Berlin Alexanderplatz Read online

  Franz Biberkopf quietly shoved his body in the gray-green army coat through the crowd and watched the little women buying vegetables, cheese, and herring from the push-carts. Somebody was hawking onions. People do what they can. Have children at home, hungry mouths, bird beaks, clap open, clap shut, clap open, clap shut, shut, open, shut, open, shut.

  Franz walked faster, stamped around the corner. That’s it, fresh air. He slowed up in front of the big show-windows. What do shoes cost now? Patent-leather shoes, dance slippers, must look swell on the foot, how about a nice WI girl, with dance slippers on. That dumbbell Lissarek, the Bohemian, the old fellow with the big nostrils out there in Tegel, got his wife, or whatever she pretended to be, to bring him a pair of nice silk socks every three weeks, a pair of new ones and a pair of old ones. Makes me giggle. And if she had to steal ‘em, he was bound to have ‘em. Once they caught him with the socks on his dirty legs, what a fool, and now he pipes his legs and gets all worked up looking at ‘em, and his ears get all red, the fellow makes me giggle. Furniture on the installment plan. Kitchen furniture in twelve monthly installments.

  Biberkopf continued walking in a happy mood. Only here and there was he obliged to look at the pavement. He examined his steps and the nice firm asphalt. But then his glance slipped with a jerk up the housefronts, examined them, made sure they were standing still and did not stir, although really a house like that has lots of windows and could easily bend forward. That might get the roofs started, carry them along with it; they are liable to start rocking. They might begin to shake, to rock, to jolt. The roofs could slide down, obliquely like sand, like a hat falling down from a head. Why, they’re all, yes, all of them, standing obliquely over the roof-tree, along the whole row. But they’re nailed down fast, strong beams below and then the roofing, the tar. Firm stands and true, the watch, the watch on the Rhine. Good morning, Franz Biberkopf, here we are walking erect, chest out, back straight, old boy, along the Brunnenstrasse. God has mercy on all men, we are German citizens, just like the prison director said.

  A man with a leather cap and a flabby white face scratched a little boil on his chin with his index-finger, his lower lip hanging out the while. Another man with a broad back and baggy pants-bottom stood leaning over beside him; they barricaded the way. Franz walked around them. The one with the leather cap poked into his right ear.

  He noticed with satisfaction that people were quietly walking along the street, the drivers were unloading, the authorities were inspecting the houses, there comes a call like thunder’s peal, well then, we can walk here, too. A poster kiosk at the corner, on yellow paper there stood in black Roman letters: “Have you lived on the beautiful Rhine.” “The King of Football Centers.” Five men stood in a little circle on the asphalt, swung hammers, split the asphalt, we know the one in the green woolen jacket, that’s sure, he’s working all right, we can do that, too, later on maybe, you hold it tight with your right hand, lift it up, grasp it; then bang, down with it. That’s us, the working men, the proletariat. Right high, left swing, heave, right high, left swing, heave. Danger. Building site. Stralau Asphalt Company.

  He was walking leisurely along the rattling trolley-line, look out, don’t get off while the car is in motion! Wait till the car stops! The cop regulates the traffic, a letter-carrier wants to get across quickly. I’m not in a hurry, just want to go to the Jews. They’ll still be there. What a lot of dirt you get on your shoes, but then they weren’t shined anyhow, for who’s going to shine ‘em, that Schmidt woman perhaps, she doesn’t do anything (spider webs on the ceiling, sour heartburn, he sucked his palate, turned his head towards the window-panes: Gargoyle Mobiloil Vulcanizing, Bobbed Hair Shop, Water Waves, against a blue background, Pixavon, refined tar product.) Wonder if stout Lina could shine his shoes? Now he had already acquired a speedier tempo.

  That crook Lüders, the woman’s letter, I’ll box you a knife in the guts. OLORDOLORD, say, leave that alone, we’ll take care of ourselves, you bums, we won’t do anybody dirt, we’ve already done time in Tegel. Let’s see: custom tailoring, gent’s furnishings, that first, then in the second place, mounting rims on carriage wheels, automobile accessories, important, too, for quick riding, but not too fast.

  Right foot, left foot right foot, left foot, marching slowly in step, don’t crowd, Miss. Careful! Cop and a crowd! What’s that? Make haste and you get laced. Hoohoohoo, hoohoohoo, the roosters crow. Franz was happy, the faces all looked nicer.

