All language subtitles for Berlin.Alexanderplatz.E14.1080p.Bluray.x264

Why are two angels walking beside Franz?
What kind of game is this?

Where do two angels
walk beside a man...

on Alexanderplatz, Berlin, in 1928:
a man who has killed,

and who is now a burglar and a pimp.

This tale of Franz Biberkopf
and his oppressive,

yet real and illuminating existence...

has progressed this far.

The more Franz Biberkopf writhes
and foams...

the clearer everything becomes.

The moment nears
when everything will be illuminated.

Look, he's got a false arm.

He hasn't given up the game yet.

He doesn't want to be recognized.

Mr Biberkopf.

What's this distinguished gentleman
been up to?

He's a hardened criminal
who should be thrown in jail.

He should get life:

killing a woman, pinching things,

robbery, and then another woman.

He's to blame for that, too.
What does he expect?

What do you think, Sarug?

What would happen if this man
were left to his own devices?

It wouldn't make any difference.

Then we're superfluous?

Yes, a little, I think,

because we can't get him...

completely out of here.

If we were to take this man
out of here,

put him somewhere else,
in another existence:

has he done all he could do here?

I don't know.

But this man is very ordinary.

Why do we have to protect him
of all people?

Ordinary, extraordinary:
what does that mean?

Is a beggar ordinary,
or a rich man extraordinary?

Tomorrow the rich man's a beggar,
and the beggar's rich.

He puffs himself up,

plays the innocent, decent guy.

Just look at the scoundrel.

But wait till a cop comes by.

That'll knock his hat sideways.

Why should a guy like that
go on living?

I snuffed it, too.

I was even younger than he is
and already dead.

Not a peep out of me anymore.

Take your hat off, you ape.

You're not a journalist,

you dope.

You don't even know your ABCs.

Just wait. They'll get you, too.

Leave him alone.

He's nuts.

He's got a screw loose.

Look! He's walking with two angels,

and his sweetheart's a corpse
at police headquarters.

He's all washed up.

You don't start yelling about
a guy like that.

My life is over.

I'm finished. I've had enough.

What city is this?

What enormous city is this?

And what kind of life...

did I lead in it?

I didn't kill Mieze, though.

I didn't do that.

And I don't know...

how it all came about.

But she called out for you
when she died.

She's probably arrived here already.

You land up here
faster than you think.

"I can't go on living."

"Say goodbye to my parents
and my kid.

Life's become an agony for me.
Only Reinhold has me on his conscience.

Let him have his fun!

He just used me like a toy
and bled me white.

A big, low-down good-for-nothing.

He was responsible for my misfortune.

I'm all washed up."

Is my Mieze here?

Don't be sad.

You shouldn't be sad.

But where's my little Mieze?

What's troubling you, my son?

Speak up! What's troubling you?

I just wanted to see my Mieze,
that's all.

I just happened to be passing by.

Look, I'm already dead.

Don't take life so hard,

nor death, for that matter.

You can make things easier
for yourself.

When I'd had enough and was sick,
what did I do?

Do you think I'd wait
'til I get bedsores?

Why should I?

I put the bottle of morphine
next to me.

Then I said: "Turn up the music,
piano, jazz, hits..."

I had them read to me from Plato,

just the Symposium.

It's a beautiful dialogue.

And all the time,
beneath the blanket...

I was secretly giving myself
one shot after another.

I counted them:

three times the fatal dose.

And all the time,
I heard the tinkling of the piano.

It's amusing.

And the person reading to me
spoke of Socrates.

There are clever people...

and not so clever people.

Come here. Quick.

Cut him down.
He doesn't want to stay in his grave.

He keeps climbing up trees
and hanging there all crooked.

Really? Why?

He was sick for so long.
No one could help him,

and they didn't want to
send him away.

They kept saying
he was just pretending.

So he went down to the cellar...

with a hammer and a nail.

I could hear him hammering.
I wondered what he was doing.

"Good that he's working
and not just sitting around," I thought.

"Maybe he's building a rabbit hutch."

But he was just hammering
a thick nail into the ceiling.

He wanted to make sure.

What's the matter?
Are you all right?

Something wrong, young man?

What are you whimpering about?

Do you want to kill yourself, too?

No.

They've killed my girl,
and I don't know where her body is.

Then take a look back there,
where the new ones are.

My God,

why can't you stay lying down here?

Why do you have to keep climbing
up the trees?

In Berlin, in 1927, 48,742 people died,

not counting the stillborn:

4,570 of tuberculosis,

6,443 of cancer,

5,656 of heart disease,

4,818 of vascular disease,

5,140 of strokes,

2,419 of pneumonia,

961 of whooping cough,

562 children died of diphtheria,

123 of scarlet fever,

93 of measles.

A total of 3,640 infants died,

and there were 42,696 births.

Mieze!

Mieze, what have we done?

Why did they do that to you?

You didn't do anything, Mieze.

This man here,

however ordinary his path
through life may have seemed,

differs in one respect
from ordinary people.

What could it be that makes him
different from ordinary people?

You just said "ordinary"
and "extraordinary"...

are words devoid of meaning.

This man has unwittingly failed
to grow up, Sarug.

But he's about to now.

And everyone...

who suffers from
this rare misfortune...

has the tendency, when on the
threshold of seeing and feeling,

to gain this insight
and then slip away and die.

