Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf by Alfred Döblin Read Free Book Online Page B

within a period of 14 days, with the warning that, should you be found after that period within the said area, or should you return therein, you will be fined, under Paragraph 132, Clause 2, of the General Administration Act of July 30, Q 11 E 1883, the sum of 100 marks, or, in default of payment, be sentenced to 10 days’ imprisonment. I also direct your attention to the fact that, in the event of your being found in any of the following places adjacent to Berlin: Potsdam, Spandau, Friedrichsfelde, Karlshorst, Friedrichshagen, Oberschbneweide and Wuhlheide, Fichtenau, Rahnsdorf, Carow, Buch, Frohnau, Copenick, Lankwitz, Steglitz, Zehlendorf, Treptow, Dahlem, Wannsee, KleinGlienicke, Nowawes, Neuendorf, Eiche, Bornim, and Bornstedt, you are liable to expulsion from these places. I. Ve. Copy No. 986a.
    A staggering blow, that. There was a fine house alongside the city car-line, Grunerstrasse 1, on the Alex, Prisoners’ Aid. There they take a look at Franz, ask him this and that, sign: Herr Franz Biberkopf has sought our protective supervision, we will make inquiries whether you are working, and you will have to report here every month. O.K., full stop, everything, everything going slick.
    Forgotten all fear, forgotten Tegel and the red walls, and the groaning and all that sort of thing - to hell with it. A new life’s about to begin, the old life’s all in, Franz Biberkopf is back to stay and the Prussians are happy and shout hurray.
    Then for four weeks he filled his belly with meat, potatoes, and beer, and went once more to see the Jews in Dragonerstrasse to express his thanks. Nachum and Eliser were going after each other again. They did not recognize him when he entered, all dolled up, stout and smelling of brandy as he was, and asked in a whisper, his hat respectfully before his mouth, whether the old gentleman’s grandchildren were still sick. In the saloon at the corner where he stood up the drinks, they asked him, what kind of business he was in. “Me and business. I ain’t got any business. With me things just go along any old way.” “And where do you get your money from?” “From the old days, savings, I guess a man can save something, can’t he?” He nudged Nachum in the ribs, puffed up his nose, looked at him with canny, mysterious eyes: “You still know that story about Zannovich? A crazy hound. Was a fine chap. Afterwards they killed him. Funny how you know everything. I’d like to be a prince, too, and study. No, I ain’t goin’ to study. Maybe I’ll get married, instead.” “Good luck.” “You must come around and see me then, we’ll put on the feed-bag and soak it up.”
    Nachum, red-haired Nachum, looked at him, rubbed his chin: “You’ll listen to another story, mebbe. A man once had a ball, you know, the kind children have, but not made out of rubber, of celluloid, transparent, and inside there are little lead shots. Children can rattle it and throw it. Then the man took the ball and threw it and he thought: there are lead shots in it, so I can throw it, and the ball won’t run any farther, it’ll stand still right on the spot I intend it to. But when he threw the ball, it didn’t go the way Ill’ had intended, it made one more jump, and then it rolled a bit, about I wo hands sideways.” “Leave him alone with your stories, Nachum. The man don’t need you, does he?” The stout chap: “What about that ball, and why are you scrapping again? Say, boss, look at them two here, they been scrapping ever since I know ‘em.” “You gotta let people be the way they dre. Scrapping is good for the liver.” The red-haired man: “I’ll tell you, I saw you in the street, in the courtyard, and heard you sing. You sing very nice. You’re a good man. But don’t get so excited. Just hold your horses. Be patient in this world. What do I know about how it looks inside you and what God intends to do with you? You see, the ball don’t go the way you throw it and the way you want it to,