  Joyously he meditated on the street. A cold wind was blowing, mixed, according to the houses, with warm cellar smells, native and Southern fruits, gasoline. Asphalt doesn’t smell in winter.

  At the Jews’ Franz sat on the sofa for a whole hour. They talked, he talked, he was wondering, they were wondering, a whole long hour. What was he wondering about, sitting on the sofa, while they were talking and he was talking? That he was sitting here and talking and they were talking, and above all he was wondering at himself. Why was he wondering at himself? He knew and noticed it himself, he established it as an accountant does a miscalculation. He established something in his mind.

  It was decided, he was wondering at the decision which he had arrived at. This decision said, while he looked into their faces, smiled, questioned, answered: Franz Biberkopf, they may say what they please, they’ve got the preacher’s outfit, but they’re not preachers, it’s a caftan; they’re from Galicia, near Lemberg, they’re clever, but they can’t tell me anything. I’m sitting here on the sofa and I won’t do business with ‘em. I’ve already done what I can.

  The last time he had been here he had sat with one of them on the carpet below. Git, skidoo, I’d like to try it. But not today, that’s all over. We sit here nailed on our bottoms and look at the ole Jews.

  Man can’t give any more, he’s not a machine. The eleventh commandment says: Don’t let ‘em bluff you. A nice place, these guys have, simple, in bad taste, and no show. They won’t knock Franz flat with that. Franz can hold his own. That’s over with. To bed, to bed, if you’ve got one, or if you haven’t, you must all go to bed, to bed. We won’t work any longer. The old boy’s gone on a strike. When the pump gets stuck in the sand you can work on the old thing as much as you want. Franz gets a retiring allowance without pension. How’s that, he thought maliciously, and looked down the edge of the sofa. Retiring allowance without pension.

  “And when a man has the strength you have, a strong fellow like you, he should thank his Creator. What can happen to him? Does he have to drink? If he isn’t doing one thing, he’s doing another. Goes to the public market, stands in front of the shops, stands around the railroad station: what do you think one of those fellows took from me the other day when I came back from Landsberg, I was away one day, and what do you think he took from me? Just guess, Nachum, a man as big as that door, a Goliath, God save me. Fifty pfennigs. Yes sir, fifty pfennigs, I’m telling you, fifty pfennigs. For a small trunk from here to that corner. I didn’t want to carry it myself, it was Shabbes. To think that fellow took fifty pfennigs from me. But I gave him a look. Well, you could also-I know something for you. Isn’t there something open at Feitel’s, the grain dealer’s, say, you know Feitel, don’t you?” “Not Feitel, his brother.” “Well, he carries grains, too. Who is his brother?” “Feitel’s brother, told you.” “Do I know everybody in Berlin?” “Feitel’s brother. A man with an income that’s ...” He shook his head in despairing admiration. The red-haired man raised his arm, ducked bis head. “You don’t say so? And from Czernowitz.” They had forgotten all about Franz. They both were thinking intensely about the wealth of Feitel’s brother. The red-haired man walked around in great excitement, then gave a snort. The other one purred, streamed delight, smiled sardonically behind him and clicked with his nails: “Yep.” “Great. You don’t say so!” “Everything that family touches is gold. Gold is not the word. GOLD.” The red-haired fellow wandered around, then sat down by the window, deeply moved. What he saw going on outside filled him with contempt, two men in t
heir shirt-sleeves were washing a car, an old car. One of them had his suspenders hanging down, they dragged along two pails of water, the courtyard was streaming with water. With a meditative look, dreaming of gold, he contemplated Franz: “What do you think of that?” What can he say, he’s a poor, half-crazy fellow, what does a poor devil like that understand about Feitel’s money in Czernowitz? He wouldn’t let that one clean his shoes. Franz answered his look. Good morning, Preacher, the trolleys keep on tinkling along, but we know what that means, a man can give only so much. They’re not working any more, and even if all the snow melts, we won’t lift a finger, we’ll make ourselves scarce.

  The serpent had rustled down from the tree. Thou art cursed above all cattle, upon thy belly shalt thou go and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life. And I will put enmity between thee and the woman. In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children, Eve. Adam, cursed is the ground for thy sake, thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee, and thou shalt eat the herb of the field.