The exceptional strain has exhausted
him, body and soul.

Do you understand?

Yes, so far I understand.
But assuming we save his life,

which is exhausted in body and soul,

what sort of life will that be?

An ordinary one, no more, no less.

Then why all our trouble and effort?

Who could be interested in
preserving such a life?

That's precisely the secret.

You see,
you don't know either, Sarug,

how you became what you are,

the way you were,

how you came to be
walking here with me...

and protecting other beings.

That's true, Terah. I don't know.

One is never intrinsically strong,

just by nature.

You must have been through
something.

Strength has to be acquired.

You don't know how you acquired it.

Suddenly you're standing there,

and things that are deadly to others
are no longer a danger to you.

Mieze, Mieze! What can I do?

Why don't they throw me
in a grave like that?

How much longer must it go on?

"Once more entering the field,

God's might will lead us on.

Fighting for Him,
we shall not yield,

'Til the Lord's victory be won.

He who prays and trusts God's might,

May assured of victory be,

Through all the darkness
and the night,

His soul be pure and free.

If Satan seeks to harm my soul,

Still I shall have no fear,

For God shall be my constant goal,

And Him I shall revere.

He who prays and trusts God's might,

May assured of victory be,

Through all the darkness and the night,

His soul be pure and free."

Lüders.

You were the first swine.

You were the first mean,
low-down, dirty swine.

It was you who began to destroy me,

who started eating away at me,

ruining me.

It all started with you.

It's November 22nd.
Do you want to catch cold?

Why don't you go to your beloved bar
and have a drink?

Hand Reinhold over!

You belong in the madhouse
with a nervous breakdown.

Let him come out, the scum,

the horny bastard!

Or don't you have the guts to?

Who are you calling to
if he doesn't answer?

You're calling someone
who's not here.

No one would be crazy enough to hide
where you look for him.

Police!

Hey, police, police!

My God. Franz!

What are you doing
lying on the ground?

Why?

Everyone's looking for you,
and with your arm,

it's a wonder
they haven't found you yet.

Have you found out anything else?

There's nothing I can do.

I have to endure it.

He can destroy me.

He did the girl in,

and here I stand like a fool.

We believe you, Franz.
We both believe you.

You go on until you break.

I've stood enough and done enough.

I can't do anymore.

No one can say...

I didn't defend myself.

But it's the straw that breaks
the camel's back.

Since I can't kill Reinhold,
I'll kill myself.

I'll go to hell...

with drums and trumpets sounding!

That's the man.

We'll go to hell...

with drums and trumpets sounding.

We're finished with this world.

To hell with it and everything...

in it, under it, and over it,

and with all the people,

the men and women,

the infernal riffraff!

You can't rely on anyone.

If I were a little bird,
I'd take a pile of crap...

and throw it behind me with both legs.
Then I'd fly away.

If there is a God,
we're not only different...

from Him because of our evil
or virtue.

We all have a different nature
and different lives.

We differ in manner,
in our past and our future.

What's up, Andrei?

I'm ashamed of myself.

I don't understand.

Why are you ashamed of yourself?

Because of you.

Because of me?

How come?

Because I love you.

That's nonsense.

That's perfectly normal in here.

In here, people love each other,

but outside, everything's different.
You forget all about it.

That's just it.

For all I care...

For all I care,
it may be normal for everyone in here:

for everyone, but not for me.

For me, it's just not normal.

That's nonsense, Andrei.

It's because this
is your first time in here.

Most people feel the same.

They feel ashamed,

but once they're outside again...

and everything's as it used to be,
they laugh about it...

and say,
"Oh, we just had a bit of fun in there."

Better than no fun at all,
you understand?

It's not just that.

There's something else as well.

All my life,

I was crazy about broads.

At the same time, I was sick of them
and didn't know how to get rid of them.

I always suffered from the fact...

that I couldn't stand them...

and that they didn't go away.

All my life.

Now, when I imagine...

that they're letting you out,
and I'm staying here...

For the first time,

I don't understand myself.

I simply don't understand myself.

When they let you out
the day after tomorrow,

then...

In the past, that was all different,

completely different.

Another four years
I have to do here,

all because of some stupidity.

What are four years?

And without you as well.

I wouldn't even have known
where to get the schnapps.

I'm really lost.

When you've been here a bit longer,

you'll know all the tricks...

and get all the schnapps
in the world.

I don't want to. I don't want to.

I can't bear it.

I can't go on living like this.

And then there's that revolting Polack.

I can't bear it.

Andrei, what did he want anyway?

Never mind.

It doesn't matter now anyway.

How could I know,

my God, that it'd be four years?

I never dreamed
they'd give me four years.

What's up with you and this...
this Pole?

You're a Pole yourself, aren't you?

What do you have against him?

I'm not a Pole.

That's what he wanted from me:

to know I'm not a Pole.

I don't understand.

I thought your name's
Andrei Moroskiewicz.

That's Polish, isn't it?

That's just it:

my name's not Andrei Moroskiewicz...

or anything like it.

That's just it.

And now he's trying...

to put the screws on me...

'til I submit.

He wants to squeeze me out
like a lemon.

He's got me in the palm of his hand.

Why do you have a Polish passport
if that's not your name?

