has been inside because of things that happened in the past, has been released from prison and now stands in Berlin again and wants to lead a decent life.

He manages it at first too. But then, even though he is tolerably well off, he becomes involved in a real fight against something that comes at him from outside, something unpredictable, a force like Doom.

Three times it goes for this man and disrupts the plan he’s making for his life. It rushes at him, using trickery and deceit. The man manages to pull himself up: he’s still steady on his feet.

The Doom bashes and punches him below the belt. He can barely get up now and he’s almost out for the count.

Finally it torpedoes him with the most monstrous brutality. 

Though steady and upright to the end, our man is now floored. He declares the match lost, can’t continue and seems finished.

But before he puts a complete end to it all, his eyes are forced open painfully in a way that I won’t describe here. It is made crystal clear to him what the reason was. It was him and his life plan, it’s obvious now. His plan seemed nothing special and now suddenly looks completely different, not simple and almost a matter of course, but arrogant and naïve, impudent and yet cowardly and full of weakness.

That terrible thing that was his life acquires a meaning: it has been a kill-or-cure remedy for Franz Biberkopf.

At the end we see the man standing again on the Alexanderplatz, much altered and battered about, and yet knocked into shape.

There are many like Franz Biberkopf made of human flesh and blood who share the same fate as this Franz Biberkopf.  They too ask no more from life than their daily bread and butter. For them it will be worth watching and listening to this.

First Book.

Here in the beginning Franz Biberkopf leaves Tegel prison where his former meaningless life took him. It is hard to find his feet again in Berlin but he does succeed at last and is pleased. So he swears an oath now to lead a decent life.

Tramcar 41 to Town

He stood in front of the gate of Tegel prison and was free. Yesterday he had still been at the back hoeing the potato fields with the others, dressed in prison clothing. Now, dressed in a yellow summer coat, he was leaving, they were at the back hoeing, and he was free. He let tram after tram run past; he pressed his back against the red wall but did not move. The guard at the prison gate strolled by him a few times, showed him his tramcar; he did not go. The dreadful moment had come (dreadful, Franzie, why dreadful?) the four years were up. The black iron wings of the gate he had been looking at with growing reluctance for a year (reluctance, why reluctance Franz?) had closed behind him. He had been cast out again. Inside the others were sitting, doing carpentry, varnishing, sorting, gluing, two more years, five more years in front of them. He was standing at the tramway stop.

The punishment is beginning.

He shook himself, swallowed. He trod on his own toes. Then he took a run at it and was sitting in the car. Among people. Off he went. At first it was like being at the dentist’s: the dentist has taken hold of a root with his tweezers and pulls; the pain increases and your head feels like bursting. He turned his head round towards the red wall but the tram roared past on the tracks, taking him with it. Then only his head was facing in the direction of the prison. The coach went round a bend and trees and houses blocked his view. Bustling streets appeared, Seestrasse now, and people were getting on and off. Inside him was a scream of horror: watch out, watch out, it’s all starting. The tip of his nose was cold as ice, above his cheeks his head was spinning. The Mail at Midday, BZ, Newest Illustrated Magazine, Radio Times – latest edition. Any more fares? The cops have blue uniforms now. Unnoticed he got out of the tramcar again, and was among people. What was up? Nothing. Stand up straight you scrawny bugger, pull yourself together or you’ll feel my fist. A crowd of people, what a swarm. How the swarm moved. There’s probably no slush left in my brain, it’s probably completely dried out. What was it all? Shoe shops, milliners, electric lamps, bars. People have to have shoes if they run around as much as this, we had a cobbler’s shop too and we should remember that. A hundred shiny window panes, well let them sparkle for they won’t frighten you, you can smash them to bits; what’s wrong with them then, they’ve only been cleaned till they shine. The cobbles on Rosenthaler Platz were being torn up, and he walked on wooden planks among all the other people. You mix with the crowd and it all vanishes, you don’t notice anything, my lad. In the shop windows stood figures in suits and coats, with skirts, stockings and shoes. Outside everything was moving, but behind it all was nothing! It – was – not – alive! The swarm had jolly faces, there was laughter, they waited in two’s or three’s on the traffic island opposite Aschinger’s, smoking, flicking through newspapers. And standing there like lamp-posts getting stiffer and stiffer. They merged with the houses, all white, all made of wood.

Terror struck him as he went down Rosenthaler Strasse and a man and woman were sitting right in the window, pouring beer out of pint pots down their gullets. Well what was wrong with that – they were just having a drink, they had forks and were stabbing pieces of meat into their mouths with them, then they pulled the forks out again and they weren’t bleeding. Oh, his body was knotting up, I can’t stop it, where shall I go? The answer came: punishment.

