Berlin Alexanderplatz

367 Pages·2018·2.48 MB·English

by  Alfred Döblin, Michael Hofmann

Alfred Döblin

BERLIN ALEXANDERPLATZ

Translated with an Afterword by Michael Hofmann

Contents

Chapter One
The 41 tram into the city – Still not there – The example of Zannovich – The story is concluded in an
unexpected way; helping the freed man to acquire new strength – Markets opening directionless,
gradually drifting lower, Hamburg out of bed the wrong side, London continuing weak – Victory all
along the line! Franz Biberkopf buys a veal escalope – In which Franz swears to all the world and
himself, to remain decent in Berlin, money or not

Chapter Two
Franz Biberkopf enters Berlin – Franz Biberkopf is on the job market, you need to earn money, a man
can’t live without money. And all about the Frankfurt Topfmarkt – Lina takes it to the queers – The
Neue Welt, in Hasenheide, if it’s not one thing it’s another, no need to make life any harder than what
it is already – Franz is a man of some scale, and he knows what’s what – The scale of this Franz
Biberkopf. A match for the heroes of old

Chapter Three
Yesterday on the backs of steeds … – Today, shot through the chest he bleeds – Tomorrow in the chill
tomb, no, we’ll keep our composure

Chapter Four
A handful of people round the Alex – Biberkopf anaesthetized, Franz curls up, Franz doesn’t want to
see anything – Franz, on the retreat, plays a farewell march for the Jews – For as with animals, so it is
with man; the one must die, the other likewise – Conversation with Job, it’s up to you, Job, you don’t
want to – And they all have one breath, and man has no more than the beasts – Franz’s window is
open, sometimes amusing things happen in the world – Hopp, hopp, hopp, horsey does gallop

Chapter Five
Reunion on the Alex, bitching cold. Though next year, 1929, will be even colder – Nothing for a while,
pause for rest and recuperation – Booming trade in girls – Franz reflects on the trade in women, and
suddenly he’s had enough, and wants something else – Local news – Franz takes a calamitous
decision. He fails to realize he is sitting in a nettle patch – Sunday, 8 April 1928

Chapter Six
Crime pays – The night of Sunday–Monday, 9 April – Franz won’t go down, and they can’t make him
go down – Get up, you feeble spirit, and stand on your own two feet – Third conquest of Berlin –
Clothes make people, and a new person gets a new set of eyes – A new person gets a new head as well
– A new man needs a new job or he needs none at all – A girl shows up, and now Franz is back to
strength – Defensive war against bourgeois values – Conspiracy of females, our dear ladies take the
floor, the heart of Europe is unchanged – Enough politics, idleness is much more dangerous – The fly

clambers up, shaking the sand from its wings; before long it will buzz some more – Forward, in step,
drum roll and battalions – The fist on the table

Chapter Seven
Pussi Uhl, the flood of American visitors, and do you write Wilma with a V or a W? – The duel begins!
It continues rainy – Franz breaking and entering, Franz not under the wheels, he’s in the box seat
now, he’s made it – Love’s weal and woe – Dazzling harvest in prospect, but miscalculations have
been known to happen – Wednesday, 29 August – Saturday, 1 September

Chapter Eight
Franz notices nothing, and the world goes on its way – A few bonds are loosened, the criminals fall
out among themselves – Keep your eyes on Karl the plumber: something’s going on with him – Things
come to a head, plumber Karl gets caught and spills some 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 – Then I praised the dead which are already dead – The fortress is completely
surrounded, the last sallies are undertaken, but they are nothing but diversionary tactics – Battle is
joined. We ride into hell with a great fanfare – The Police HQ is on Alexanderplatz

Chapter Nine
Reinhold’s Black Wednesday – but this section can be skipped – Buch insane asylum, closed ward –
Dextrose and camphor injections, but in the end a different consultant is involved – Death sings his
slow, slow song – And now Franz hears the slow song of Death – In which is described what pain is –
Departure of the evil harlot, triumph of the great sacrificer, drummer and axe-swinger – Beginnings
are difficult – Dear Fatherland, don’t worry, I shan’t slip again in a hurry – And by the right quick
march left right left right

Appendix: Döblin’s ‘Alexanderplatz’ from ‘Writer’s Relay on the Omnibus’
Afterword
Notes
Follow Penguin

The subject of this book is the life of the former cement worker and haulier
Franz Biberkopf in Berlin. As our story begins, he has just been released from
prison, where he did time for some stupid stuff; now he is back in Berlin,
determined to go straight.