My God,

why do I have a passport like that?

Simply...

because I wanted to be
a real smart ass.

I go to a streetcar stop...

and snatch a woman's purse,

and I get myself arrested.

Then, when I'm in court,

the passport turns out to
belong to a guy who's wanted.

I love you so much.

Even if you're not a girl,

I love to touch you.

You have such a beautiful skin.

I'll be done for when you go.

It's all over for me.

I still don't understand
the story about the name.

My God,

it's simple.

I killed a girl.

Did you hear me?

I did a girl in.

Don't look at me like that.

I didn't want to.

It just happened.

Come here.

Come to me.

There was a 1,000-mark reward
on Reinhold's head.

What was one to do?

Go on unemployment and think about
it with 1,000 marks at stake?

So they caught him
and put him in a police cell.

The Death of a Child...

and the Birth
of a Worthwhile Human Being

What's up?

He's badly hurt.

We must drive him to the hospital.

Baloney.

It's best to finish him off.

We'll drive over him some more
and throw him in the ditch.

In the prison, they think at first...

Franz Biberkopf is just pretending
to be crazy,

knowing that his head's on the block.

Then the doctor examines the prisoner.

They take him to the hospital in Moabit.

But they can't get a word
out of him there either.

The man really seems to be insane.

He lies there all stiff,
his eyes blinking occasionally.

When he refuses all food for two days,

they drive him out to Buch,
to the madhouse, a closed asylum.

It's the right thing to do:
the man must be kept under observation.

No!

No.

She sits by the water,
the great Babylon,

the mother of whoring
and all horrors on earth.

She sits on a scarlet beast,

she has seven heads and ten horns.

It's a sight to see!
She delights in every step you take.

She's drunk with the blood
of the saints whom she tears apart.

There are the horns she lunges with.

She comes from the abyss
and leads to damnation.

Look at her:
the pearls, the purple color,

the scarlet, her teeth,

how she bares them,

the bloated lips!

Blood has flowed over them,
she has drunk with them.

Oh, whore, Babylon,

golden yellow, poisonous eyes,
distended neck:

the way she smiles at you!

First, they put Franz
in the observation ward,

because he just lay stark naked
without covering himself,

and he kept tearing his nightshirt off.

That was the only sign of life
Franz Biberkopf gave for several weeks.

He kept his eyes tightly shut.

He lay there stiff,
refusing all nourishment,

so that they had to force-feed him...

for weeks on end with only milk and
eggs and a little cognac.

That's taking medical care too far.
Almost intrusive, isn't it?

He has to learn.

Hmm, that's what comes of it.

Yes, that's what comes of it.

Von Hardenberg, open up!

I don't understand it, Biberkopf.

Why won't you let us help you?

I just want to help you.

Von Hardenberg, open up!

For God's sake,

open your eyes!

You can hear me.

I'm faking it, too.

Home sweet home, you know.

Sweet home:

that's under the earth for me.

If I'm not at home,
I want to be put under the earth.

The microcephalics...

want to turn me into a troglodyte,

a caveman,

and this is the cave
I'm meant to live in.

You know what a troglodyte is,
don't you?

That's what we are.

Awake, O damned of this earth.

You who are constantly forced to
starve.

As victims,
you have fallen in battle,

in holy love of the people.

You gave your utmost for the people...

and life...

and happiness...

and freedom.

That's us.

Don't you understand?

That's us.

In magnificent chambers
the tyrant feasts,

drowning his unease in wine.

But a hand has long been writing
warning signs...

on the sumptuous table.

I'm self-taught.

The things I've learned I learned myself,
all from the penitentiary.

Now they lock me in here.

They take the people's rights away.

They regard me as a public danger.

Well,

so I am.

I'm a freethinker, I tell you.

You see me sitting here,

the calmest guy in the world,

but if I'm provoked!

The time will come...

when the people will awake,

the mighty, strong, free people.

Rest easy, then, brothers.

Nobly, grandly...

you have sacrificed yourselves for us,

I can't help but think that
Biberkopf's ailment is psychogenic.

This stiffness has its origins
in the mind.

His pathological state comes from
inhibitions and constraints,

which analysis could resolve,

maybe through a regression to
a far-removed mental state if...

"If", that big word "if".

That most regrettable word "if".
It's a pity,

but this "if" is a big problem.

...if Franz Biberkopf would speak,

sit down together with us...

and cooperate with us
in eliminating his conflict.

Next you'll believe that
the paralysis is psychological...

and the spirochetes
happen to be lice in his brain.

The mind, the mind.

Oh, this modern catch-all
for the emotions.

Medicine on the wings of song.

If I were you,

I'd try electricity.

That doesn't help either,

but it's better than all this blather.

Basically, that's nonsense, too.

If you use weak current,
it doesn't help.

Use strong current,
and you're really in for something.

One knows it from the war.

High-voltage treatment: oh, boy.

Anyway, that's not allowed here.
They call it modern torture.

Very well,

then what should we do,
in your opinion,

in a case like Franz Biberkopf's?

First, you make a diagnosis,
and the right one if possible.

A game leg...

won't heal with sweet talk.

You can play the piano to it:
it still won't heal.

You have to set the bones right
and apply a splint.

Then it'll heal.

It's the same with a corn.

