Berlin Alexanderplatz E-Book

Alfred Döblin

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 839

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Berlin Alexanderplatz is a profound exploration of human struggle, moral ambiguity, and the societal pressures shaping individual lives. Alfred Döblin vividly portrays the challenges faced by Franz Biberkopf, a man recently released from prison, as he navigates the complexities of life in the chaotic urban landscape of Weimar-era Berlin. The novel delves into themes of redemption, the fragility of human will, and the often-overwhelming influence of external forces on personal choices. Through its fragmented narrative style and innovative use of stream-of-consciousness, Berlin Alexanderplatz breaks traditional storytelling conventions, reflecting the disorienting and turbulent reality of modern urban existence. Döblin employs a blend of raw realism and poetic imagery, capturing the vibrant yet oppressive atmosphere of Berlin and the diverse lives it encompasses. Since its publication, Berlin Alexanderplatz has been celebrated as a milestone in modernist literature, inspiring numerous adaptations, including films and television series. The novel's portrayal of existential struggles, societal alienation, and the search for meaning resonates deeply, remaining a touchstone for discussions about identity and morality. The work continues to hold relevance for its unflinching depiction of the human condition and its critique of societal inequalities. By examining the intersection of individual agency and systemic forces, Berlin Alexanderplatz offers timeless insights into the challenges of self-determination and the enduring quest for dignity amidst chaos.

Leseprobe

Alfred Döblin

BERLÍN ALEXANDERPLATZ

Contents

 BERLÍN ALEXANDERPLATZ

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

INTRODUCTION

Alfred Döblin

1878 -1957

Alfred Döblin was a German novelist, essayist, and physician, recognized as one of the most innovative figures in modern German literature. Born in Stettin (now Szczecin, Poland), Döblin’s works bridge the transition from realism to modernism, reflecting the tumultuous cultural, political, and social transformations of early 20th-century Europe. His landmark novel, Berlin Alexanderplatz, remains a cornerstone of modernist literature, acclaimed for its groundbreaking narrative techniques and vivid portrayal of urban life.

Early Life and Education

Döblin was born into a middle-class Jewish family and faced significant upheavals during his early years, including his father’s abandonment of the family. These formative experiences shaped his understanding of dislocation and identity, recurring themes in his works. Döblin studied medicine in Berlin and Freiburg, eventually specializing in neurology and psychiatry. While his medical career provided financial stability, it also influenced his literary themes, particularly his interest in human psychology and the challenges of modern life.

Career and Contributions

Döblin’s literary career began with philosophical essays and short stories before he transitioned to novels that reflected the fragmentation and alienation of contemporary life. His magnum opus, Berlin Alexanderplatz (1929), is a panoramic depiction of the Weimar Republic through the life of Franz Biberkopf, a small-time criminal trying to rebuild his life after prison. The novel employs a montage technique, combining fragmented narratives, inner monologues, and media clippings to capture the chaotic rhythm of Berlin.

Other notable works include Mountains Oceans Giants (1924), a visionary science fiction novel exploring humanity’s relationship with technology and nature, and The Three Leaps of Wang Lun (1915), a historical novel set in China, which blends mysticism and rebellion to critique authority and power structures.

Impact and Legacy

Döblin’s innovative narrative techniques and modernist approach influenced writers such as Günter Grass and Bertolt Brecht. His exploration of fragmented identities and urban chaos anticipated many themes of postmodern literature. Döblin was also politically engaged, advocating for social justice and often criticizing the rise of totalitarianism.

As a Jewish intellectual, he was forced to flee Nazi Germany in 1933, first to France and later to the United States. Despite the challenges of exile, he continued to write, though his post-war reception never matched his earlier acclaim.

Alfred Döblin returned to Germany in 1945 but struggled to reclaim his literary stature. He converted to Catholicism later in life, a reflection of his ongoing quest for spiritual meaning. Döblin passed away in 1957, leaving behind a body of work that profoundly shaped modern German literature.

Today, Döblin is celebrated not only for his stylistic innovations but also for his unflinching exploration of the complexities of modern existence. His works, especially Berlin Alexanderplatz, continue to resonate as both a historical document and a timeless reflection on human resilience in the face of societal upheaval.