He couldn’t go back, he had come so far in the tram to get here, he had been released from prison and had to get back into this place and get inside it even deeper.

I know, he sighed to himself, that I have to get in here, that I’ve been let out of jail. They had to let me go, I’d served me sentence, there has to be a proper system, the bureaucrat has to do ’is job. And I will go back into it all, but I don’t want to, oh God, I can’t.

He drifted up Rosenthaler Strasse past Tietz’s department store and turned off in a narrow street, Sophienstrasse. This street is dark, he thought, and it’ll be better where it’s dark. The prisoners are held in solitary confinement, in single cells, or shared cells. In solitary confinement the prisoner is always kept separate from other prisoners, day and night. Confinement to cell means that the prisoner is held in a cell but is brought into contact with others in the exercise yard, during prison lectures and at church service. The tramcar hurtled on, bell clanging, house front after house front streamed past endlessly. And there were roofs on the houses, there were roofs floating on top of the houses; his eyes wandered upwards: if only the roofs didn’t slide off; but the houses stood up straight. Where is there to go for a poor devil like me; he trudged along the walls of the houses, there was no end to them. What a prat I am, of course I’ll be able to find a way through, in five, ten minutes, you’ll be drinking a brandy and sitting down. The sound of the bell is the signal to begin work immediately. Breaks may be taken only during the prescribed period for meals, exercise, lectures. During prison exercise prisoners are to keep arms outstretched and move them forwards and backwards.

There was a house; he turned his eyes from the cobblestones, he pushed open a front door, and a sad droning sound came from his breast, oh, oh. He wrapped his arms round himself, there me lad you won’t be cold here. The door of the yard opened, somebody shuffled past him, came and stood behind him. He was groaning now, it did him good to groan. The first time in solitary he had always groaned like this and had been glad to hear his own voice, you’ve still got something left in you, you’re not done for yet. In the cells a lot did it, a few at first, others later on when they felt lonely. They started doing it then, it was something human they had left, it comforted them. So the man stood in the courtyard entrance, he did not hear the terrible din from the street, the insane houses did not exist. He pursed his lips and grunted to give himself courage, his fists clenched in his pockets. He hunched his shoulders in the yellow summer coat, to protect himself.

A stranger had come and stood next to the ex-convict, watching him. He asked: Is something the matter with the gentleman, are you not well, are you in pain? until he noticed him and stopped grunting at once. So are you ill, sir, do you live here in the house? He was a Jew and had a full red beard, a small man in an overcoat, a black velveteen hat on his head, a stick in his hand. No I don’t. He had to get out of that entrance. The entrance had been fine and now the street was starting again, the house fronts, the shop windows, the figures scurrying past, one per second, wearing trousers or light-coloured stockings, all in such a hurry, so brisk. And since he had made up his mind to, he went into another entrance where the gates were just being flung open to let a carriage through. Then quick, into the house next door, into a narrow hall near the bottom of the stairs. No carriage could come here. He held tightly onto the banister rail. And as he was holding on he knew that he wanted to get away from this punishment (oh, Franz, what are you trying to do, you won’t be able to do it), he would definitely do it, he already knew where there was a way out. And softly he began his music again, the grunting and humming, and I won’t go into the street any more. The red-bearded Jew came into the building again without at first noticing the man at the banister rail. He heard him humming. So tell me, sir, what are you doing here? You are not well? He let go of the rail and went towards the yard. As he took hold of the wing of the gate he saw it was the Jew from the other building. Clear off! What are you after? Oh, oh, nothing. You are groaning and moaning so much, it will be permitted to ask how you are. And through the crack in the door yet again the same old houses out there, the teaming crowds of people, the sliding roofs. The freed man pulled open the door of the yard, with the Jew behind him. Now, now, whatever happens it won’t be that bad. You won’t end up in the gutter. Berlin’s a big place. Thousands live here so surely there’s room for one more.

A high dark yard. He was standing near the dustbin. And suddenly he burst into song, singing at the walls. Like a man with a hurdy-gurdy he took his hat from his head. From the walls the sound was thrown back. Fine. The sound of his voice filled his ears. He sang with such a loud voice which would never have been permitted in prison. And what was it that he sang, that re-echoed from the walls? The Call resounds like Thunder’s Crash.¹ Warlike, strong and powerful. And then Tralalalalalala right out of a song. No-one took any notice. The Jew was at the gate to meet him: Sir, you sang beautifully. Really you sang beautifully. You could earn gold with a voice like the one you have. The Jew followed him along the street, took him by the arm, pulled him along, talking constantly, until they turned into Gormannstrasse, the Jew and the big raw-boned fellow in the summer coat who kept his lips pressed together as if he was about to vomit bile.