You have to put lotion on it,

or buy better boots.

The latter is more expensive,
but more effective.

So what should we do
in this Biberkopf case?

I ask again,

Dr Proll: what's your opinion?

You just heard it:

make the right diagnosis,
which in this case,

according to my outdated diagnostics,

is catatonic stupor.

Unless, of course,

there's some major organic cause
behind it all:

in the brain, a tumor...

in the midbrain.

Catatonic stupor.

Yes.

Lying there all stiff,

the outbreaks of perspiration,

then the occasional
blinking of the eyes,

observing us very well,

but not saying anything,

and not eating anything either.

But sooner or later,
our Mr Malingerer...

or a psychogenic passes out.

Starve to death?
He won't let things go that far.

What does this diagnosis do
for the man?

It doesn't help him at all.

What do you say as senior physician?

He would have jumped at the chance
long ago...

if the problem were in his
so-called mind.

When a hard-boiled convict like him...

sees a young gentleman
who knows damn all about him...

- pardon my French -
and thinks he's a faith healer:

for a guy like that you're a godsend.

That's fine with him.

And what he does,
he would have done long ago.

You see, Doctor,

if the guy had his wits about him...

But that's just it, Doctor.

He's inhibited.

In my opinion, it's the result...

of some blockage,
but caused by mental factors:

a loss of reality,
disappointment, denial,

then childish,
impulsive claims on reality,

unsuccessful attempts to restore
his hold on it.

Nonsense. Mental factors, indeed.

Then he would experience
different mental factors.

Then he would overcome
the blockage and inhibitions,

give them to you for Christmas.

In one week,
he'd get up with your help.

My God,
what a great faith healer you are.

Praised be the new therapy!

Send a telegram in tribute to
Mr Freud in Vienna,

and a week later he'll be walking
the corridor with your help.

A miracle, a miracle! Hallelujah!

Another week, and he'll know his way
around the yard,

and thanks to your
benevolent support,

a week later, behind your back,
hallelujah, he'll be gone.

I don't understand that.

We should give it another try.

I don't believe it.

But I do.

You'll learn with time.

You need to have experienced all that.

So just don't torment
the man anymore.

Believe me, there's no point.

"He who leaves things
in God's hands..."

And the whole institution asks
but one question:

what injection will our Franz
get today?

And they laugh at the doctors
behind their backs,

because nothing works with him.

They can't get through to him.
He's a tough customer,

one of the toughest.
He'll show them all.

He knows what he wants.

"Look aloft, look aloft,

All gentle penitents!"

Who is this mendacious person?

Biberkopf! A real hoopoe!

A true cuckoo!

He's probably waiting
for the snow to fall,

thinks we'll have gone then
and won't come back.

The things he thinks.

A guy like that can't think at all.

He has no brains...

upstairs.

He just wants to lie here
and sulk or something.

We'll put a spoke in his wheel.

We have bones of iron.
Untie him.

Just watch this.

Another goal!

The goal's torn.

Watch this.

No goal:

an empty hole.

Snarl!

Calm down, gentlemen!

It's hardly worth it with that man.

The guy's not up to very much:

there's no meat and no fat on him.

He'll soon be cold.

They're already putting
hot-water bottles in his bed,

and I've got his blood.

He has only a little of it left.

He can't puff himself up
with that anymore.

It's as I said.

Just calm down,

gentlemen.

"Look aloft, look aloft,

All gentle penitents!

Look up to her,

your saving grace..."

Make...

Please make for me...

Please make...

a hole in the wall...

for me, so I can flee...

to the end of the world.

Man is an ugly beast,

the foe of all foes,

the most disgusting creature
on earth.

It's not good to live
within a human body.

I'd rather crouch beneath the earth,

run across the fields...

and feed on what I find.

The wind blows,

and the rain falls,

and the cold comes and goes.

That's better...

than living in a human body.

Yes!

You're almost there.

Keep going!

Soon the hole will be big enough...

for me to get out,

for me to get out of my skin.

Mieze.

Franz, you have to believe me:

I didn't want to.

He just fell on me...

and said I should pray.

And suddenly...

You must believe me, Franz.

Why should I lie to you?

Please, please, believe me, Franz.

Wait.

Please, please!

Franz. Let me explain.

There sits the great Babylon
by the water,

the mother of whoring
and all horrors on earth.

She sits on a scarlet beast
with seven heads and ten horns...

Please,

please, please, please!

Not today!

Not today.

Keep her away!

Keep her away.

She's drunk with the blood of
the saints whom she tears apart.

She comes from the abyss
and leads to damnation.

Death...

sings a slow, slow song.

"Give me your hand,

you fine, lovely creature

I understand...

and come not to torture

Be of good cheer

I am...

not wild.

Slumber gently...

in my arms like a child."

It is time for me
to appear before you,

for the seeds are flying
out of the window,

and you shake out your sheet...

as if you would never lie down again.

I am not just a reaper.

I am not just a sower.

What is important is to be here...

and to safeguard.

Oh yes.

Oh yes.

Oh yes.

I stand here and have to record.

The man who lies here,

surrendering life and body,

is Franz Biberkopf.

Wherever he is,

he knows where he's going
and what he wants.

Sure, that is a lovely song.

But can you hear it?