To begin with, he succeeds. But then, though doing all right for himself

financially, he gets involved in a set-to with an unpredictable external agency
that looks an awful lot like fate.

Three times the force attacks him and disrupts his scheme. The first time it

comes at him with dishonesty and deception. Our man is able to get to his feet,
he is still good to stand.

Then it strikes him a low blow. He has trouble getting up from that, he is

almost counted out.

And finally it hits him with monstrous and extreme violence.
With that, our man who had been doing so well is finished. He throws in the

towel, he has no idea what day of the week it is, it seems all up with him.

Before he can make an end, however, his blindness is taken from him in a way

I do not describe here. His fault is revealed to him in the clearest terms. It is
indeed his, the fault of his plan, which may once have looked sensible enough to
him, but now looks quite different, not unexceptionable and straightforward, but
full of arrogance and ignorance, and further vitiated with impertinence,
cowardice and weakness.

The terrible thing that was his life acquires a purpose. A radical cure has

been performed on Franz Biberkopf. And in the end we see our man back on
Alexanderplatz, greatly changed, considerably the worse for wear, but
straightened out.

To see and hear this will be worthwhile for many readers who, like Franz

Biberkopf, fill out a human skin, but, again like Franz Biberkopf, happen to want
more from life than a piece of bread.

Chapter One

As our story begins, Franz Biberkopf leaves Tegel Penitentiary, where a
previous foolish life has taken him. He has difficulty initially readjusting to
Berlin, but finally, to his relief, he succeeds, and vows to stick to the straight and
narrow from now on.

The 41 tram into the city

He stood outside the gates of Tegel Penitentiary, a free man. Only yesterday, he
had been on the allotments with the others, hoeing potatoes in his convict stripes,
and now he was wearing his yellow summer duster, they were hoeing and he
was free. He leant against the red wall and allowed one tram after another to
pass, and he didn’t take any of them. The guard on the gate strolled past him a
few times, pointed to the tram, he didn’t take it. The awful moment was at hand
(awful, why so awful, Franz?), his four years were up. The black iron gates he’d
been eyeing with increasing revulsion (revulsion, why revulsion) for the past
year swung shut behind him. He was being put out. The others were inside,
carpentering, varnishing, sorting, gluing, with two years ahead of them, with five
years. He was standing at the tram stop.

His real punishment was just beginning.
He shook himself, gulped. He stood with one foot on the other. Suddenly he

took a run up and he was sitting in the tram, with passengers all around him. At
first it felt like being at the dentist’s, when the dentist has the offending tooth
gripped in his pliers and is pulling, and it feels like your head will explode with
the pain. He craned his neck to look back at the red wall, but the tram rushed
him away down the tracks, and he was left merely facing the general direction.
The tram turned a corner, trees and buildings interposed themselves. The streets
were full of bustle, Seestrasse, people got on and off. Something in him
screamed: Watch out, watch out. The tip of his nose felt cold, something brushed
his cheek. Zwölf Uhr Mittagszeitung, B.Z, Die neuste Illustrierte, Die
Funkstunde. ‘Any more fares?’ The police have blue uniforms now. He made his
way off the tram unnoticed, mingled with the crowd. What was wrong? Nothing.
Hey, watch where you’re going or I’ll whop you. The crowds, the crowds. My
skull needs grease, it must have dried out. All that stuff. Shoe shops, hat shops,
electric lights, bars. People will need shoes to run around in, we had a shoe shop
too, once, let’s not forget that. Hundreds of shiny windows, let them flash away
at you, they’re nothing to be afraid of, it’s just that they’ve been cleaned, you
can always smash them if you want. They were taking up the road at Rosenthaler
Platz, he was walking on duckboards along with everyone else. Just mingle with
the crowd, man, that’ll make everything better, then you won’t suffer. There