Still not there

He led him into a little room where an iron stove was burning and sat him on the couch. Now there you are, sir. You are welcome to sit down. Keep on your hat or put it down there, as you wish. I only want to bring someone you will like. You see, myself I do not live here. Here I am a guest only, like you. So it iss, one guest brings another one if only the room iss warm.

The ex-prisoner sat there, alone. The Call resounds like Thunder’s Crash, the waves that pound the swords that clash.¹ He was on the tram, looking out of the side window, the red walls were visible among the trees, it was raining bright foliage. The walls stood before his eyes, he watched them from the sofa, stared at them. We are very lucky to live within these walls, you know when the day begins and how it will continue. (Franz, lad, surely you don’t want to hide, you’ve been hiding for the past four years, buck up, look around you, you have to put a stop to this hiding some time). All singing, whistling, making a noise, is banned. When the morning signal strikes, prisoners are to rise immediately, put their beds in order, wash, comb their hair, clean their clothes and get dressed. An adequate amount of soap is to be distributed. Bang, it struck, get up, bang, five thirty, bang, six thirty, doors open, bang, bang, we’re going out, distribution of morning collation, time for work, break time, bang, bang, bang, noon. Now boy, wipe that sullen look off yer mug, you’ve not come ’ere to get fattened up, report to me all them who were singing, the singers line up at five forty, I’ll keep reportin’ till I’m hoarse, six o’clock, lock up, day’s ended, we’ve achieved nothing. We’re very lucky to live within these walls, they’ve ground me into the dirt, I practically murdered someone but it were only manslaughter, GBH resulting in death, not that bad, I’d turned into a right villain, a thug, not far short of a bum.

A tall, long-haired old Jew with a little black cap on the back of his head, had been sitting opposite him for a long time. In the town of Shushan there once dwelt a man named Mordecai who brought up Esther, his uncle’s daughter; but the girl was beauteous of form and fair to behold.² The old man looked away from him, turned his head back towards the red-bearded man: From where did you get him? He wass running from house to house. In one yard he wass standing there and singing. Singing? War songs. He will feel cold. Perhaps. The old man observed him. On the first day of the feast Jews may not attend to a dead body, this applies also to Israelites on the second day of the feast, and the same applies to both days of the New Year. And who is the author of the following teaching of the Rabbanan: if a man eat of the carrion of a pure bird, then he is not impure; but if he eat of the entrails or the crop, is he then not impure? With his long yellow hand the old man felt for the freed man’s hand, which lay on the coat: You, sir, will you take off your coat? It iss hot here. We are old people and are cold all the year, but for you it will be too hot."

He sat on the sofa, he peered down at his hands, he had gone from yard to yard through the streets, you had to see where to get your hands on something in this world. And he tried to get up, go out of the door, his eyes searched in the dark room to find the door. Then the old man pushed him back onto the sofa: Now stay there, sir, what do you want? He wanted to leave. But the old man was holding him by the wrist and gripped it tight: We will see who iss stronger, you or I. Please sit there when I say so. The old man cried: Now you will stay sitting. You will hear what I say, young fellah. Now pull yourself together you rogue. And to the red-bearded Jew, who was holding on to the man by the shoulders: So go both of you, out of here. Did I call for you? I’ll take charge of him.

What did these people want from him? He wanted to leave, he struggled to stand up, but the old man pushed him down. Then he shouted: What are you two doing with me? Curse then, you’ll be cursing even more soon. You’ve got to let me go. I’ve got to get out. Perhaps into the street, into the yards perhaps?

Then the old man got up from his chair and stormed up and down the room: Let him shout as much as he wants. So let him do this thing or that. But not in my house. Open the door for him. What iss the matter, others are shouting in your house. Bring no people into my house who make a noise. My daughter’s children are sick, they are lying there at the back. There iss already noise enough. Oh, oh, how unfortunate, I didn’t know, do please all forgive me. The red-bearded man took the man’s hands: Come with me. The Rabbi has his house full. The grandchildren are sick. Let us move on. But the man did not want to get up. Come. He had to get up. Then he whispered: Don’t pull me. Just leave me ’ere. He hass his house full, you heard that. Just leave me ’ere.

Eyes blazing, the old man looked at this stranger who was pleading with him. Thus spake Jeremiah: we would have healed Babylon, but she is not healed: forsake her, and let us go every one into his own country. A sword is upon the Chaldeans and upon the inhabitants of Babylon.³ If he is quiet he may stay with you. If he is not quiet then he must go. Good, good, we will make no noise. I’ll sit by him, you can depend on me. The old man swept out without a word.