And what does it mean:

it is Death singing?

I want to speak the plain truth,

the plain truth,

and this truth is...

that Franz Biberkopf
belongs to Death,

this Death.

He hears him slowly singing,
like a stutterer,

with constant repetitions,
like a saw cutting into wood.

I am here to record, Franz Biberkopf.
You wish to come to me.

You are right, Franz, to come to me.

How can a man thrive...

if he does not seek out death,

true death, real death?

Your whole life you've been
safeguarding yourself. Safeguarding:

that's man's fearful desire.

And so everything stays as it is
and doesn't move on.

I first spoke to you
when Lüders deceived you.

You drank and held yourself guarded.

Your arm was smashed.

Your life was in danger, Franz.

Admit it: you didn't think of death
for a minute.

I sent you everything,

but you didn't recognize me.

And when you found out who I was,

you ran from me,
ever more frantically.

You never thought of
surrendering yourself.

And whatever you undertook,

you clutched at
the idea of strength,

and that fixation...

still hasn't abated.

But it's no use.

You felt it yourself.

It's no use.

There comes the moment
when nothing helps.

Death does not sing you
a gentle song...

and put a choking collar
around your neck.

I am the life,

and the true strength.

At last, at last,

I wish to safeguard myself no more.

Greater than the strongest cannon
is my might.

You don't want to live free of me
in your own right.

You want to experience your own self,
put yourself to the test.

Life can't be worthwhile
out of my sight.

Come closer to me...

so that you can see me,

so that you can see...

how you lie
at the bottom of the abyss.

It's so dark,

I can't see a thing.

You just don't want to come
closer to me.

Then I shall make light for you.

Then you will find your way.

If you lack courage
to come in the dark,

I shall make light, that you can
better find your way to me.

Franz is screaming.

He's crawling along and screaming.

All night he screams.
Franz is on the march.

He screams into the day.

He screams into the morning.

Swing, drop, hack.

He screams into the noon.

Into the morning.

I think he's thirsty.

Maybe he's not thirsty after all.

Swing, hack, hack,
swing, swing, hack.

Swing, hack.

He screams into the evening.
Night is coming.

Franz screams into the night.

I'm suffering.

It's good...

that you suffer.

Nothing could be better
than for you to suffer.

Don't let me suffer.

Put an end to it.

Putting an end to it won't help.

Everything comes to an end by itself.

But it's in your hands.

Put an end to it.

All I have is a ball in my hand.

Everything else is in your hands.

What do I have in my hands?

Put an end to it.

So that's how far things have come:
here I am talking to you...

like a rawhider and hangman,

and have to throttle you like some
venomous, snapping animal.

I kept calling you.

What do you think I am:
a phonograph?

A gramophone you can wind up for
fun,

and then I have to call,

and when you've had enough,
you turn me off?

Is that what you think I am?

Think what you like.

But now you see...

that things are different.

What have I done?

Haven't I tortured myself enough?

I don't know anyone...

who's suffered like me,

so pitifully,

so wretchedly.

You were never here,

you swine.

All my life,
I never saw any Franz Biberkopf.

And when I sent Lüders to you,

you didn't open your eyes.

You weren't folded up
like a pocket knife.

You were boozing:

one schnapps after another.
Nothing but boozing.

I wanted to be clean.

Clean.

But he deceived me.

And I tell you...

you didn't open your eyes,

you crooked swine.

You go on about crooks and swindling,

but you don't even look at people.

You don't ask...

why,

and how come.

How can you be
such a judge of people...

when you don't have any eyes?

You were blind...

and cocky to boot.

Stuck-up Mr Biberkopf...

from the posh neighborhood.

And the world should be
as he wants it.

It's all quite different, my boy,

quite different.

Now you can see it.

It couldn't care less about you,

the world couldn't.

When Reinhold seized you
and threw you under the car,

you didn't even pass out.

Our Franz Biberkopf
didn't even pass out.

And while he's still under the wheels,
he swears he'll be strong.

Doesn't say to himself,
"Think it over.

Keep your wits about you."

No, he says: "I want to be strong."

You don't want to know
I'm talking to you.

But now you hear me, don't you?

Didn't notice?

Why?

What, then?

And not least Mieze, Franz.

Shame on you.

Say it: "It's shameful!"
Shout it out loud: "Shameful!"

I can't.

I don't know why.

Shout it out loud: "Shameful!"

She came to you, gave you affection,
protected you.

She was happy with you. And you?

What was a human being to you?

A person like a flower?

You go and brag about her
to Reinhold.

There before you:
the height of feeling,

but you just want to be strong.

You're happy you can spar
with Reinhold,

that you're better than he is,

and you use her to provoke him.

Just think about it:

whether it's not your fault
she's not alive.

You didn't shed a tear for her:

the girl died for you.

For who else?

You just babbled on:
"I this, and I that..."

and "What injustices I've suffered..."

"How noble I am and fine."

And "People won't let me show
what kind of guy I am."

Say it: "It's shameful!"
Shout it: "Shameful!"

I don't know.

You've lost the battle!

You're finished! You can pack up.

Put yourself in mothballs!
You're all washed up.

What a bastard!

You were given a head and a heart,
eyes and ears...

and you'd like to be decent,
whatever you call decent.

But you see, hear, and think nothing.