were mannequins in the windows in suits and coats, in skirts, with shoes and
stockings on their feet. It was all seething and swarming, but it had nothing
going on! It wasn’t alive. It had complacent facial expressions, it was grinning, it
was standing in groups of two or three on the traffic island in front of
Aschinger’s waiting to cross, smoking cigarettes, browsing in newspapers. Stood
there like lamp-posts, and getting stiffer all the time. It was just like the
buildings, all painted, all wood.

He got a shock when he turned down Rosenthaler Strasse, and saw a man and

a woman sitting together in the window, pouring beer down their necks from big
steins, so, they were just having a drink, they had forks in their hands and they
were jabbing at pieces of meat, and lifting them to their mouths, and pulling the
forks out, and not bleeding. Oh, his body cramped, I can’t get over it, what am I
going to do with myself? The answer came: punishment.

He couldn’t go back, he had come so far on the tram, he had been released,

and he had to go on.

I know, he groaned, I know I need to dig deeper and that I’ve been released.

They had to let me go, my punishment was up, that’s the way it works, the
administration is doing what it has to do. And I will go on digging, but I don’t
want to, oh God, I can’t.

He drifted down Rosenthaler Strasse, past the Wertheim department store,

then swung right into narrow Sophienstrasse. He thought: less light, and the
darker the better. Prisoners may be held in isolation, solitary confinement or
general confinement. In isolation, a man is kept apart from his fellows day and
night. In solitary, the prisoner is kept in a cell, but is permitted to exercise, take
classes and attend worship with others. Traffic hooted and honked. The façades
were never-ending. There were roofs on the buildings, floating on the buildings,
his eyes bounced around. Heaven forbid the roofs should slip off, but no, the
buildings were steadfast. Where am I poor devil going to go, he trudged along
the wall, wall without end. I am a fool, surely I’ll be able to make my way, five
minutes, ten minutes, then sit down somewhere and have a drink. At the sound
of the bell, work is to begin. It may only be suspended for purposes of meals,
exercise and lessons. During exercise, inmates are enjoined to keep their arms
straight, and to swing them back and forth.

There was one particular building, and here he lifted his eyes from the

pavement, shouldered open a door, and a sorry ‘oh’ broke from his chest. He
slapped his shoulders, best way to keep the cold off, mate. The door opened onto
a courtyard, someone shuffled past him, stopped behind him. He groaned, it did
him good to groan. In his first days in solitary he had groaned continually and
taken pleasure in the sound of his voice, it gave him something, meant it wasn’t
all up with him. Plenty of people did that in the cells, some from the very start,

all up with him. Plenty of people did that in the cells, some from the very start,
others only took to it later, once the loneliness got to them. There was something
human about it, something consoling. He stood in the entryway, no longer aware
of the terrible din, the lurching buildings were no longer there. He pouted,
grunted, balled his fists in his pockets to give himself some encouragement. His
shoulders in the yellow duster hunched defensively.