The example of Zannovich: A cautionary tale

So the ex-prisoner in the yellow summer coat sat on the sofa again. Sighing and shaking his head, the red-bearded man walked up and down the room. Now do not be angry because the old man was so fierce. Are you a stranger in town? Yes, I am – I was. The red walls, lovely walls, cells, he could not help staring at them longingly, he jammed his back against the red wall, a clever man built it, he wasn’t going away. And the man slid like a doll down from the sofa onto the carpet, knocking the table aside as he went. What is it? cried the red-bearded man. The ex-prisoner sat hunched over the carpet. His hat rolled near his hands, he thrust his head downwards, moaning: Into the ground, into the earth where it’s dark. The red-bearded man tugged at him. For heaven’s sake. You are among strangers. And if the old man comes. Get up. But he wouldn’t let himself be pulled up, he clutched at the carpet, moaning all the time. Only be quiet, for heaven’s sake. If the old man hears. We’ll get along, the two of us. Nobody’s goin’ to shift me away from ’ere. Like a mole.

And since he could not lift him up, the red-bearded Jew stroked his side curls, closed the door and sat resolutely down on the floor next to the man. He drew up his knees, gazing in front of him at the table legs: Fine. So never mind, sit there. And I too will sit down. It iss not comfortable, but why not. You will not say what is wrong with you so I will tell you a story. The ex-prisoner groaned as he lay with his head on the carpet. (But why does he moan and groan? Because he must come to a decision, he has to find a way forward, – and you don’t know where there is one, Franz lad. You don’t want that old rubbish any more and in your cell you only groaned and hid and didn’t think. You didn’t think, Franz lad). The red-bearded man spoke vehemently: People should not be so full of themselves. They should listen to others. Who told you that you matter so much? God lets no-one fall from His hand, but there are other people too. Have you not read what Noah put into the ark, into his ship, when the great flood came? Of every living thing, a couple. God forgot none of them. Not even the lice on your head did He forget. All dear and precious to Him they were. Down on the floor the man whimpered. (It costs nothing to whimper, even a sick mouse can whimper).

The red-bearded Jew stroked his cheeks; he let the man whimper: There is much on this earth, there is much to tell when you are young and when you are old. So I will tell you now the story of Zannovich, Stefan Zannovich. You will not yet have heard it. If you are getting better now, then sit up a little. The blood rises to a person’s head, it is not healthy. My late belovèd father told us many stories, he travelled much, as did many people of our race, he reached the age of seventy, and he died after our late mother died, he knew much, a clever man. There were seven of us hungry mouths, and when there wass nothing to eat he told us stories. They do not make you full but make you forget. The dull moaning down on the floor continued. (Moan. Even a sick camel can do that). Nu nu, we know that in the world there iss not only gold, beauty and pleasure. And who was this Zannovich, who wass his father, who were his parents? Beggars, like most of us, small shopkeepers, traders, wheelers and dealers. Old Zannovich came from Albania and he went to Venice. He knew why he went to Venice. Some leave the town for the country and others leave the country for the town. In the country it iss quieter, people turn everything over and over, you can talk for hours, and if you’re lucky you will have earned a few pennies. Now in town it is hard too, but people stand closer together and have no time. If not one thing it is another. They have no oxen, they have fast horses with coaches. Now you win, now you lose. That old Zannovich knew. First he sold what he had with him, and then he took some cards and played cards with people. He wass not an honest man. His money-spinner was that people in town have no time and want to be entertained. He entertained them. It cost them serious money. A cheat, a card-sharp was old Zannovich, but he had a head on his shoulders. The peasants had given him a hard life, here life was easier. It went well for him. Until somebody thought he’d been diddled. Nu, Zannovich had not expected that just then. It came to blows, police, and in the end old Zannovich with his children had to make himself scarce. The law of Venice was after him, the old man decided he’d rather have no discussion with the law, they don’t understand me, and they couldn’t apprehend him either. He had horses and money with him and he settled down again in Albania, bought an estate, a whole village, sent his children to colleges. And when he was very old he died peacefully as a highly respected man. That was the life of old Zannovich. The peasants wept for him, though he could not abide them because he always remembered the time when he used to stand in front of them with his trashy knick-knacks, rings, bangles, coral necklaces, and they turned them over and over and fingered them and in the end they went away and left him standing there.