You live without any aim.

One can do what one likes.

What should I do, then?

What?

Just tell me what I should do.

I'm not saying a word.
Don't give me that crap.

You have no head,

you have no ears,

you've never been born.

My God.

You haven't even come into
this world,

you freak with your crazy ideas,

with your wiseguy ideas!

Pope Biberkopf!

He still has to be born,

so that we can see
how things really are.

The world needs different guys,

brighter ones...

who see how things are:

not made of sugar,

but of sugar and dirt...

and all mixed up together.

But...

Hand over your heart.

Franz,

your heart,

so that you're finished,

so I can throw it in the dirt...

where it belongs.

Let me think it over
just a little longer,

just a little.

Out with your heart, man.

Just a little.

Your heart,

I'll take it myself, your heart.

"Over.

It's all over.

Go, Grim Reaper, go away!

I'm still young..."

Get out of this mess!

What's all this nonsense?

It just doesn't make sense.

I can't give leave to anyone.

I need every man.

Have I made myself clear?

I can't give leave to anyone.

I've work to do here.

No hard feelings. I need every man.

"Give me your hand,

you fine, lovely creature...

soft and mild.

I understand...

and come not to torture.

Be of good cheer.

I am...

not wild.

Slumber gently...

in my arms like a child."

When a guy...

has the word "death" on his lips,

no one can tear it from him.

He'll turn it over in his mouth,

and it'll be like a stone,

a stony stone,

and no nourishment...

will grow from it.

In this way,

many people have died.

For them,

there was no going on.

They didn't know...

that they had to inflict...

but a single pain on themselves
in order to go on,

that only a small step...

was needed to go on.

But they were unable...

to take that step.

They didn't know...

it was just a weakness.

It was a cramp,

a few minutes, a few seconds,

and already they were gone,

to a place where
they were no longer called...

Karl, Wilhelm, Minna, Franziska.

Black,

pitch black,

glowing red with anger...

and paralysed with despair,

they passed away.

They didn't know...

that they simply needed
to glow white-hot,

and they would have become soft,

and everything...

would have been new again.

"Youth rushes past, and I guess...

ahead lies long...

and anxious loneliness.

My heart is heavy,

dull my wit.

Within a golden cage I sit."

Oh God, such a little girl.

But she'll settle in over there.

She just has to be good,

and everything will turn out fine.

Well...

Everywhere there are apartments...

where people warm themselves,

and look fondly at each other,

or sit coldly beside each other.

Dirty little holes and bars,

where someone plays the piano:

old hits usually,

but sometimes brand-new ones.
Do you know this one?

"Ramona...

Tati, tati, tati, tata..."

There.

There you are.

Go ahead.

Don't take any notice of me.

Really.

Come on. Let's drive on.

What did Death say?

I have to know what Death said.

I know you.

Hello, Lüders.

Yes,

I was just waiting for him.

And he's such a little guy...

and shoelaces...

Sieg Heil!

"On the Volga's shore a soldier stands...

on guard there for his fatherland.

In the dark night alone...

and oh so far,

there shines on him...

no moon, no star."

Yeah, that's what he did.

He robbed her, really robbed her.

I'm sitting in the bar,
when in comes Lüders.

But when he sees me,
he runs straight out again.

Maxie gives me a letter from her.

Everything's explained in it.

So what happens to me now?

All of a sudden
my legs are chopped off,

literally chopped off.

"Why?" I ask myself.

Why?

Why can't I stand up?

What's up?

What's wrong with you suddenly?

As I said:

I can't move my legs anymore.

It's just not possible.

They just won't move...

anymore.

Would you like a cognac, Biberkopf?

Are you in mourning?

Yes.

A personal loss?

It's my legs.

They chopped off my legs.
I don't know...

Here!

Didn't you sell hot dogs here once?

Sure. That's how we know each other.

But that was ages ago.

But the...

I mean the...

Oh, you mean the swastika?

Yes, I wear it now,

and with pride, Mr Biberkopf.

You wore it, too, back then.

Yes,

I wore it, too, back then.

But didn't you tell me...

you're Jewish?

Sure.

But that doesn't mean
you have to take the wrong path.

Now I'm on the right one.

Good day, Mr Biberkopf.

Good morning, Lüders. How are you?

Not well at all, actually.

Cheers.

Don't run away.

Come back here.

Sit down on this chair.

Don't go away.

What did I ever do to you?

Don't go away!

Let the night come,

however black and like a void it is.

Let the black night come,

the fields on which
the stiff frost lies,

the highways frozen solid.

Let the lonely brick houses come,

from which a rosy light gleams.

Let the freezing wayfarers come,

the coachmen...

on their vegetable carts,
rolling into the city,

with the horses up front.

The broad, flat, mute plains,

across which suburban and
express trains run,

shedding white light...

on both sides in the darkness.

Let the people come.

"There comes a call
like thunder's roar,

Like the clash of swords,
waves dashing on the shore.

Rest easy, dear fatherland of mine.

Rest easy, dear fatherland of mine.

Proud and true stands the watch,

the watch...

on the Rhine.

Proud and true...

stands the watch, the watch...

on the Rhine."

Reinhold.

Reinhold.

Scum.

Yes, that's what you are.

What do you want here?

To play the big shot with me?

