Ernst Haffner - Blood Brothers

Only last week Anneliese was the sweetheart of another gang, namely that of Friedel Peters. But life at Friedel’s side no longer suited Anneliese. No one had any money, and one day Friedel had even said to her: “Anneliese, it’s time you went and earned for us.” And so she had gone over to Jonny’s mob, because they were flush. Really, Anneliese wasn’t behaving any differently than the mistress of some industrialist, who won’t hesitate to transfer her affections to a bank executive if heavy industry should fall on hard times and can no longer guarantee her pin money.

“Seems we might get a dustup later tonight,” says Konrad pensively. “You could be right,” replies Jonny. “Franz, ten double Koks!” Fred orders. The prospect of a dustup requires drink. Jonny owns two knuckledusters. He gives one to Konrad, who starts furiously hitting the jagged steel against the table. “Ten schnapps!” Jonny orders. The drinks in quick succession have the effect of making the boys tense and aggressive. But no one comes to claim Anneliese. Anneliese, who only a moment ago was gibbering with nerves and dread, is now flattered to be the bone of contention between two gangs. For the moment, though, everything in the bar is quiet.

A young man, new to the area, walks into the bar, and enters negotiations with the landlord. An unemployed circus performer of some kind, an acrobat or tumbler. Even though the bar is full to bursting, he gets permission to do some of his stunts. There’s an audience for that kind of thing here. A couple of chairs, which the fellow needs as props, are willingly vacated. The guests are aware that something is about to happen, and they mill around the artiste like a great family, full of expectation. A handstand on one hand on the top of the chair-back. The drunken one-armed Ratty Paul grouses from the back: “Thass nothing, you should see wot I …” The artiste does a rubber man, twisting and contorting his body till he is puce in the face. That creates an impression. Everyone is fascinated by the artiste’s tricks. Even the landlord is watching now, and the waiter leaves the beers on his tray to go flat.

Now here comes the showstopper. The artiste picks up one chair between his teeth, and sets the second on top of it. That’s the high point of the evening’s entertainment. That stunt with the teeth wows them. Not least because they can see the incredible strain in the artiste’s face. It’s contorted, bright red, the eyes are bulging out of their sockets, his whole body is trembling. The spectators are beside themselves. Ideal moment for the performer to pass the hat around. Result: one mark eighty. Even in penurious circles people pay generously for first-class performance. Ratty Paul buys the artiste a drink. He discreetly wipes the blood off his mouth. His barbarous stunt has left him with bleeding gums.

The performer’s feat of strength has done nothing to cool the flickering pugnacity of the Brothers. If only Friedel Peters and his boys would come looking for Anneliese. Boy oh boy, the beer glasses would fly, and the broken chair legs would go whizzing through the air. But there’s nothing doing. If they’re such cowards that they leave their fellow member’s beating unavenged, then too bad. Let’s go, we’ve waited long enough. Where to? How about Auntie Minnie’s on Warschauer Brücke. There might be dancing. Jonny pays the bill. Thirty marks. Where do they get the money from, Ludwig thinks again.

The street outside is quiet, no sign of any enemy gang members hanging around. Past Schlesischer Bahnhof, the Blood Brothers turn down onto the deserted Mühlenstrasse. A hundred yards ahead of them, someone scampers across the street, and disappears in the shadow of the house fronts. The gang walks in two lines of four, with the gibbering Anneliese and their youngest, Walter, in the middle of the back. Once again, someone runs across the street. This time they are able to recognize the fellow Jonny slapped around. “Have you got your knuckleduster, Konrad?” asks Jonny. “You bet!” Konrad replies. They have walked the hundred yards. Mühlenstrasse widens out into Rummelsburger Platz.

“Go!” comes a shout in the immediate vicinity of the gang. Either side of the Blood Brothers, ten or twelve enemies dart out of dark doorways. The front line of Brothers, with Jonny, and the back line, with Konrad, are prepared. Walter hustles Anneliese to the far side of the road, but he can’t stand inaction, and he leaves her in the lurch wailing and jumps right into the knots of tangling boys. Jonny and Konrad’s knuckledusters are smashing enemy chins, thumping enemy biceps, slamming down on hard enemy skulls. The fight proceeds in near silence. Both sides know that if there’s any noise, a squad car will be there in no time at all, and they’d rather tribal warfare go on without police intervention.

If only there was a bit more light. Blood Brother squares up to Blood Brother, and the same thing is happening with the other mob. Things are already looking critical for the assailants, their skulls are no match for the knuckledusters. Then a shot rings out. Bang! Like a whiplash. Walter wobbles into the gutter, clasping his left arm. “Oo … oo … ow!” The shot, the cry of the wounded boy, are signs that the Peters gang has had enough. They flee. The Blood Brothers have won the day, and they stand there panting and tending to Walter, who is still screaming his “Ooo … oow!” into the silence.

Windows are already being thrown open. Bed jackets and string vests shiver and shout “Murder!” and “Police!” and “Help!” “Let’s go!” orders Jonny. They run off in the direction of Schlesischer Bahnhof. Jonny and Konrad support Walter. Ludwig and Georg have taken charge of the whimpering Anneliese. On Fruchtstrasse, Jonny and Konrad manage to stop a cab, push Walter inside, and jump in after him. Jonny calls out of the window: “Come after … Badstrasse!” And then the scene is over. The gang breaks up into twos. They take a fleet of taxis to Badstrasse.

Gotthelf, ex-jailbird, now responsible gang-godfather, is not especially surprised when his charges turn up with the injured Walter. “That’s Berlin for you,” he says, and examines the wounded boy. Luckily, it’s just a flesh wound. Konrad arrives with some bandages bought from a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. In dribs and drabs the other Brothers arrive. Walter’s wound is washed and bandaged up. Should he see a doctor tomorrow? A risk. The doctor will ask questions. But Gotthelf has a solution. There’s this tame apothecary he knows, who’s taken to drink. He’ll treat Walter. Walter is feeling rather perky. He likes this role, he likes the attention, and his wound isn’t especially painful. He needs to get some sleep. First he knocks back a hefty schnapps. “Schnapps is always good!” proclaims the wise Gotthelf.

It’s three in the morning. Konrad and Jonny, Hans and Fred are at home. Jonny will share Hans’s bed, so that Walter gets an uninterrupted night. Those boys who aren’t staying at Gotthelf’s take their leave. Anneliese is with Ludwig for tonight, and she walks back with him to his new pad on Grenadierstrasse.

*Messerstich: a stab with a knife. Maybe a jocular debasement of “Metternich”?

AFTER TWO NIGHTS,the modest lucky streak of overnight snow is over. Rain, endless and monotonous, dribbles onto the asphalt. Rain that softens up ancient shoes, till the unhappy wearer has the impression of going around in sodden dishcloths.

Willi Kludas is standing out on Neukölln’s Hermannplatz at night, staring vacantly at the illuminating and then disappearing advertisement of a brown bear *the size of a house lighting a cigarette and complacently blowing out a stream of lightbulb smoke, with the legend: Berlin smokes Juno.