About the Work

Berlin Alexanderplatz is a profound exploration of human struggle, moral ambiguity, and the societal pressures shaping individual lives. Alfred Döblin vividly portrays the challenges faced by Franz Biberkopf, a man recently released from prison, as he navigates the complexities of life in the chaotic urban landscape of Weimar-era Berlin. The novel delves into themes of redemption, the fragility of human will, and the often-overwhelming influence of external forces on personal choices.

Through its fragmented narrative style and innovative use of stream-of-consciousness, Berlin Alexanderplatz breaks traditional storytelling conventions, reflecting the disorienting and turbulent reality of modern urban existence. Döblin employs a blend of raw realism and poetic imagery, capturing the vibrant yet oppressive atmosphere of Berlin and the diverse lives it encompasses.

Since its publication, Berlin Alexanderplatz has been celebrated as a milestone in modernist literature, inspiring numerous adaptations, including films and television series. The novel's portrayal of existential struggles, societal alienation, and the search for meaning resonates deeply, remaining a touchstone for discussions about identity and morality.

The work continues to hold relevance for its unflinching depiction of the human condition and its critique of societal inequalities. By examining the intersection of individual agency and systemic forces, Berlin Alexanderplatz offers timeless insights into the challenges of self-determination and the enduring quest for dignity amidst chaos.

 BERLÍN ALEXANDERPLATZ

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, 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 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 redhaired 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 Stefan Zannovich was a great talker, even when he was just a young man of twenty. He could twist and turn, ingratiate himself, he could flirt with the women and flatter the men. In Padua the nobility learns from the professors, and Stefan learnt from the nobility. Everyone liked him. And then when he went back to Albania, his father was still alive, and liked him and was happy to see him again, and said: “Take a look at him, he’s a man of the world, he won’t spend twenty years dickering with peasants, he’s twenty years ahead of his old man.” And the young man stroked his silk sleeves, brushed the pretty curls out of his face and kissed his proud father: “But you, Father, you’ve saved me the worst twenty years.” “I want them to be the best twenty years of your life,” the old man said, and he stroked and petted his son.

‘And then young Zannovich seemed to experience a miracle, even though it wasn’t a miracle. People came to him from everywhere. He was given the keys to every heart. He traveled to Montenegro with coaches and horses and servants, his father was delighted to see his son such a great man – the father a shrub, his son a tree – and in Montenegro they spoke to him as to a count and a nobleman. They would never have believed him if he’d said: my father’s name is Zannovich, we come from the village of Pastrovich, that my father is proud of! They would never have believed him, such was his allure of a nobleman from Padua, and he looked like one and he knew them all. Stefan spoke and he laughed: “All right, have it your way.” And he said he was a wealthy Pole, which is what they took him for, a Baron Varta, and they were glad, and he was glad.’ The convict had sat up with a sudden jerk. He squatted on his knees, listening to the other man below him. With an icy glare he said: ‘Monkey.’ The red-haired man replied indifferently, ‘So I’m a monkey. A monkey that knows more than a lot of people.’ The other was forced back down on the ground. (You have to learn contrition; understand what you’ve done; understand what you need to know!) ‘So can we carry on then? There’s always a lot you can learn from other people. Young Zannovich was on that path, and he carried on. I never saw him, and my father never saw him, but it’s easy enough to imagine him. Let me ask you, you called me a monkey – one shall not despise any creature on God’s earth, they give us their flesh, and they do us many kindnesses besides, think of the horse, the dog, the canary, monkeys I only know from the fair, they have to do tricks in chains, a hard lot, no man has a harder one – well, I want to ask you, and I can’t ask you by name, because you haven’t done me the courtesy of telling it to me: what was it that helped the two Zannoviches on their way, both the younger and the elder? You’ll say they had brains, they were both clever men. But plenty of people have had brains, and at the age of eighty they’re not so far along as Stefan was at twenty. The main thing about a man is his eyes and his feet. You have to be able to see the world and direct your feet to it.