  We won’t work any more, no use, and even if all the snow melts, we won’t lift a finger.

  It was the iron crowbar which Franz Biberkopf held in his hands, with which he sat and went through the door later on. His mouth said something or other. Hesitatingly he had sneaked in, he had been discharged from Tegel prison a few months before, he had been riding in the trolley, sh-sh-sh-along the streets, past the houses, the roofs slipping by, he had eaten with the Jews. He got up, let’s move on, I went to see Minna that time, what’s keeping me here, let’s go see Minna, let’s look at everything accurately and just the way it was.

  Off he went. He trailed up and down in front of Minna’s house. Li’l Mary sat upon a stone, all alone, on a stone. What do I care about her? He snooped around the house. Let her be happy with her old man. Sauerkraut with beets, they drove me away, if mother had only cooked meats, I would have stayed all day. The cats here don’t stink any different from other places. Li’l rabbit beat it, yes, like the sausage in the press. Am I going to stand around here with the blues looking at the house. And the whole bunch hollering cock-a-doodle-doo.

  Cock-a-doodle-doo. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Thus spake Menelaus. And, without meaning to, he made Telemachus’s heart so sad that the tears rolled down his cheeks, so that he had to draw his purple mantle with both hands firmly before his eyes.

  In the meanwhile Princess Helen strolled from out the women’s apartments, like unto a goddess in beauty.

  Cock-a-doodle-doo. There are many kinds of chickens. But if anyone asks me, on my honor and conscience, which I like best, I answer freely and frankly: Broiled chickens. Pheasants also belong to the gallinaceous birds, and in Brehms’s Animal Life it says: The little dwarf moor-hen differs from the little prairie-hen, apart from its smaller size, through the fact that both sexes in spring wear an almost identical coat. Explorers in Asia know also the monial or monal, which is called by the scientists glossy pheasant. It is difficult to give a description of the splendor of its coloring. One hears it call, a long plaintive note, in the woods at all hours of the day, most frequently before daybreak and toward evening.

  But all this takes place very far away, between Sikkam and Bhutan in India, and is a rather sterile bit of library knowledge for Berlin.

  For it happens alike with Man and Beast; as the Beast dies, so Man dies, too

  The slaughter-house in Berlin. In the northeast part of the city, from Eldenaer Strasse across Thaerstrasse across Landsberger Allee as far as Cotheniusstrasse along the Belt Line Railway, run the houses, halls, and stables of the slaughter-and stock-yards.

  They cover an expanse of 47.88 hectares, equal to ll8.31 acres. Not counting the structures behind Lands-berger Allee, 27,083,492 marks were sunk into this construction, of which sum the cattle-yards cost 7,682,844 marks, and the slaughter-house 19,4l0,648 marks.

  The cattle-yard, slaughter-house, and wholesale meat-market form an inseparable economic whole. The administrative body is the municipal committee for stock-yards and slaughter-houses, and consists of two members of the city administration, a member of the district office, 11 councillors and three citizen-deputies. There are 258 employees in the organization: among them are veterinaries, inspectors, branders, assistant veterinaries, assistant inspectors, permanent employees and laborers. Traffic ordinance of October 4, 1900: General Regulations governing the cattle-driving, delivery of fodder, scale of fees, market fees, boxing fees, slaughter fees, fees for the removal of fodder-troughs from the pork-market hall.

  Along Eldenaer Strasse run the dirty-gray walls topped with barbed wire. The trees outside are bare, it is winter, the trees have sent their sap into the roots, to wait for spring. Slaughter wagons roll up at a smart gallop, with yellow and red wheels, prancing horses in front. A skinny horse runs along behind a wagon, from the sidewalk somebody calls “Emil,” they bargain about the old nag, 50 marks and a round for the eight of us, the horse turns, trembles, nibbles at a tree, the driver tears it away, 50 marks and a round, Otto, otherwise we’ll let it drop. The man on the sidewalk slaps the horse: All right!

  Yellow administration headquarters, an obelisk for the war dead. And to the right and left longish halls with glass roofs, these are stables and waiting-rooms. Outside black signboards: property of the Berlin Union of Wholesale Butchers, Incorporated. No bill posting without proper authority. The Board of Directors.

