The Artificial Silk Girl

by Irmgard Keun

  I want it, I want it so badly — and only if you’re unhappy do you get ahead. That’s why I’m glad that I’m unhappy.

  Dear Mom, in my mind I’m sending my love to you and Therese. I miss you, but Tilli is good to me. But she’s new to me and what’s new can’t replace the old for me — and the old is not the new. There’s a void in me from your absence, and there are words and words piling up in my throat that I can’t say to you — that instills so much love in me that I feel like I’ve been put through a meat grinder. With you, I had familiar streets with pavement that said hello to my feet when I stepped on it. And there was the streetlight with the cracked glass and the scratched-up lamppost: Auguste is stupid. I scratched that in there eight years ago on my way home, and it’s still there. And whenever I think of the streetlight, I’m thinking of you. I have a changed name and I’m always nervous and I’m not allowed to write to you because of the police — until grass grows over the whole thing. But I’m sending thoughts and love your way.

  I went over to the Red Moon’s house. So after the Danziger Goldwasser I got the tour of the apartment, which naturally always ends in the bedroom. There were two beds and one of them was covered with lots of newspaper because of the moths, and there was no atmosphere whatsoever. And the Red Moon turned on a hanging lamp and I saw five undershirts made from Bemberg silk that his wife at the spa had left behind, and the Red Moon was supposed to send them to her. So I immediately point out the stylish embroidery. I’ll take one of them with me, I say, and am going to have it copied. So the Red Moon says, fine — and approaches me like a hurricane. The best thing to do in cases like that is to start talking about their profession, because that’s as important to them as sex. So I stop his attack and ask him: “So what about that published meadow?” — and I put lots of interest in my eyes. And he immediately goes for the bait and asks me if he should read to me. And I say yes with the enthusiasm of little kids if you ask them if they want to go to the zoo, and I sit down on the newspaper-covered bed. The Red Moon sits down on the other bed and starts to read — and goes on and on and on.

  At first I was planning to listen — there was nothing but vineyards and girls dancing and braids coming loose, and then more vineyards without end. So I got bored — the braided maiden was feeding chickens, which she didn’t have to do because she was financially secure — and the Red Moon made “putt putt putt” sounds in a high-pitched voice. So I think to myself, that’s too much to ask, hours and hours of vineyards for nothing — and I take another shirt and stuff it into my dress. And every three pages he tells me that it’s going to get more refined — and every five pages I take another shirt from the bedside table, until they’re all gone. And then I get up and say: “I’ve heard the churchbells strike and I need peace and quiet to think about the vineyards.” And I make off with a bust that would rival that of a first-class wet nurse.

  And so I was taking care of obnoxious kids of a high-society onyx family, the incognito children of a former general’s daughter. Tilli had arranged it — she used to watch the onyx kids. They live at the riverbend and they are knowingly insolent, like grownups. The husband has onyx and stocks and white hair that stands straight up, finding itself attractive. And he’s tall and stately looking. The wife is young and lazy and doesn’t know from anything.

  If a young woman from money marries an old man because of money and nothing else and makes love to him for hours and has this pious look on her face, she’s called a German mother and a decent woman. If a young woman without money sleeps with a man with no money because he has smooth skin and she likes him, she’s a whore and a bitch.

  Dear mother, you had a beautiful face, you have eyes that look like you desire something, you were poor as I am poor, you slept with men because you liked them or because you needed money — I do that too. Whenever anyone calls me names, they call you names as well — I hate everyone, I hate them, I hate them — to hell with the world, mother, to hell with it.

  So there comes the White Onyx and says “Mademoiselle.” And makes eyes at me and I was ready. The elegant noblewoman had gone to the theater and I was home with him, and he offered me an apartment and money — this was my opportunity to achieve glamour. It’s easy with old men, when you’re young — they pretend it’s your fault as if you were the one who started it. And I wanted to, I really wanted to. He had the voice of a bowling ball that made my blood run cold, but I wanted to — he had this slimy look in his eyes, but I wanted to — I was thinking, I’ll grit my teeth and think of fabulous ermine, and I’ll be okay And I said yes.

  And then came the hunk. He rang the doorbell and he came in and he was a guest, a former friend of the Onyx and not so young anymore — but gorgeous, just gorgeous. And we took one look at each other. And the three of us had a glass of wine. And all of a sudden it occurred to me that I was rich, because I could afford to do something stupid. Yes, yes, yes, I was so stupid. I made a face at the Onyx — and there were diamonds in my heart, because I was rich enough to do what I wanted.

  I went with the hunk. He was tall and slender. And he had a dark face like a powerful fairy tale. My dreams were kissing me mad. The room was cold and dark, but the hunk was shining. I kissed him gratefully, because I didn’t have to be ashamed to see him naked. I put gratitude into my hands, because I didn’t have to lie ambiance into my pillow, when he took off his clothes — my skin was warm with gratitude, because there was nothing ugly about him that I would have to ignore, once the lights came on. Oh my God, I was such a grateful creature because he pleased me so much.