‘So hear what Stefan Zannovich did, who knew a bit about people, and who knew how little there was to fear from them. See how they smooth your path, almost as they show a blind man the way. They wanted him to be Baron Varta. All right, he said, I’m Baron Varta. Later on, that was no longer enough for him, or for them. Why just a baron, why not more? There’s a celebrity in Albania who’s already long dead, but they continue to celebrate him, the way the people like to celebrate their heroes, Skanderbeg was his name. If Zannovich had been able to, he could have claimed: I am Skanderbeg. As Skanderbeg was dead, he said, I’m descended from Skanderbeg, and strutted about and said he was Prince Castriota of Albania, destined to recover the lost greatness of Albania, his retinue was waiting for him. They paid for him to live as a descendant of Skanderbeg’s ought to live. He was just what those people wanted. They go to the theatre and listen to things made up to suit them. They pay money for the privilege. So why not let them pay to hear nice things in the morning and afternoon as well, and that they can even play a part in themselves.’ Once again the man in the yellow summer duster pulled himself upright, he had a grim, creased face, he looked down on the redhaired man from above, cleared his throat, his voice was changed: ‘Now hold on a minute, mister, you seem to be not all there. You’re a bit short.’ ‘Not all there, maybe that’s right. Now I’m a monkey, now I’m meshugge.’ ‘What do you think you’re doing, gabbing this stuff to me?’ ‘Whose idea was it to sit on the floor, and not get up? It wasn’t mine, was it? With a whole settee behind me? Well, if it bothers you, I’ll be happy to shut up.’ At that the other, having shot a glance round the room, thrust out his legs and sat down with his back against the settee, propping his hands on the carpet.

‘There, that’s more comfortable, isn’t it?’ ‘You can stop your nonsense now.’ ‘Whatever you say. I’ve told the story often enough, I don’t care either way.’ But after a pause, the other man turned to face him: ‘You can carry on if you like.’ ‘Well, listen to that. People talk and tell each other stories, and the time passes more agreeably. All I wanted was for you to open your eyes. The Stefan Zannovich you were learning about, he got so much money he was able to travel to Germany. They didn’t succeed in unmasking him in Montenegro. What you can learn about Stefan Zannovich is that he knew himself and he knew people. Even if he was as innocent as a chaffinch. You see, he had so little fear that the greatest historical figures were his friends, the most imposing: the Kurfürst of Saxony, the Crown Prince of Prussia, who was later a great war hero. The Austrian Empress Theresa quaked on her throne when he stood before her. Zannovich never quaked. So when Stefan got to Vienna and there were people sniffing around him, the Empress lifted up her hand and said: “Let the young man go free!”

THE STORY IS CONCLUDED IN AN UNEXPECTED WAY; HELPING THE FREED MAN TO ACQUIRE NEW STRENGTH

 The other man laughed, whinnied against the settee: ‘You’re a card, aren’t you. You could work for a circus. As a clown.’ The redhaired man giggled with him: ‘There, you see. Hush now, I can hear the old man’s grandchildren. Maybe we should sit up after all. What do you say.’ The other laughed, crept up, settled himself in one corner of the settee, the red-haired man in the other. ‘You sit softer this way, and you won’t get creases in your coat.’ The man in the summer duster eyed the red-haired man in his corner. ‘I’ve not met a bird like you in a long time.’ With equanimity the red beard replied: ‘Maybe you just didn’t look, there’s more than enough of us. Now you’ve gone and soiled your coat, they don’t wipe their feet in this household.’ The freed man, a man in his early thirties, had alert eyes, his expression looked fresher: ‘Tell me, you, what do you deal in? I expect you live on the moon?’ – ‘Very well, let’s talk about the moon then.’ A man with a curly brown beard had been standing in the doorway for the past five minutes or so. He now walked up to the table, and sat down on a chair. He was about the same age, and had on a black velvet hat like the other man. He waved his hand about, and his voice shrilled: ‘Who’s this then? What’re you doing with him?’ ‘And what are you doing, Eliser? I don’t know the fellow, he won’t tell me his name.’ ‘You been telling him stories.’ ‘That’s none of your business.’ The brown beard to the convict: ‘Has he been telling you stories?’ ‘He doesn’t speak. He just walks around and sings in people’s yards.’ ‘Then let him go.’ ‘What do you care what I do.’ ‘I listened at the door to what was passing between you. You were telling him all about Zannovich. That’s all you ever do.’ The stranger eyed the brown beard, growled: ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here? Why do you care what he does?’ ‘Did he tell you about Zannovich, or didn’t he? Of course he did. Nahum my brother-in-law goes around and talks and talks and never does anything.’ ‘I never asked for help from you. Wicked man, can’t you see the man’s in trouble.’ ‘So what if he is. God didn’t make you responsible for him, no, God waited for you to come along. On his own God couldn’t do anything for him.’ ‘Bad man.’ ‘You stay away from him. He’ll just fill your head with nonsense about Zannovich and who else succeeded in this world.’ ‘Won’t you leave us alone now.’ ‘Listen to the cheat, the doer of good deeds. He wants to tell me what to do. Is this your flat? What did you tell him about Zannovich this time, your shining example? You should have been our rabbi, and we’d have had the pleasure of feeding you.’ – ‘I don’t need your charity.’ The brown beard raised his voice: ‘And we don’t need scroungers hanging on our apron strings. Did he tell you what happened to his Zannovich at the end?’ ‘Bastard, bad man.’ ‘Did he tell you?’ The convict blinked sleepily at the red-haired man, who shook his fist and stalked over to the door, then he growled after him: ‘Don’t run off, man, don’t get het up, let him speak.’ Then the brown beard started in on him, with jerky hand movements, slipping back and forth, with tongue clicks and head wags, a new expression every other second, now addressing the stranger, and now the redhead: ‘He makes people stupid. Let him tell what became of his Stefan Zannovich. He doesn’t like to say, why doesn’t he like to say, I wonder.’ ‘Because you’re a bad man, Eliser.’ ‘Better man than you. They chased his Zannovich (both hands raised in revulsion, terrible round eyes) from Florence like a thief. Why? Because they saw him for what he was.’