You know, if the father iss a sapling, he wants that his son should be a tree. If the father is a stone his son must be a mountain. Old Zannovich said this to his sons: I wass nothing here in Albania all the time when I wass a hawker, for tventy years, and why not? Because I didn’t take my brains where they should have been. I am sending you to college in Padua, take coach and horses, and ven you have done studying, think of me and of the sorrow I had, together with your mother, and with you as well, and who slept with you in the forest, like a wild boar: it wass all my own fault. The peasants had sucked me as dry as a failed harvest, I would have perished, I went among men and did not perish."

The red-bearded man laughed to himself, waggled his head, rocked his torso. They sat on the carpet on the floor: If somebody comes in now he will think us crazy: we have a sofa and are sitting in front of it on the floor. Well, if you like, if that is what you want. Young Zannovich, Stefan, was a fast talker already as a young man of twenty years. He was as slippery as an eel, could charm people, he knew how to sweet-talk women and how to be smooth with the men. In Padua the nobility learn from the professors, Stefan learned from the nobility. They were all good to him. And when he came home, to Albania, his father was still alive, was very pleased with him, liked him too, and said: You lot, look at him, this iss a man of the world, he won’t spend tventy years trading with the peasants like I did, he’s tventy years ahead of his father." And the young whipper-snapper stroked his silken sleeves, pushed his lovely curls from his brow and kissed his happy old father. ‘But father, you sir already spared me those twenty terrible years.’ ‘They should be the best years of your life, lad,’ observed the old man and stroked and fondled his pet lamb.

And young Zannovich got on miraculously well, though it was no miracle. There were people flocking to him from all directions. He held the key to every heart. He went to Montenegro, went on a journey as a fine gentleman with coaches, horses and servants, his father took pleasure seeing his son so grand, – the father a sapling, the son a tree, – and in Montenegro they addressed him as count and prince. They would not have believed him if he had said: My father is called Zannovich, we live in Pastrovich, in a village, of which my father is very proud! They would not have believed him, so he presented himself as a nobleman from Padua, and looked like one, and he knew them all too. And Stefan laughed and said: Your will be done. And passed himself off as a rich Pole, which they had taken him for themselves, as Baron Warta, and they were very pleased and he was very pleased."

The ex-con had sat up with a sudden jerk. He crouched on his knees and eyed the other man from above. And with an icy look he said: You stupid ape. The red-bearded man retorted contemptuously: So I’ll be an ape. Then an ape knows more than many a human being. The other man was compelled to get down onto the floor again. (You ought to feel sorry, lad; face up to what’s happened; work out what you need to do!)

"So we can continue talking then. There is still much to learn from other people. Young Zannovich wass on this path, and so it continued. I never knew him, and my father never knew him, but you can imagine him. If I ask you, sir, you who call me an ape – no creature on God’s earth should be despised, they give us of their flesh and bestow on us many other blessings, think only of a horse, a dog, a songbird; I have seen apes only at the fair, they must perform tricks, are chained up, a bitter fate, no human has one so hard –, now, I wish to ask you, sir, I cannot call you by name since you do not tell me your name, how did Zannovich come so far, the young one also the old one? You are thinking, they had brains, they were clever. Others have been clever and did not get so far at eighty as did Stefan at tventy. But the main things about a human being are his eyes and his feet. You must be able to see the world and go to it.

So hear what Stefan Zannovich did when he saw the people and knew how little need there is to fear people. Just see how they make smooth one’s path, how they almost show blind people the way. What they wanted of him: You are Baron Warta. Fine, said he, then Baron Warta I am. That was later not enough for him, or not for them. If a Baron already, why stop there? Well in Albania is a famous man, long dead, but they celebrate him as a nation celebrates its heroes, his name was Skanderbeg. If he could have, Zannovich would have said he himself was Skanderbeg. Since Skanderbeg was dead, he said: I am a descendant of Skanderbeg, he put on airs, was called Prince Castriota of Albania, he’ll make Albania great again, his retinue awaits him. They gave him money so he could live as befits a descendant of Skanderbeg. He gave pleasure to people. They go to the theatre and listen to clever things which they find pleasant. They pay for it. They can pay for it too, since their pleasant things take place in the afternoon or morning, and since they can take part in them too."

And the man in the yellow summer overcoat sat upright again, his face gloomy and puckered, looked down at the red-bearded man, cleared his throat, his voice was changed: Tell me, you, mister, someb’dy bashed you over the head? Cracked, aren’t you? Cracked, maybe. One minute I’m an ape, then I’m a crackpot. And what are you doin’, you, sat ’ere spouting this drivel at me. So who is sitting on the floor and will not get up? I? And a sofa standing behind me? Well, if it troubles you then I will stop talking.