A stranger stopped and watched him. ‘Sir, is there something the matter with

you, are you in pain?’ He heard him and stopped his groaning. ‘Are you unwell,
do you live here?’ It was a Jew with a red beard, a short man in a coat, a black
velvet hat, a cane. ‘No, I don’t live here.’ He had to leave the entryway, though
he had enjoyed his time there. Now the street resumed, the façades, the shop
windows, the hurrying figures in trousers or flesh-coloured stockings, all of them
in a tearing rush, purposeful, one after another. He made his mind up and veered
into another entry, but they were just opening the gates to allow a car out. Next
door, then, where there was just a narrow passage beside the staircase. No car
was going to bother him here. He gripped the newel post. And while gripping it,
he knew he wanted to avoid his punishment (how are you going to do that,
Franz, you’ll never manage that), definitely, he knew the way out. Quietly he
started his personal music again, the groaning and humming, I’ll not go out on
the street again. The red-haired Jew reappeared, failed to spot him right away,
standing by the banister. Heard him chuntering. ‘What are you doing here? Are
you unwell?’ He let go of the newel post, lurched back into the courtyard. As he
reached the gate, he saw it was the same Jew as before. ‘Leave me alone! What
are you bothering me for?’ ‘Nothing. Nothing really. But the way you’re
moaning and kvetching, surely I can ask if you’re all right.’ Through the chink in
the gate, the buildings, the swarms of people, the badly secured roofs. He pulled
open the gate, the Jew behind him: ‘What are you afraid of, mister, it won’t be
so bad. You won’t die. Berlin’s a big place. Where thousands live, there’s room
for one more.’

It was the well of a deep, dark courtyard. He was standing beside the garbage

bins. And suddenly began ear-splittingly to sing. He pulled the hat off his head
like a hurdy-gurdy man. The sound bounced off the walls. It was a good sound.
His voice filled his ears. He sang more lustily than he had ever dared in prison.
What was it he was singing, that came bouncing off the walls? ‘Es braust ein Ruf
wie Donnerhall’.1 A martial earnestness and rigour. And then, in the middle of a
song, ‘Juvivallerallera’. No one paid him any heed. The Jew was waiting for him
at the gate: ‘You’ve got a good voice. You sing beautifully. With a voice like
that you can make money.’ The Jew followed him out onto the street, took his
arm, towed him along, jabbering at him all the time, till they turned into

Gormann Strasse, the Jew and the big, raw-boned fellow in the summer duster,
who kept his lips pursed as though he tasted gall.

Still not there

He took him to a room heated by an iron stove, sat him down on the settee:
‘There, now you’ve arrived. Sit soft. Keep your hat on, or take it off, just as you
please. I’m going to bring someone who you’ll like. I don’t live here myself, see.
That’s the way of it, if the room’s cosy and warm, one guest brings the next.’

The convict sat there all alone. ‘Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall, wie

Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall’. He took the tram, he looked out the side, the
red walls were plainly visible between the trees, brightly coloured leaves were
raining down. The walls were in front of his eyes, he was looking at them from
the settee, looking at them incessantly. It’s great good luck to live within these
walls, you know how the day begins and how it continues. (Franz, you’re not
about to hide, are you, you’ve been hiding for four years, buck up, take a look
around, it’s time you stopped hiding.) All forms of singing, whistling and noise-
making are forbidden. Inmates are required to get up the moment the signal is
given to get up, then make their beds, wash, comb, clean their clothes and dress
themselves. Soap is to be supplied in sufficient quantities. Boom, the sound of a
bell. Get up, boom five-thirty, boom six-thirty, cells unlocked, boom boom, out
you get, sunshine, breakfast time, work time, free association, boom boom
boom, dinner time, come on son, don’t make a face, you won’t put on any
weight here, singers are to present themselves, singers come forward at five-
forty, I report hoarse, six o’clock lock up, g’night, that’s been taken care of. A
great joy to live within these walls, they ran me into the ground, I thought I’d
committed murder but it was only manslaughter, GBH resulting in death, not so
bad, I’d gotten to be a right s.o.b., a ruffian, little better than a vagrant.

A big old long-haired Jew, the little black skullcap on the back of his head,

had been sitting facing him for a while. Now there was a Jew in Susa the capital
whose name was Mordecai, who brought up Esther, the daughter of his uncle,
the maiden was beautiful to behold. The old man looked away, turned back to
the red-haired Jew. ‘Where’d you dig him up then?’ ‘He was going from door to
door. He stopped in a yard, and started to sing.’ ‘Sing what?’ ‘Wartime songs.’
‘He’ll freeze.’ ‘Maybe.’ The old man studied him. Jews may not handle corpses
on the first holy day, nor on the second; and this applies to both New Year’s
Days. And who is the author of the following Rabbinical lesson: if a man eats of
the carcass of a clean bird, he is not impure; but if he doth eat of the bowels or

the craw, then he is impure? With his bony yellow hand the old man reached for
the hand of the convict, which was lying on his coat: ‘Will you not take off your
coat, mister? It’s warm in here. We are old people, we feel the cold all year, it’ll
be too warm for you.’