The redhead loomed dangerously in front of him, the other motioned him away: ‘I’m talking now. He wrote letters to the nobility, a nobleman gets lots of letters, you can’t always tell from a letter what manner of man is writing it. Then he puffed himself up, and he went to Brussels as Prince of Albania or some such, and he got involved in politics. Well, it must have been his bad angel who led him on. He presents himself to the government, the boy Stefan Zannovich, and promises them a hundred thousand men for the war, or two hundred thousand, don’t ask me which, the government writes him a letter, thanks but no thanks, it didn’t want to get involved in his uncertain business. Then the bad angel told Stefan: take this letter, and borrow money on it. Here’s a letter from the minister addressed to His Highness, the Prince of Albania. They lent him money, and then the swindler was finished. How old did he get to be? Thirty – that was the reward for his crimes. He couldn’t repay the loan, they tried him in Brussels, and it all got out. Your hero, Nahum! Did you tell the visitor about his grim death in prison, when he opened his own veins? And how once he was dead – nice life, pretty death, why not tell it all – once he was dead, the hangman came, the knacker with his cart full of dead dogs and dead horses and dead cats, and picked up his body, and wheeled him out of town to their gallows hill and covered the body with all sorts of rubbish from the city.’ The man in the summer duster sat there open-mouthed: ‘Is that right?’ (A sick mouse can groan.) The redhead had counted every word yelled by his brother-in-law. He waited with raised index finger in front of the brown beard’s face, as if for a cue, and then jabbed him in the chest and spat at his feet, ptui, ptui: ‘That’s for you. That’s what I think of you. My brother-in-law.’ The brown beard waggled over to the window: ‘There, and now you talk, and tell me it’s not true.’ The walls melted away.