Then, looking around the room at the same time, the other man drew up his legs and sat down with his back against the sofa and his hands leaning on the carpet. Like that you are sitting more comfortably. And now why don’t you start off by shuttin’ up with all that rubbish? If you wish. I have told this tale already very often, it does not matter to me. If it does not matter to you. But after a while the other man turned his head towards him again: Don’t mind if you carry on with it. Now you see. We tell stories and talk to each other, so we pass the time more pleasantly. I wanted only to open your eyes for you. This Stefan Zannovich you have heard about, he received money, could travel to Germany, so much of it there wass. They did not unmask him in Montenegro. To be learned from Stefan Zannovich is that he understood himself and other people. He was innocent as a new-born lamb. And look, he had so little fear of the world: the greatest, the most powerful people who exist, the most dreadful people, they were his friends: the Saxon Elector, the Crown Prince of Prussia who was later a great war hero, before whom that Austrian woman, the Empress Theresa, trembled on her throne. Zannovich did not tremble before him. And when Stefan then went to Vienna and came across people who were on his trail, the Empress herself raised her hand and said: Set the lad free!

Aim accomplished: story completed in an unexpected way and the ex-convict gains courage from it

The other man laughed, he bellowed from the sofa: What a bunch of loonies you are. You could go and be clowns in a circus. The red-bearded man chuckled too. Now you see. But hush, the old man’s grandchildren. Shall we perhaps sit on the sofa though? What do you think. The other man laughed, crawled upwards and sat down in one corner of the sofa with the red-bearded man in the other. It’s softer sitting here, you don’t crush your coat so much. From his corner the man in the summer overcoat stared at the red-bearded man: I ’aven’t come across a joker like you in ages. The red-bearded man said calmly: Perhaps you were just not looking, there are still some left. You have made your coat dirty, no-one wipes his feet here. The ex-con, a man in his early thirties, had cheerful eyes, his face was brighter: Come on, tell us what business are you in then? You living on the moon? Nu, that is fine, ve shall now talk about the moon.

A man with a frizzy brown beard had been standing at the door about for five minutes. He now went up to the table, sat down on a chair. He was young and wore a black velveteen hat like the other Jew. His hand cut a circle in the air, his shrill voice rang out: Who is that one and what are you doing with him? And what are you doing here, Eliser? I don’t know him, he will not tell me his name. Did you tell him stories? Hass it anything to do with you? The brown-bearded one to the con: Did he tell you stories, him? He does not speak. He walks about and he sings songs in the yards. So let him go. What iss it to you what I do? I listened at the door, heard it all. You told him about Zannovich. What else do you do but tell stories and more stories. The outsider growled and stared at the brown-bearded man: And what right do you think you’ve got to stick your nose into ’is business? Did he tell you about Zannovich or not? Yes he did. My brother-in-law Nachum goes around everywhere telling story after story, and he just can’t help himself. I did not call upon you for anything. Can you not see he iss not well, you wicked man. So he iss ill. God did not make you responsible, just look – God waited until he came. Alone God could not help. You wicked man. Keep away from this one. He will have told you how Zannovich and maybe others have had good fortune in this world. Will you not go away soon? Listen to the cheat, the do-gooder. Wants to talk to me. Is it his house? Nu, what have you been saying again about your Zannovich and how you can learn from him? You should have been a rabbi here with us. We would have filled you up. I do not need your charity. The brown-bearded man shouted again: And we do not need spongers who hang on to our coat-tails. Did he also tell you what finally became of hiss Zannovich, in the end? Wretch, you wicked man. Hass he told you about it? The prisoner peered wearily at the red-bearded man who shook his fist and walked towards the door, he growled after the red-bearded man: Hey, you, don’t run away, don’t upset yourself, just let him go on talkin’ rubbish.

Then the brown-bearded man shouted at him, gesticulated with his hands, shuffled to and fro, clicking his tongue, jerking his head, a different expression on his face every minute, sometimes addressing the outsider, sometimes the red-bearded man: He drives people crazy, meshugga. Let him tell you what an end it came to with hiss Stefan Zannovich. He will not tell you, and why will he not tell you, why not, I ask. Because you are a wicked man, Eliser. A better one than you are. They hounded him (eyes bulging terribly, the brown-bearded man raised both hands in disgust) out of Florence like a thief, his precious Zannovich. And why? Because they found him out. The red-bearded man placed himself threateningly in front of him, the brown-bearded man waved him away: Now I will talk. He wrote letters to some princes, a prince gets many letters, from the handwriting one cannot tell what a person is. Then puffed up with pride, he went to Brussels as the Prince of Albania and got mixed up in high level politics. It was his unlucky star which told him to do it. He goes to the government, imagine, Stefan Zannovich, that lad, and promises them if there’s a war, who knows with who, one hundred thousand men, or two hundred thousand, doesn’t matter, the government writes a note, thank you, we don’t engage in shaky transactions. Then the unlucky star told him also: take the letter and use it to borrow money. You’ve had a letter from the minister addressed: His Majesty, Prince of Albania, His Highness, His Most Noble Highness. They lent him money, and then the swindler was done for. And how old was he? Thirty years, he didn’t get more than that as punishment for his misdemeanours. He couldn’t pay the money back, they prosecuted him in Brussels and there everything came out. Your hero, Nachum! Did you tell him about his dismal end in prison where himself he slit hiss veins? And when he wass dead – a fine life, a fine end, you have to tell him about it –, afterwards the hangman came, the man with his knacker’s cart for collecting dead dogs and horses and cats, loaded him, Stefan Zannovich, on it, and threw him out at the gibbet outside town and scattered refuse from the town on top of him.