  In the long halls there are doors, black openings through which the animals are driven, numbered 26, 27, 28. The cattle-hall. the pork-room, the slaughter-rooms: death tribunals for the animals, swinging hatchets, you won’t get out of here alive. Peaceful streets nearby, Strassmannstrasse, Liebigstrasse, Proskauer, Public Gardens in which people are strolling about. They dwell snugly side by side, the doctor comes running when one of them gets sick and has a sore throat.

  But on the other side, the tracks of the Belt Line Railway stretch over a distance of 10 miles. Live-stock comes rolling up from the provinces, specimens of the genus sheep, hog, ox, from East Prussia, Pomerania, Brandenburg, West Prussia. They bleat and low over the railings of their pens. The hogs grunt and sniff the ground, they can’t see where they’re going, the drivers follow them with sticks. They lie down in the stables, white and fat, side by side, snorting and sleeping. They have been driven a long time, then well shaken up in the cars; now there’s nothing vibrating beneath them, only the flagstones are cold. They wake up and huddle close together. They lie piled one on top of the other. Two of them are fighting, there is room in the pen, they butt their heads together, snap at each other’s necks and ears, turn around in a circle, snort, then at times become quite still, just biting each other. One of them grows afraid and climbs over the bodies of the others, its adversary climbs after it, gives a snarl, and while those underneath grub themselves up again, the two plump down, looking for each other.

  A man in a linen smock ambles through the corridor, the pen opens, he steps in between the animals with a stick; then, once the door is open, they rush out, squealing, grunting, and screaming. They crowd along the corridors. Across the courtyards, between the halls, he drives them up, those funny bare creatures with their jolly fat hams, their jolly little tails, and the green and red stripes on their backs. Here you have light, dear little pigs, and here you have dirt, just give a sniff, go ahead and grub a while, for how many minutes longer will it be? No, you are right, one should not work by the clock, just go on sniffing and grubbing. You are going to be slaughtered, there you are, take a look at the slaughter-house, at the hog slaughter-house. There exist old houses, but you get a new model. It is bright, built of red brick, from the outside you might take it for a locksmith’s workshop, for a machine-shop, an office-room, or a drafting-room. I am going to walk the other way, dear little pigs, for I’m a human being, I’ll go through this door, we’ll meet again, inside.

  A push against the door, it rebounds, swings to and fro. Whew, what a lot of steam! What are they steaming? It’s like a bath, all that steam, the hogs are taking a Turkis
h bath, perhaps. You can’t see where you’re walking. Your glasses are covered with vapor, you could go naked, sweat out your rheumatism, cognac alone won’t do, the slippers go clattering about. Nothing can be seen, the steam is too thick. But a continuous noise of squealing, snorting, clattering, men’s voices calling back and forth, tools being dropped, slamming of lids. Somewhere around here are the hogs, they came in from across the way, from the door at the side. This thick white steam! Here they are, the hogs, some of them are hanging up, already dead, they’ve been cut up, almost ripe for guzzling. A man with a hose is squirting water on the white halves of the hogs. They are hanging on iron posts, head downward: some of the hogs are still whole, their legs are locked in a cross-beam above, a dead animal can’t do anything at all, nor can it run. Pigs’ feet, hacked off, lie in a pile. Two men arrive out of the fog carrying something, an animal on an iron bar, gutted and slit open. They lift the bar up and put it through the rings. Many of its comrades are dangling there, staring at the flagstones.

  You walk through the room in a fog. The flagstones are grooved, damp, covered with blood. Between the posts are rows of white eviscerated animals. Behind there must be the slaughter-pens, there is a sound of smacking, clattering, squealing, screaming, rattling, grunting. Steaming boilers and vats send vapor into the room. The dead animals are dipped in the boiling water, then scalded and taken out very white, a man scrapes off the epidermis with a knife, the animal grows whiter still, becomes quite smooth. Quite soft and white, relaxed as though after a tiring bath, after a successful operation or a massage, the hogs lie in rows, on benches or planks, they lie quite still in their replete tranquility, in their new white shirts. They all lie on their sides, on some of them can be seen a double row of teats, a sow has many breasts, they must be fertile animals. But they all have a straight red slit at their throats right down the middle, that’s very suspicious.