There was a small space with a light bulb, two Jews running around, one with brown hair, one with red, both in black velvet hats, bickering. He applied to his friend, the redhead: ‘You, listen to me, you, is it true what he said about the man, and how he lost his way and they put him to death?’ The brown beard yelled: ‘Put him to death, when did I say put him to death? He killed himself.’ The redhead: ‘He did very likely kill himself.’ The freed man: ‘And what did they do, the others in with him?’ The redhead: ‘Who, who?’ ‘Well, there’ll have been others there besides him, besides Stefan. They won’t all have been ministers and bankers and crooks.’ The redhead and the brown beard exchanged glances. The redhead: ‘Well, what do you think they did? They’ll have sat and watched.’ The freed man in the yellow summer duster, the big fellow, picked up his hat, brushed it down, laid it on the table, all in silence, and unbuttoned his waistcoat: ‘Here, look at my trousers. I used to be so fat, and now I can stuff both fists inside the waistband, that’s what hunger did to me. It’s all gone. My whole belly gone to pot. That’s how you get ruined, for not always having been the way you were supposed to be. I don’t think the others are that much better either. No I don’t. They want to drive you crazy.’ The brown beard whispered to the redhead: ‘There you are.’ ‘Where am I?’ ‘Well, a jailbird.’ ‘So what if.’ The freed man: ‘Then it’s: you’re being released, and it’s straight back in it, the same shit you were in before. Snow joke.’ He buttoned up his waistcoat again. ‘You can tell that by what they’ve done. They get the dead man out of his cell, the man with the cart comes along, and throws a dead human being on it, who’s gone and killed hisself, poor bastard, I wonder why he wasn’t brained right away, for transgressing against a human being, never mind what he did.’ The redhead, sorrowfully: ‘What can I say?’ ‘Is it that we’re nothing, once we’ve done something? Anyone can get another go who’s been to prison, never mind what it is they’re in for.’ (Regrets? You want to breathe! Cut loose! Then everything’s in the past, fear and all.) ‘I just wanted to show you: you shouldn’t believe everything my brother-in-law says. Sometimes you can’t do everything you’d like to, sometimes things get fouled up.’ ‘That’s not justice, getting tossed in the garbage like you were a dead dog, and rubbish dumped on top of you, that’s not what I call justice towards a dead man.

No sir. But now I want to say goodbye to you. Gimme your paw. You mean well and so do you (he shook hands with the redhead). Biberkopf is the name, Franz Biberkopf. It was nice of the pair of you to take me in. My bird was singing back then, in the courtyard. Well, cheers to you both, it’ll pass.’ The two Jews shook him by the hand, smiled. The redhead clasped his hand a long time, beamed: ‘Now, are you sure you’re all right? I’ll be happy to see you, whenever you have a moment.’ ‘Thank you kindly, I’ll do that, I’m sure I’ll have time, it’s the money that worries me. And give my best to the old gentleman, too. He’s got strength in his hand, he must have been a butcher or what? Oh, let me just straighten the rug, it’s all skew. No, no, I’ll take care of it, and the table too. There.’ He worked on the floor, laughed at the redhead over his shoulder: ‘So we sat on the floor and told each other stories. That’s a nice place to sit, if you forgive my saying so.’ They walked him to the door, the redhead still concerned: ‘Will you be able to walk on your own?’ The brown beard jabbed him in the ribs: ‘Don’t be such a mother hen.’ The freed man, walking upright, shook his head, displaced air with both his arms (You need to clear space for yourself, space is what you need, and nothing more): ‘Don’t you worry about me. You can let me go. You were telling me all about how important it was to have feet and eyes. Well, I still got them. No one’s cut those off of me yet. Morning, gents.’ And he crossed the narrow, cluttered yard, the two of them peeking down after him from the stairway. He had his hat pulled down over his face, and was muttering as he jumped over a puddle of petrol: ‘Filth. What about a cognac. Whoever comes near me gets one in the face. Let’s see where I can get me a cognac.’

MARKETS OPENING DIRECTION LESS , GRADUALLY DRIFTING LOWER , HAMBURGOUT OF BED THE WRONG SIDE , LONDON CONTINUING WEAK 

It was raining. On the left, down Münzstrasse, were blinking lights that indicated cinemas. On the corner he got held up, people were stood in front of a fence, there was a big hole there, the tramlines on their sleepers were crossing empty space, just then a tram slowly passed. Look at that, they’re building an Underground, there must be work to be had in Berlin after all. Another cinema, no admission to anyone under seventeen. On the enormous poster was a red gentleman on a staircase, and a sweet girl was clutching at his legs, she was sprawled over the stairs and there was smuggins at the top. Below he read: Orphaned, the story of a child in six acts. Yes, think I’ll treat myself to that. The orchestrion was grinding away. Admission: 60 pfennigs.