The man in the summer coat stood there with his mouth open: Is that true? (a sick mouse can groan too). The red-bearded man had counted every word that his brother-in-law screamed out. He waited as if for a cue, his index finger raised in front of the brown-bearded man’s face, and poked him on the chest now and spat on the floor in front of him, pah, pah: That’s for you because you are what you are. My brother-in-law. The brown-bearded man floundered to the window: So, now you speak and say it iss not true.

The walls were no longer there. A tiny room with a hanging lamp. Two Jews were running around, a brown-bearded man and a red-bearded man, with velveteen hats on, bickering at one another. He ran after his friend, the red-bearded man: You, listen, is it right what he told me about the man and how they put him in clink and ’ow they killed him? The brown-bearded man shouted: Killed, did I say killed? He alone killed himself. The red-bearded man: Yes, he will have killed himself. The ex-con: And so what did they do then, the others? The red-bearded man: Who, who? Well, surely there’ll have been others like him, like Stefan. They won’t all have been ministers and knackers and bankers. The red-bearded man and the brown-bearded man exchanged glances. The red-bearded man: Well, what should they do? Watched, that’s what they did.

The ex-convict, in the yellow summer coat, the big chap, came out from behind the sofa, picked up his hat, brushed it down, put it on the table, then he threw open his coat, all in complete silence, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Here, just you take a look at me pants. This is ’ow fat I was and look how slack they are now, you can get two big fists on top of one another inside here, they’re that baggy, an’ just from being half-starved. All gone. All me pot belly gone for a burton. That’s ’ow they break you, all because you haven’t always behaved like you should. And I don’t reckon the others is all that much better. No, I don’t. It’s enough to drive you barmy.

The brown-bearded man whispered to the red-bearded man: And there you have it. What do I have? A jailbird. So what. The freed man: What it means is you’ve been let out but you’re back inside, right in the muck and it’s the same muck as before. There’s nothin’ to laugh about there. He buttoned up his waistcoat again: You can tell by what they did. They fetch the dead man out of jug, the shit with the dog cart comes and chucks a dead human bein’ onto it, one what’s killed himself, what a lousy animal he is, why didn’t they just do him in straight away, what a wicked way to treat any person, and never mind who it is. The red-bearded man, sadly: What can one say. Then are we worthless just because we did one thing? Everybody who’s been in jail can get back on their feet again, never mind what they did. (Be sorry for what! You’ve got to get some breathing-space. Just let fly! Then it’ll all be behind you, it’ll all be over, the fear and everything). I wanted only to show you, sir: you must not listen to all my brother-in-law tellss you. Sometimes you cannot do all that you wish to, things are sometimes different. That’s not justice, to chuck somebody on the midden like a dog and then to go and tip garbage on top of him and call that justice for a dead man. It stinks. Now I’ll say goodbye to you. Give us your mitt. You mean well and so do you (he squeezed the red-bearded man’s hand. My name’s Biberkopf, Franz Biberkopf. Decent of you to take me in. Me, the cuckoo what sang in the yard. Well, cheerio, that’s it then. The two Jews shook his hands, smiling. The red-bearded man gripped his hand for a long time, beaming: Now are you really well? And if you have time, call in, I will be pleased. Thanks a lot. We’ll see to it, we’ll manage to find time though not the money. And say hello to the old gentleman from before. He’s got a strong hand I can tell, did he used to be a butcher? Oh, let’s just straighten that carpet again, it’s moved a good bit. Oh, no, let me do it all on me own, and this table, there we are. He was doing the work sitting on the floor, laughing up at the red-bearded one from behind: Well, we sat on the floor and told each other stories. Fine seating accommodation, if you please.