He sat on the settee, squinting down at his hand, he had gone from house to

house, who knew where you would find something in this world. Now he
wanted to get up and leave, his eyes were scanning the dark room for the door.
The old man, though, pushed him back on the settee: ‘Stay, where d’you think
you’re going.’ He thought: out. But the old man held him by the wrist and
squeezed. ‘We’ll soon see who’s the stronger. Will you sit here when I tell you
to,’ the old man yelled. ‘Sit, and listen to what I have to say. Get a grip on
yourself.’ And to the red-haired man who was holding him down by the
shoulders he said: ‘You can go. I never sent for you. I can manage him.’

What did these people want with him? He wanted out, he thrust up, but the old

man pushed him down. ‘What do you want with me?’ he yelled. ‘Scold all you
like, you’ll be scolding a lot more.’ ‘Let me go. I want to get out.’ ‘What’ve you
got waiting for you, the street, the courtyards?’

Then the old man got up out of his chair, and went rustling up and down the

room: ‘Let him yell all he wants. Let him do as he pleases. But not here. Show
him out.’ ‘But why, it’s always noisy in here?’ ‘Don’t bring me people who
make more noise. My daughter’s children are sick, they’re in bed at the back,
that’s enough noise.’ ‘Oy, oy veh, I didn’t know that, please forgive me.’ The
red-haired man clasped his hands together: ‘We’d better go. The rabbi’s house is
full. The grandchildren are sick. We’ll go somewhere else.’ But now Franz
didn’t want to get up. ‘Come.’ He had to get up. Then he whispered: ‘Don’t pull
me. Leave me be.’ ‘But the house is full, you heard.’ ‘Leave me be.’

With glittering eyes, the old man looked at the stranger imploringly. Jeremiah

said we would heal Babylon, but Babylon would not be healed. Let us leave, let
each one of us go home. The sword will fall upon the throats of the Chaldeans,
and upon the inhabitants of Babylon. ‘If he’s quiet, he can stay with you. If not,
he’d better go.’ ‘All right, we won’t make a sound. I’ll sit with him, you can
depend on me.’ The old man rustled out through the door.

The example of Zannovich

Then the discharged prisoner in the yellow duster was once more seated on the
settee. Sighing and shaking his head, the red-haired man paced through the
room. ‘Don’t be angry with the old man. He has a temper. Are you new in
town?’ ‘Yes, I was in—’ The red walls, the beautiful walls, the cells, he looked

town?’ ‘Yes, I was in—’ The red walls, the beautiful walls, the cells, he looked
at them yearningly, his back was stuck to the red wall, a clever man had built
them, he wasn’t going anywhere. And the man slid down off the settee onto the
floor, like a doll; as he went down, he pushed the table away. ‘What’s the matter
with you?’ cried the redheaded man. The prisoner writhed on the carpet, his hat
rolled away between his hands, he drilled down with his head, he groaned: ‘Into
the ground, into the earth, where it’s nice and dark.’ The redheaded Jew tugged
at him: ‘For the love of God, you’re among strangers. If the old man should
come back. Get up.’ But he wouldn’t permit himself to be pulled back up, he
clawed at the carpet, he groaned. ‘For God’s sake be quiet, what if the old man
should hear you. You and I will get along.’ ‘No one’s gonna get me out of here.’
Tunnelling like a mole.