A man said to the cashier: ‘Miss, is there a discount for an old reservist in good shape?’ ‘No, only for infants under six months with dummy.’ ‘That’s me, then. Newborn on the never-never.’ ‘All right, then, fifty, come on in.’ Behind him a skinny fellow with a kerchief round his neck cut in: ‘Please, miss, will you let me in for free.’ ‘As if. Ask your mama to put you on the potty.’ ‘Well, can I?’ ‘Can you what?’ ‘Go in the flicker.’ ‘This ain’t no flicker.’ ‘Oh, ain’t it.’ She called through the ticket window to the lookout by the door: ‘Maxie, come here a minute. Here’s someone who wants to know if this is a cinema. Hasn’t got my money. Show him what’s here.’ ‘You wanna know what’s here, young fella? Ain’t it clicked? This is the poorhouse, Münzstrasse section.’ He shoved the skinny fellow away from the box office, waved a fist in his face: ‘And if you like, you can have that in writing.’ Franz pushed on in. There was a break in the programme. The long space was chock-a-block, 90 per cent of them men in caps which they keep on throughout. Three overhead lamps with red shades. At the front a yellow piano with parcels on it. The orchestrion grinding on without a break. The lights go down and the film begins. A goose girl is to be educated, why isn’t immediately clear. She wiped her nose with her hand, scratched her bottom on the steps, the whole cinema laughed out loud. Franz was exhilarated by the sniggering all round. Here were lots of people, at liberty and enjoying themselves, no one’s telling them what to do, how lovely, and yours truly in the midst of it! The show went on. The stuck-up baron had a lover who sprawled in a hammock and stuck her legs straight up in the air. She kept her knickers on though. There’s a thing. What did people see in that dirty goosegirl, now she was licking her plate. Once again the one with the long legs came up. The baron had dumped her, she flew out of her hammock and lay sprawled on the grass for a long time. Franz stared at the wall, there was the next scene already, but he could still see her spilling out of the hammock and lying there motionless. He chewed on his tongue, my word. Then, when someone who was the goosegirl’s beau embraced the lady, he got a rush of feeling across his chest, as if he was hugging himself. It affected him so much, he came over all weak.

A woman. (So there’s more in the world than bother and dread. What’s it all for? Christ, man, air, a woman!) How had he failed to think of that. You stand at the window of your cell, staring out at the prison yard through the bars. Sometimes women go by, visiting, or children, or cleaners for the governor. The way they stand pressed to the windows, the convicts, eyeing, all the windows full, gobbling up any passing woman. A sergeant had a conjugal visit lasting a fortnight from his wife in Eberswalde, it used to be he only went to see her once a fortnight, he saved em up and cashed em in, and at work he can hardly keep his head up he’s so shagged out.

Franz was already out on the street in the rain. What to do? I’m free – gotta have a woman. Where’s a woman. Delightful, life on the outside. Be able to stand still and walk wherever. His legs were shaking, he felt no ground under them. Then on the corner of Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse there was one behind the market cart, and he stopped in front of her, didn’t care what she was like. Crikey, where do these jelly legs come from all of a sudden. He sloped off with her, biting his underlip to stop it shaking, if you live any distance off, I’m not going. It was only diagonally across Bülowplatz, past the fences, through an entryway, across a yard and down half a dozen steps. She turned, laughed: ‘Hold on a minute, just let me park my umbrella.’ He squeezed, thrust, pinched at her, ran his hands over her coat, he was still in his hat, crossly she let the umbrella clatter to the floor: ‘Let go of me, man,’ he panted, faked a smile, ‘What’s the matter with you?’ ‘You’re ripping my clothes. I don’t spose you’ll pay for the damage either. Well, then. No one gives us anything.’ When he refused to let go of her: ‘I can’t breathe. What’s wrong with you. Idiot.’ She was sluggish, fat, short, he had to hand over the 3 marks first, she put them away carefully in her dresser and stuck the key in her pocket. He, not taking his eyes off her: ‘I been inside for a couple of years, gal. Tegel, you can imagine.’ ‘Where’s that?’ ‘Tegel, you can imagine.’ The fat woman laughed full-throatedly. She was undoing her blouse at the top. There were two king’s children, who loved each other oh-so much. When the dog jumps over the kerb with the sausage in its teeth. She clutched him, pulled him to her. Chook, chook, chook, my little chicken, my little chickadee.

Before long he had sweat on his face, he was groaning. ‘What are you groaning for?’ ‘Who’s the fellow running around next door?’ ‘That’s no fellow, that’s my landlady.’ ‘Well, what’s she doing then?’ ‘How do I know. It’s her kitchen.’ ‘I want her to stop it. Why does she have to do that now. I can’t stand it.’ ‘Oh yes, I’ll just tell her to stop then, would you like that.’ What a sweaty man, won’t you be happy to be rid of him, layabout, I’ll put him out just as soon as I can. She knocked on the door: ‘Frau Priese. Would you mind being quiet for a few minutes, I’ve got a gentleman I’m trying to talk to, it’s important.’ There, that’s done, dear Lord, now you can be at peace, come to my bosom, but you’ll be flying out in a jiffy.