No rain could ever wash you clean.

You bum!

You murderer!

You hoodlum!

It's a good thing you turned up.

I missed you.

Yes, come on, you swine.

Haven't they caught you yet?

Be careful you don't get nabbed.

What's up with you now, Franz?

What are you?

I'm not a murderer!

Who introduced me to the girl?

Who didn't care about her, huh?

I had to crawl under the covers,
big mouth.

Who was that, then?

You didn't have to kill her.

What does it matter?

You almost beat
the daylights out of her yourself.

And there was another one, they say,

whose name was Ida.

She's buried on Landsberger Allee.

She didn't find her way
to the cemetery alone.

How about that?

You don't say a word.

What does Mr Franz Biberkopf
have to say,

big mouth by profession?

You threw me under the car.

That was you.

So what?

If you're such a fool
as to mess with me.

A fool?

Haven't you noticed
what a fool you are?

You're in Buch, in the madhouse,

and I'm doing fine.

Who's the fool, then?

Fight with me.

Show me who you are,

Franz Biberkopf.

Little Biberboy, huh?

Why did I get so involved with you?

Come on.

Show me who you are!

Do you have the strength?

I should never have fought with you.

Boy, you annoy me.

You keep infuriating me.
You're a curse.

I should never have done it.

I'm no match for you.

I should never have done it.

You need strength, Franz,

strength.

Keep away from me.

Keep away.

Away with you.

Keep away.

I want to see someone else.

Can't someone else come?

Wait.
Someone else is coming right away.

Well,

who's in the driver's seat now?

Who's the winner, Franz?

I haven't won.

I know that.

I...

haven't...

won.

He was the biggest bastard
in the world.

Do you hear me?

He taunted me until I didn't know
whether I was coming or going.

That's how he provoked
and taunted me.

Ida.

It's good that you've come.

I've had a bad time, you know.

Here I am in Buch in the madhouse.

Do you know where that is?

Under observation,

or maybe I'm crazy already.

Come here.

Don't turn your back on me.

What's she doing here?

She probably works in the kitchen.

Yes, the girl works in the kitchen.

She washes the dishes,
fusses around everywhere.

Yes, but what makes her
buckle up like that?

She keeps bending to one side,
as if she had lumbago.

What's the matter with her?

She keeps buckling up
as if someone were beating her,

as if someone were beating her.

Hey, stop beating her!

My God, it's inhuman.
Leave the girl alone!

Get out of here!
Leave the girl alone!

Get out of here!

My God, my God, my God!

Who's beating you like that?

Stand up straight.

She keeps buckling up.

She can't stand up straight anymore.
Stand straight, my girl.

Ida, for God's sake!

Turn around and look at me!

Who's beating you so terribly?

You, Franz.

You beat me to death.

No.

No, I didn't do that.

That was proven in court.

It was just battery.

It wasn't my fault.

Don't say that, Ida.

Yes, you beat me to death.

You beat me to death, Franz.

No!

Better to be dead right away.

Better off dead right away.
It's unbearable.

Someone should come
and beat me to death!

Let him! It wasn't my fault.

I didn't...

I didn't...

I didn't know anything about it.

And don't buckle up anymore, Ida.

I sat in Tegel for it.

I've served my sentence.

Come a little closer.

Come a little closer to me.

Give me your...

But take your gloves off, Mieze.

Sit down with me a while.

Don't be so aloof, Mieze.

Give me a kiss.

Stay with me, Mieze.

Stay with me.

I need you.

You've got to help me.

But I can't, Franz.

I'm dead. You know that.

Don't go, Mieze.

Stay with me.

I'd like to so much,

but I can't.

You know... Freienwalde.

You're not mad at me,

are you?

Don't be mad at me, Franz.

Let us extol what the pain does
to Franz Biberkopf.

Let us speak of the destruction
pain causes.

Breaking off, cutting down,

casting down, disintegrating:

that's what it does.

To everything there is a season:

a time to choke and to heal,

to break down and build up,
to weep and laugh,

to lament and dance,
to seek and lose,

to tear apart and fasten together.

Now is the time to choke,

to lament, to seek and tear apart.

Franz struggles
as he waits for Death,

for a merciful death.

He thinks that Death, the merciful,

the terminating, is now approaching.

At this evening hour,
Franz Biberkopf died,

former transport worker, burglar,

pimp, killer.

Another man lay in the bed
in which he had lain.

The other man has
the same papers as Franz,

he looks like Franz,

but in another world
he has another name.

That, then, was the demise
of Franz Biberkopf,

whom I wished to describe
from his release from Tegel Prison...

to his death in the Buch mental asylum
in the winter of 1928-29.

Now I'll add a report
about the first hours and days...

of a new man
who has the same papers as he did.

All new beginnings are hard achieved.

Dear Fatherland, rest easy now.

My eyes are open.
I won't allow myself to be deceived.

The whore Babylon has lost.

She bickered, made an uproar,

blathered and screamed:
"What do you want with him?

What do you want with this guy,
Franz Biberkopf?

Boil him 'til he's savory!"

Death beats his drum roll.

"I can't see what you've got
in your mug, you hyena,"

he said.

"I have Franz Biberkopf here.

I've shattered him.

But because he's strong and sound,

he will have a new life."