  That says a lot, if somebody pleases you — love is so much more that I’m thinking, perhaps it doesn’t exist at all.

  But handsome one, why did you make such a stupid mistake? To tell the Onyx that I was with you last night? So the Onyx says to me: “You are a whore, get away from my pure children.” And the noblewoman breathes a sweet sigh: “I simply cannot believe it!” So I say: “It’s not like your pure children were fathered by the Holy Spirit, but rather by an old Onyx the ordinary way.”

  And I left without having to be told, and in my heart were such diamond kisses of stupidity that I couldn’t eat. And with my last paycheck, I bought myself a honey brown dress with smooth pleats, quiet and serious, like a woman who forgets to laugh when she’s being kissed by someone she likes.

  As soon as Tilli’s husband returns, I’m going to have to leave, which scares the hell out of me. It’s less because I won’t have a roof over my head anymore than because I won’t have anyone at all. And Berlin is fabulous but it’s not homey, because it closes itself off. And that’s also because people here have tremendous problems, and that’s why they have little compassion with those who have fewer problems than they — but mine are plenty for me.

  I told Rannowsky: “This is going too far. Don’t even think of talking to me about that. Who do you think you are?” Because he’s a word that I would be ashamed to put on paper and he lives in the apartment above us — he’s a pimp. And this is really the kind of apartment complex where everybody knows everyone else’s secrets that they would be better off knowing nothing about. He was a laborer and was supposed to be promoted to supervisor in his factory. And right at that moment, he lost his job and cut up the drive belts, because he was so mad. So they threw him in jail, but for real. And now he has four girls who do for him, well, the lowest thing you could be doing. Still that doesn’t mean that he should beat them, which he does in a way that Tilli and I are afraid the ceiling will come down some night and the whole gang will fall right on top of us. And his hair stands straight up, and in my experience, that’s a sure sign of brutality. And he’s only 30. So last night he was sitting on the stairs, drunk of course, and I’m trying to get past him. He grabs my foot: “Holy God, now he’s going to kill me!” “Let go of me, Herr Rannowsky, I beg you.” And he starts to weep and says: “I’m done for, I have no one left, only my goldfish.” So I say to him: “You should be ashamed of yourself. Why do you have to beat th
e lowliest of all girls who give you money?”

  “It’s my muscles,” he says, “and I hate it that they give me money, because they are such pigs.”

  And I: “They have to work.”

  But of course that was all nonsense. And he spits on my left suede pump and says he finds women disgusting. But he has four goldfish; the greatest of all of them is called Lolo. They have eyes and they look at him when they expect food, and they’re good and decent. But if you ask me, it’s because that’s all they’re capable of.

  I’m scared to turn into one of Rannowsky’s women. Berlin makes me tired. We have no money, Tilli and I. We stay in bed, because we’re so hungry. And I still owe Therese. It’s hard for me to find work, because I have no papers and can’t register with the police, because I’m living underground. And people treat you badly and they’re cheap, if they notice that you’re not doing well. I want to become a star. Today, we’re going to the Resi — Franz invited me. He works at a garage.

  Das ist die Liebe der Matrosen … and the telephone rings — rrrrr — at all the tables. They have real keys and you can dial. Berlin is so wonderful. I would like to be a Berliner and belong here. The Resi, which is behind Blumenstrasse, isn’t a restaurant really. It’s all colors and whirling lights, it’s a beer belly that’s all lit up, it’s a tremendous piece of art. You can find that sort of thing only in Berlin. You have to picture everything in red and shimmery, more and more and more, and incredibly sophisticated. And there are luminescent grapes and large tureens on posts, but the lids are separate — and they glitter and there are fountains that spray a very fine mist. But the audience is not first class. They have a mail chute — you write letters and put them into a hole in the wall. Then there’s a draft that whisks them toward their destination. I was completely in a trance because of all of this.

  Franz from the garage ordered Italian salad and wine for me. And whenever he had to step out, my phone would ring. I love getting phone calls — once I’m a star, I’m going to have my very own telephone that rings and I’m going to go: “Hello” — with my chin pressed down on my chest and completely blasé like a top manager.

  Das ist die Liebe der Matrosen … and that generously decorated ceiling is making a turn to the right, and the floor that I dance on is turning to the left — aye aye, Captain, aye aye … that kind of thing makes you drunk without a drop of alcohol.

  Franz has limp hair and a bad back, because of his mother whom he supports and his three little brothers. He hardly ever goes out but when he does, he has to get drunk, because otherwise, he won’t have the courage to be really happy and forget that he’s spending money on himself. He’s attached to his family. And I realized that as the night went on, and from then on the wine didn’t taste so good to me anymore. I wanted to be with someone who can spend money at night without missing it in the morning.

  Aye, aye, Captain, aye, aye Cap — good night, wonderful colorful colors.

  My life is Berlin and I’m Berlin. And it’s a mid-size town after all, where I’m from, and the Rhineland with industry.