She thought, her head on the pillows, the yellow shoes could do with re- soling, Kitty’s new man will do it for a couple of marks if she doesn’t mind, I’ll not steal him away from her, or mebbe he could dye them brown to go with my blouse, which is an old rag already, it’ll about do for a tea-cosy, the lace trim needs ironing, I’ll tell Frau Priese as soon as I can, she’ll have her hearth on still, wonder what’s cooking today. She sniffed. Fried herrings.

Through his head rhymes rolled, incomprehensible stuff, a procession: cooking soup, Miss Stein, I’ll have a spoonful, cooking noodles, Miss Stein, give me noodles, Miss Stein, I fall down, I get up. He groaned loudly: ‘Don’t you like me then?’ ‘Why wouldn’t I sweetie, come here, love for a Sechser.’ He tumbled into bed, grunted, groaned. She scratched her throat: ‘You do make me laugh. You can lie still a moment. I’m not bothered.’ She laughed, extended her plump arms, pushed her stockinged feet out of the bed. ‘It’s not my fault.’ Out on the street! Air! It’s still raining. What can the matter be? I better find myself another one. Have a good sleep. Franz, my boy, what’s wrong with you? Sexual potency in the male is produced by the following, working in concert: 1. the glandular system, 2. the nervous system and 3. the sexual organs. The glands involved are: the pituitary, the thyroid, the suprarenal, the prostate, the seminal vesicle and the epididymis. The lead role is taken by the sperm gland, the entire sexual apparatus from cerebral cortex to genitals is activated by its secretions. The erotic trigger releases the erotic tension of the cerebral cortex, the charge moves in the form of sexual excitement from the cerebral cortex to the switch centre in the interbrain. This charge then funnels down the spine. Not unimpeded, because before it quits the brain, it needs to pass the inhibitors, mainly intellectual inhibitors, moral scruples, lack of self-confidence, fear of humiliation, fear of infection and pregnancy, etc. etc. play a great part.

Then dawdled down Elsasser Strasse at night. Don’t hang about, mate, don’t pretend to be tired. ‘How much you asking?’ The darkhaired one is good, the hips on her like a pretzel. If a girl’s got a guy she likes. ‘You’re in a good mood, darling. You must have come into some money.’ ‘Sure I have. I’m good for a thaler.’ ‘Why not.’ But he’s still nervous.

And then up in her room, flowers behind the curtains, tidy little room, sweet little room, she’s even got a gramophone, she sings for him, in Bemberg’s artificial silk stockings, blouse off, eyes blacker than kohl: ‘You know, I’m a shantoose. Guess where? Anywhere that takes my fancy. I’m just between engagements now. I go to bars I like, and then I enquire. And then: my song. I’ve got a song. Hey, stop tickling me.’ ‘Come on, cut it out.’ ‘No, hands off, that’s bad for business. My song, be nice, sweetie, I conduct a proper auction in the bar, no passing round a hat. Anyone who can afford it gets to kiss me. Wild, eh. In the public bar. None under fifty pfennigs. I get it every time. Here on my shoulder. You can, too.’ She puts on a gentleman’s top hat, cackles in his face, waggles her hips, arms akimbo: ‘Theodor whatever did you have in mind when you eyed me up last night? Theodor what have you gone and done, you rotter when you trett me to champagne and trotters.’ The way she perches on his lap, sticks a cigarette in her bill that she’s sneaked out of his weskit, looks meltingly in his eye, rubs her earlobes softly against his, tootles: ‘Do you know what homesickness is? Homesickness that breaks your heart? Everything around feels so cold and empty.’ She trills, stretches out on the chaise. She smokes, strokes his hair, trills, laughs.