And as the Jew wasn’t able to haul him upright, he scratched his sidelocks,

shut the door and settled himself on the floor beside him. He clasped his knees,
and looked at the table legs in front of him: ‘All right. Stay there. I’ll stay with
you. It’s not so comfortable, but why not. You’re not going to tell me what’s the
matter with you, so let me tell you a story.’ The prisoner wheezed, head to the
carpet. (Why is he groaning and wheezing? It’s make up your mind time, you’ve
got to choose a route, and you don’t know any, Franz. You don’t want the old
stuff, and in the cells you only hid and groaned, and you didn’t think, Franz, you
didn’t think.) The red-haired man said angrily: ‘It’s not right to make a show of
yourself. Listen to other people. Who’s telling you you’re so special. God won’t
let anyone fall from his hand, there are other people besides you. Haven’t you
ever read about Noah, putting two of each kind in his Ark, in his boat, when the
Flood came? Two after each kind. Did the Lord forget any of them? He didn’t
forget so much as the lice on their heads. They were all dear to him.’ The man
below whimpered. (Whimpering doesn’t cost anything – a sick mouse
whimpers.)

The red-haired man ignored the whimpering, scratched his cheeks: ‘There’s

lots of things on this earth, no end of stories you can tell when you’re young, and
when you’re old too. I’m going to tell you, yes, I’m going to tell you the story of
Zannovich, of Stefan Zannovich. You won’t have heard it before. Once you feel
better, you can sit up, it’s not good for you to have too much blood go to your
head. My late father told us a lot of stories, he travelled as our people do, he got
to be seventy years old, he outlived my mother, he knew a lot, a clever man. We
were seven hungry mouths, and when there was no food in the house he would
tell us stories. They may not fill you up, but you forget your hunger.’ The dull
moans continued. (A sick camel can moan too.) ‘Well now, we know there are
more things in this world than gold and beauty and joy. So who was Zannovich,

who was his father, who were his forefathers? Beggars, like most of us, grocers,
traders, commersants. Old Zannovich came from Albania and made his way to
Venice. He will have known why. Some go from the city to the country, others
from the country to the city. The country is calmer and quieter, people consider
everything, you can talk for hours, and if your luck’s in you’ll earn a few
coppers. It’s no easier in the city, but the people are more densely packed, and
they have less time. If it’s not this man, it’s that one. They don’t have ox-carts,
they have fast horse-drawn carriages. You win some, you lose some. Old
Zannovich knew that. First, he sold what he had with him, and then he took out
cards, and played. He was dishonest. He turned it to his advantage, the fact that
people in the city are always in a hurry and want to be kept amused. He kept
them amused. It cost them a lot of money. Old Zannovich was a card-sharp and a
cheat, but he had a good head on him. The peasants used to make things difficult
for him, life was easier in the city. He prospered. Till one day someone felt he’d
been tricked. Well, old Zannovich wasn’t prepared for that. Blows were
exchanged, the police were called, and in the end old Zannovich had to leg it
with his children. The law was after him, and the old man preferred not to argue
with the law, the law of Venice wouldn’t understand, and in fact it never caught
up with him. He had horses and money, and he went back to Albania, and
bought himself an estate, an entire village, and he sent his children to good
schools. Then, when he was very old, he died quietly and respectably. That was
the life of old Zannovich. The peasants mourned his passing, but he didn’t care
for them, because he never forgot the times he stood before them with his wares,
his rings and his bracelets and his coral necklaces, and they handled everything
and turned it this way and that, and finally they went off, and left him with it,
and didn’t buy.

‘You know, if a father’s a shrub, he’ll want his son to grow up to be a tree.

And if a father’s a rock, he’ll want his son to be a mountain. Old Zannovich told
his sons: I was nothing in Albania for the twenty years I was a peddler, you
know why? Because I didn’t carry my head to where it belonged. But I’m going
to send you to the great school at Padua, take horses and carriages, and then
when you come to go out into the world, remember me, who had trouble with
your mother and with you, and who used to sleep in the woods with you at night
like a boar: it was all my fault. The peasants dried me out like a lean year, and I
would have withered away, then I went to be among people, and I didn’t die.’

The red-haired man chortled to himself, tipped his head to the side, waggled

his behind. They were sitting on the carpet together: ‘If someone comes in now,
he’ll think we’re both meshugge, they supply us with a settee and here we are
sitting on the floor in front of it. Well, if it’s what you want, why not. Young