They escorted him to the door, the red-bearded man still concerned: And will you be able to walk on your own? The brown-bearded man gave him a dig in the ribs: Don’t just repeat everything he says. The ex-con walked upright, shook his head, pushing the air away from himself with both arms (You have to make some breathing-space, air, air, and that’s all): Don’t you fret yourselves. You can let me go, honest. You did tell me about them ’ands and feet and eyes. I’ve still got ’em. Nobody’s pinched ’em yet. Good morning, gentlemen.

And across the narrow cluttered yard he went, the two of them gazing after him from the steps. He had his bowler pulled down over his face, muttering as he stepped over a puddle of petrol: Filthy poison. Let’s ’ave a brandy. If anybody comes I’ll land him one in the gob. Let’s see where I can get a brandy.

Trend dull, later severe decline, depression in Hamburg, London weaker

It was raining. To the left in Münzstrasse signs were flashing, picture houses. At the corner he couldn’t pass, people were standing at a fence which went a long way deep down, the rails of the tramway ran on open beams, a tram was just going by slowly. Look, they’re building an underground railway, there must be some work going in Berlin. Here was another picture house. Juveniles under 17 not allowed in. On the huge poster a bright red man was standing on the stairs, and a dishy young girl with her arms round his legs lay on the stairs, and he stood there leering down at her. Underneath it said: Parents lost, the fate of an orphan in 6 revealing acts. Ooh yes, I’m off to watch that. The Wurlitzer boomed. Entrance 60 pfennigs.

A man (to the girl at the ticket office): Miss, in’t there owt off for an old army man without a belly? Nay, only for kids under five months with a dummy. Done. That’s how old we are. We’re newborn babes and we want to pay in dribbles and drabs. All right then, fifty, in yer go. A slim youth with a neckerchief wormed his way up behind them: Ooh Miss, a want to go in bur a don’t want ter pay. You don’t say. Go and let yer mam sit you on the po. Well, can a come in then? In where? The picture ’ouse. There isn’t no picture ’ouse here. Ooh, come on, no picture ’ouse here? She called through the window of the ticket office to the doorman: Maxie, come ’ere a minute. There’s a bloke wants to know is there a picture ’ouse here. He ’asn’t got no money. Just show him what there is ’ere. What’s ’ere, young man? An’t yer noticed yet? This ’ere’s the poor box office, Münzstrasse branch. He pushed the slim youth away from the ticket office and raised his fist. If yer like a’ll pay yer out straight away.

Franz pushed his way in. It was the interval just then. The long room was bursting at the seams, 90 per cent men with men in flat caps, they won’t take them off. Three lamps on the ceiling have red covers. At the front a yellow piano with parcels on top of it. The Wurlitzer makes a continual racket. Then it goes dark and the film runs. A goose-girl is to be educated, it’s never made clear why. She wiped her nose with her hand, she stood on the steps and scratched her backside, laughter all round the cinema. It struck Franz as absolutely wonderful when the sniggering started around him. Free people, just folk enjoying theirselves, nobody could say nothin’ against that, wonderful, lovely and I’m right bang in the middle of it all! Then it continued. The fine baron had a mistress who lay down on a hammock stretching her legs straight upwards as she did so. She had drawers on. What a carry-on! And what people made out of dirty little Lisa the goose-girl who licked all the plates. The one with the slender legs flickered on again. The baron had left her alone, now she tipped out of the hammock and was thrown into the grass, she lay there a long time. Franz stared at the screen, another picture was there already, he saw her still tipping out of the hammock and lying on the grass for a long time. He chewed his tongue, dash it all what was that? Then, when a man, the goose-girl’s lover, embraced this posh woman, a warm flush spread over his chest as if he had fondled her himself. It flooded over him and made him weak.

A woman. (There are other things to be had besides trouble and fear. Why am I botherin’ with all this rubbish? Some air, hell a woman!) Why hadn’t he thought of that? You stand at the cell window and look through the bars onto the yard. Sometimes women go past, visitors or children or one coming to clean up for the guv’ner. How they all stand at the windows, the inmates and look, men at every window, gobbling up each woman. An officer once had a 14-day visit from his wife from Eberswalde, before that he had only travelled over to her every 14 days, now she really made the most of the time, at work his head drooped with fatigue, he could scarcely walk any more.

Franz was already outside in the street in the rain. What shall we do? I’m free. I ’ave to ’ave a woman. I just ’ave to. Pleasure is sweet, life outside is great. Now if I can just get a grip on meself and walk. His legs were giving way under him, no ground beneath him. Then, at the corner of Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, behind the market trailers, one appeared, and he went and stood next to her straight away, never mind what she’s like. Blimey, I’m losin’ me nerve, how did