The sweat on his forehead! The fear again! And suddenly his brain gives another lurch. Boom, bells, get up, five-thirty, six o’clock unlocked, boom boom, a quick brush of the jacket in case the old man holds inspection, but not today. I’m being released soon. Psst, you, last night someone did a runner, Klose, the rope’s still dangling over the wall, they’re after him with dogs. He groans, his head lifts, he sees the girl, her chin, her throat. How will I ever get out of here. They won’t let me out. I’m still not out. She blows blue smoke rings in his face, titters: ‘Ooh, you, I’ll pour you a Mampe for thirty pfennigs.’ He lies there, full-length: ‘What do I want with a Mampe? I’m all gone. I did time in Tegel, for what. First I was with the Prussians in the trenches and then in the big house in Tegel. I’m not a human being any more.’ ‘Oh come. You’re not about to start crying on me, are you. Come on, big fella, open wide, a big fella needs a drink. Here is where we have fun, we enjoy ourselves, we laugh, from morning till night.’ ‘And that’s what they give me shit for. They might as well have cut my throat, the sons of bitches. They might as well have thrown my body out on the dump as well.’ ‘Come on, big fella, another Mampe. If it’s your eyes, go to Mampe, let Mampe light the way for you.’ ‘The girls chased after you like sheep, and you didn’t so much as spit at them, and then suddenly you’re flat on your face.’ She picks up another one of his cigarettes which are tumbling out on the floor: ‘Yes, you’d better go to the nice policeman and tell him.’ ‘I’m going.’ He looks for his braces. And doesn’t say another word, and doesn’t look at the girl, slobberlips, who’s smoking and smiles and looks at him, quickly scuffs a few more of his cigarettes under the chaise with her foot. And he grabs his hat, and down the stairs, takes the 68 to Alexanderplatz and sits and broods over a beer in a bar.

Testifortan, patent no. 365695, potency remedy endorsed by Drs Magnus Hirschfeld and Bernhard Schapiro of the Institute for Sexual Science, Berlin. The principal causes for impotence are A. insufficient charge through malfunctioning of the glands; B. excessive resistance by exaggerated mental blocks, fatiguing of the erective centre. If the impotent man tries again, each case has to be handled individually. A rest can often be helpful.

And he eats his bellyful and gets a good night’s sleep, and the next day on the street he thinks: I fancy this one and I fancy that one, but he doesn’t proposition either. And the dummy in the shop window, the curves on that, she’d suit me, either. And the dummy in the shop window, the curves on that, she’d suit me, but I’m not propositioning her either. And he sits in the bar and looks no one in the face and eats his fill and drinks. From now on I’ll do nuffink all day but eat and drink and sleep, and life will be over for me. Over, over.

VICTORY ALL ALONG THE LINE! FRANZ BIBERKOPF BUYS A VEAL ESCALOPE

And now it’s Wednesday, the third day, and he gets into his coat. Who’s to blame for everything? Ida, always Ida. Who else. I broke her fucking ribs, that’s why they put me in clink. Now she’s got what she wanted, she’s dead, and I’m standing there. And wailing and running down the freezing streets. Where to? Where they used to live, at her sister’s. Down Invalidenstrasse, into Ackerstrasse, whish into the house, back courtyard. No prison, no conversation with any Jews on Dragonerstrasse. The bitch is to blame, where is she. Saw nothing, noticed nothing on the way, just went there. The odd facial twitch, the odd twitch finger, that’s where we’ll go, rumbly bumbly kieker di nell, rumbly bumbly kieker di nell, rumbly bumbly.

Ding-dong. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Me.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Open up, woman.’ ‘My God, Franz, it’s you.’ ‘Open the door.’ Rumbly bumbly kieker di nell. Rumbly. Bit of thread on my tongue, spit it out. He’s standing in the corridor, she locks the door after him. ‘What are you doing here. What if someone had seen you on the steps.’ ‘Doesn’t matter. Let them. G’morning.’ Hangs a left into the parlour. Rumbly bumbly. That thread on his tongue, can’t seem to catch it. He picks at it with his finger. But it’s nothing, just a stupid feeling on the tip of his tongue. So there’s the parlour again, the horsehair sofa, the Kaiser on the wall, a Frenchie in scarlet troos is just handing his sword to him. Surrender bender. ‘What are you doing here, Franz? You must be mad.’ ‘I’ll sit down then, shall I.’ I surrender, the Kaiser takes his sword, then the Kaiser has to give him back his sword, that’s the way of the world. ‘If you don’t go, I’ll scream the place down.’ ‘Why would you do that?’ Rumbly bumbly, I’ve come such a long way, here I am, here I stay.