  And my father wasn’t really my father, he just took me on when he married my mother. My mother had had a life, but was still a solid person and not stupid. And at first he didn’t want me and he went to court because of child support, which all men who possibly qualified as my father blamed me for. And he lost the case. But it had to have been someone, after all. And they never beat me, but that was about the only positive thing that could be said about their parenting. And then school. My mother had made me a good dress from the curtain, because of the people next door — so they would be angry, not so I would be happy. And all it did for me was give me the constant fear that I would get my dress messed up, and the boys in my class called me smarty pants. And the girls from the high school across the street would look at me and say: “Look at that one with the funny dress!” And they would laugh at me. The dress was all sticking out around me and it was dark green with a pattern of animals with long tongues on it — and all the kids were laughing at me. And now I’m wearing a fur coat, and I’m in Berlin! And I would throw rocks at them and swear to myself that I would not be the kind that is laughed at, but that I would do the laughing.

  And then I got an apprenticeship. Right now I’m passing through a sea of lights. And once I was sick. Parents feel love toward their kids when they’re sick and could die from a fever. That’s when they sacrifice themselves. But as soon as you’re better, they forget about their fear. I couldn’t get a job because I was too weak, and so I immediately turned into a burden. And that’s the way it happens with everybody.

  Everyone should come to Berlin. So beautiful. You can buy potato pancakes from an open shop window. It used to be the Ruhrbeins, my relatives, who would always eat potato pancakes — and there was Paul, my cousin, unemployed and wearing the suits of his older brother, who was making a living, but he couldn’t find anything and was just sitting there. And he would rest his elbows on the kitchen table, and my aunt would say: “Paul, please, don’t do this. You have to take good care of this suit. You didn’t pay for it.”

  I guess they comforted him when he was desperate and crying, and they always really resented it when he was in a good mood.

  I’m walking through Friedrichstrasse and I’m looking and I see shiny cars and people, and my heart is a heavy blossom.

  And one day we were all at the Ruhrbeins — I just saw a wreath, that makes me happy — and we were sitting there, and Paul was really happy because everyone was in a good mood, and so he said: “Why don’t we go get a bottle of wine, Mother?”

  So she looks at him and in a hissing voice all angry she says: “As soon as you start to make money again, you can go ahead and offer your friends some wine.”

  We all turned red and the room went silent. And Paul left and that same night he took his own life, drowned himself. And the Ruhrbeins cried terribly and were united in their sorrow and saying: “He was the best of all of our kids, and how could he do this to us, when we’ve always been so good to him?”

  That’s the way it always goes with the children of poor people. I do love my mother and I miss her, yet I’m so glad I’m away from home and in Berlin, and I’m free and am going to become a star.

  I’m walking at night and in the morning — it’s a crowded city with lots of flowers and shops and lights and restaurants with doors and felt curtains behind them — I’m trying to guess what’s inside, and sometimes I even go in to take a look and pretend I’m looking for somebody who isn’t there, and then I leave. And sometimes I stay, if it’s a very interesting place. I’ve even had asparagus salad in Berlin.

  And last night, a man took me home in his car. Because he hadn’t shaved, my face is completely prickly today, and I’m as red as a tomato and kind of sunburnt. That just goes to show you that you can never be too careful when it comes to men. But it’s spring, and Berlin is like Easter and Christmas combined for me. Everything is full of shimmery business. I see men and I’m thinking to myself, there are so many of them. There’s got to be someone for me, who’s breathing Berlin. And he will have black hair and a bowtie of white silk.

  I love Berlin, but my knees are trembling and I don’t know what I’m going to eat tomorrow. But I don’t care. I’m sitting at Josty’s at Potsdamer Platz and I’m surrounded by marble columns and an incredible vastness. Everyone is reading the paper and foreign ones with important headlines and they have a calmness to them as they sit there, as if they owned everything, because they’re able to pay. Me too today.

  I went to Leipziger Platz and Potsdamer Platz. You can hear the music from the movie theaters. It’s on records, which is a way of preserving people’s voices. And everything is a song.

  Downstairs from us lives Herr Brenner, who can’t see anymore — no shops or checkered lights or modern advertising or anything at all. Because he lost his eyesight in the war. And his wife is old and angry. She thinks everything should belong to her, because she makes all the money a
nd is ironing day in and day out for people and making clothes — beats me who would buy something that unfashionable. And so she has earned her husband as he gets nothing and has no social security, because he’s from the Alsace, but he fought for the Germans. And he’s about 40 years old and is sitting around all day, sad and staring at the wall, which he can’t see. And he has such beautiful lips. I visit him sometimes, when his wife is away, because she doesn’t want me around. She wouldn’t even want the dirt from her kitchen floor to stick to other people’s feet. And so she won’t have anyone in the kitchen that is hers, and it’s her husband, too.

  I can understand why men are unfaithful. When women own something completely, they sometimes have a way of being good that borders on meanness. And that kind of woman doesn’t give you any room to breathe. Brenner is a fine man and has a lot of thoughts that he tells me about. And all his thoughts are in the kitchen, and when his wife is there she fills up the kitchen with her voice and cries because of him and complains that she has to work so hard. Then there’s no more room for his thoughts in the kitchen.