Then Death moved,

and his huge grey cloak flapped.

There were shouts, shots, sounds
of triumph, and rejoicing about Death.

The river and the marching legions:

the legions marched in
icy cold and wind.

They have come across from France,

led by the great Napoleon.

The wind blows, snow whirls,
bullets whistle.

The beast beneath the white snow
shies and lashes out.

The victim is Death.

The rolling of trains,
the roar of cannon,

the explosion of hand grenades,

a barrage of fire:
rest easy, dear Fatherland.

Rest easy, dear Fatherland:

the dugouts inundated,
the soldiers buried.

Death rolls up his cloak and sings:
"Oh, yes."

"March on, march on!"

Off to war with dauntless step we go,

a hundred drummers
marching with us, too.

Sunset, sunrise,
light the way to our demise.

A hundred drummers drum.

If we don't go straight ahead,
we err around instead.

And Death rolls up his cloak
and sings: "Oh yes, oh yes."

Off to war with dauntless step we go,

A hundred drummers marching with us, too.

A hundred drummers drum!

You know the way or go astray.

One lies there, another drops.

One runs on, another stops.

Marching six abreast,

two or three abreast:

so marches the French Revolution,

so the Russian Revolution,

the Peasant Wars,
the Anabaptists.

They all march behind Death.

There is rejoicing in his wake.

Onward to freedom! To freedom!

Brothers, onward to the sun,

to freedom, brothers,
to the light above!

Death rolls up his cloak,
sings and laughs.

Oh yes, oh yes.

Oh yes, oh yes.

And the field roars:
"Oh yes, oh yes!"

A chicken consists of the outside
and the inside.

Remove the outside,
and the inside remains.

Remove the inside,
and the soul remains.

Mr Biberkopf,

after the death of your mistress,
Emilie Karsunke,

you were mentally ill.

However, according to the reports,
you are now fully recovered...

and fit to be questioned.

The deceased,
whom you apparently called Mieze:

in your opinion, did she have
a relationship with the accused?

Well, you know,

we were good friends:

the...

accused...

and me.

But he had a terrible,
unnatural craving...

for women.

And so it happened.

Do you mean
he was something like a sadist?

Is that what you're trying to say?

Whether he was a sadist by nature,

I don't know, of course.

I imagine that Mieze...

that she resisted Reinhold
in Freienwalde...

and then...

then he did it in rage.

You know about his youth?

No, your honor.

I didn't know him then.

And he didn't tell you anything?

Did he drink?

Well, it's like this:

he used not to drink,

but he started to recently.

I don't know how much.

In the past,

he could hardly take a drop of beer:

just lemonade and coffee.

Herbert's been nabbed.
He got two years in jail.

They certified me as nuts.

Yeah, I read about it in the paper.

Paragraph 51.

But I'm weak, Eva.

After all, prison food...

is prison food...

The little one in your belly:

it is no longer?

The accused, Gottfried Meck,

is herewith acquitted
of the charge...

of complicity in the murder
of Emilie Karsunke.

The accused, Reinhold Hoffmann,

is sentenced to 10 years in prison...

for the manslaughter
of the prostitute Emilie Karsunke.

No!

Murderer!

The court's finding is manslaughter
committed in the heat of passion.

I will now read the grounds
for the judgment.

He's an assistant gatekeeper
in a factory.

What kind of fate is that?

Immediately after the trial, Biberkopf...

is offered a job as an assistant
gatekeeper in a factory.

He accepts it.

There is nothing further to report
about his life here.

A thing may be stronger than I am.

When there are two of us,

it's more difficult to be stronger
than I am.

If there are ten of us,
even more difficult.

If there are a thousand of us
or a million,

then it's really difficult.

But it's also nicer and better
to be with others.

Then I sense and know everything
much more certainly.

A ship is not firmly moored
without a big anchor,

and a man cannot exist
without many other people.

What is true and what is false...

I shall know better now.

Dear fatherland,
you can rest easy now.

I'll keep my eyes open
and not allow...

myself to be deceived.

That's why I check everything,

and when the time's ripe...

and I'm good and ready,

I'll act accordingly.

Man is given reason and words,

while oxen stand around in herds.

Biberkopf does his job
as an assistant gateman,

collects the numbers,
checks the cars,

watches who goes in and out.

Be alert.

There's something going on
in the world.

All is not sweet in the world.

If they drop gas bombs, I'll suffocate.

No one knows why they dropped them,

but you don't have to know.

There was time
to take care of things like that.

If there's a war,
and they draft him,

though he doesn't know why,
and the war goes on anyway,

then that's his fault,
and it serves him right.

Be alert.

Be alert. One is not alone.

Hail and rain may fall from the sky.

There's nothing you can do about it

but about a lot of other things you can.

He won't shout as he used to do:

"It's fate, fate!"

You don't have to revere it as fate.

You must look it in the face,
grasp it...

and destroy it.

Be alert.

Keep your eyes open.

Watch out.

A thousand people belong together.

Anyone who doesn't take care,

will be a laughing stock...

or will be cut down.

The drum rolls behind him.

March on! March on!

Off to war sure footedly we go,
a hundred drummers with us, too.

Sunset, sunrise
light the way to our demise.

Biberkopf is a minor employee.

We know what we know.
We had to pay dearly for that knowledge.