The Ringbahn station. Flocks of workers returning silently in the dusk, blue jugs in their hands.
Miss Kohler walked with them. On her way back into the city, she wept. Her mother was expecting her at home, in Blumeshof. Mrs. Kohler, the privy councilor’s wife, was a quiet, exceedingly old-fashioned woman. She always wore a gray moiré band with a brooch around her bare neck. She still received a pension of about three hundred fifty marks a month. Her daughter’s salary, three hundred fifty to four hundred marks a month, came on top of that. This was quite good. She had managed to rent out the apartment, which cost five thousand marks in 1914, so that it only cost her one hundred marks a month, and the renters often gave her some money for breakfast, electricity, etc. The apartment had once been very elegant. They had several antiques. The foyer was forty square meters large, “exactly as large as an apartment that would make me happy,” Lotte Kohler often thought.
The apartment had three rooms that faced the street, one with three windows, the others with two. Next to them was a dining room of about seventy square meters. It was an enormous room, with walls covered in dark leather. It could seat sixty. Two candelabras, Dutch brass lamps, hung next to the oven, a brown monster. This arrangement had once been very elegant. The Delft vases and plates were arranged on the wainscoting. Mother and daughter lived here. The large window facing the courtyard had stained glass.
“The law clerk is staying,” the mother said.
“Oh, thank God,” said Lotte. The maid brought out some sandwiches.
The maid looked dreadful. She wore a blue apron. With five tenants and ten rooms, there was no time for white aprons.
The mother said, “I was at Aunt Else’s this afternoon, and she told me that the young girls are chasing after her Erwin. Recently, she came home to find Miss Glaser walking down the stairs. What do you think of that?”
“Tasteless of Erwin. What else?”
“Oh, come on.”
“It’s a matter of taste.”
“By the way, I had quite a bit of trouble today. Powitzer finally did bring his big dog into the apartment. Now Wanda has to walk the dog, on top of everything else.”
“Hey, that’s not on.”
“That’s what I said too, but what can I do? Won’t you talk to him sometime?”
“Sure, but what if he leaves? Two rooms!”
“Two rooms! We can’t risk it.”
“No, we can’t. You know, Mother, we should really give up this big apartment, but where would we find the money to move and renovate? It would probably cost five thousand marks. We can’t get a decent apartment for less than three thousand marks in moving fees, and we’d have to pay two thousand marks for the renovation.”24
“We simply can’t. But the tenants are such dreadful work.”
“We won’t get what we need, which is a three- to four-room apartment.”
“Oh, three would do.”
“Of course. But we won’t get it without a certificate, and we won’t get that certificate. We should have gone to the housing office and put our names down for a small apartment right after the inflation. It’s too late now.”
“I don’t know. Seven hundred marks is a lot of money, after all.”
“Yes, and we’re barely getting by.”
“You’re quite right. I don’t know either.”
“We have to repair things here and there. A big apartment like this costs money too, even if you don’t have anything done.”
“And the things the tenants ruin! The top of the mahogany table is completely destroyed. Miss Ciczpenski always put her hot pots on it without a cloth, and the grand piano is completely covered in stains, and Mr. Powitzer broke one of the Meissen figurines recently.”
“Which one?”
“The cherubs at the anvil. I wanted to get them glued together again, I already went to the Meissen shop.”
“But Mother! Those cherubs are ghastly. We should thank Mr. Powitzer for breaking them, and you want to spend money repairing them?”
“I don’t want to go completely to seed.”
“But really, the Meissen figurines are utterly useless. And you get upset at me when I take taxis.”
“But that’s quite unnecessary. We drove rarely, if ever. Your grandfather was of the opinion that young women could walk.”
“That was in 1895, thirty-five years go. Why don’t we sell some of the silver?”
“I would have liked to keep it for you.”
“Come on, what will I do with silver for forty-eight people? That’s just a burden. But we’ll get far too little for it. No one wants rococo anymore. I’m glad that we sold the Grützner and the Lenbach during the inflation.”
“Yes, yes, although your father was very fond of those paintings.”
Miss Kohler went to her room. She was still reading a book that Meyer had lent her. The History and Nature of Buddhism. Was a woman really worth that little? So far from nirvana? So impure, so enmeshed in the wheel of life? Why did he preach asceticism to her—especially her!—when precisely the opposite was necessary?
Why was he so dreadful, so awful, why was she so terribly alone? Exploited, lonely, a laughingstock. She wept.
Mrs. Kohler sat in the dining room, busy with her accounting. It was an old habit from the days in which she’d managed a household budget of sixty thousand marks, and her husband had earned eighty thousand to one hundred thousand marks. Why didn’t her daughter get married? She was very bitter. All the others had married, and married well, as well as anyone else! Something must be the matter with Lotte. If only she’d chosen Dr. Brandenburg! He’s got a splendid income now; such a decent man. He would have taken care of her. But girls always do the wrong thing. They don’t want the good men. And she couldn’t give her a dowry anymore. Just furniture and a trousseau, and silver and glassware and porcelain for forty-eight people.
10
Premiere at the Wintergarten
ON APRIL 11, Käsebier appeared in a guest performance at the Wintergarten. It was already late in the season, but still feasible. Everyone who was to be seen at premieres in Berlin could be found in the foyer. Margot had brought along her newest companion, a foreigner, a man from the South American embassy with whom she could happily converse in French. Plus parisien qu’une parisienne. When greeting younger women, she said, “Ma chère,” drawling the final “e.” She didn’t think much of literature lately, and preferred attachés and diplomats with decorative names. Käte was there, looking very good. In a moment of decisiveness, she had taken a furnished flat, and clients were already streaming in. She wore a beautiful black georgette dress she’d borrowed for the occasion. Margot wore pink pearls the size of walnuts around her neck along with a sequined coat, the latest look from Paris. Muschler the banker was there with his wife, Thedy; the banker Reinhardt Hersheimer with his wife; Count Dinkelsbühl, the golf and polo player; Mr. von Trappen from the foreign ministry with Mrs. Gabriele Meyer-Lewin; and Waldschmidt had a box with Lambeck and his youngest daughter. Aja Müller was there, the playwright on her left, the bank director’s son on her right. That is to say, one couldn’t really speak of her being there; rather, she made an entrance, flanked by both, wearing a pink dress that was quite long. She seemed very naked, with an overly rouged face and earrings the size of African nose rings.
“Aja Müller’s all long,” Mrs. Muschler said to her husband. Her two companions were well coordinated. Fair and dark.
It was a special evening. The theater critics, rather than the varieté critics, had come. Ixo was there, Miermann, Öchsli. Lieven shook hands with everyone enthusiastically and ecstatically. Frächter was the man of the hour, as he had convinced Blumentopf the agent to engage Käsebier. If not, he would have made a big fuss over Käsebier at a cabaret. Frächter had made sure to invite the theater critics instead of the varieté critics, a major difference in newspaper terms. Varieté criticism appears in the local section, but drama is both a science and an art, and belongs in the arts section. An ar
ticle in the local section is insignificant if there are fewer than ten deaths, but in the arts section, even the smallest things are important. If a cabaret performer is discussed by a theater critic, one can be sure that he is ready to play Mephisto. In fact, the question of whom the varieté critics cover and whom the theater critics cover is an overall benchmark. These are nuances that Frächter knew about, and which mattered.
Gohlisch was there, as well as Meyer-Paris. Frächter saw to everything. The books were in the lobby. Käsebier, a Singer from Berlin: Who He Is, and How He Came to Be. Preface by Frächter. They were being snapped up left and right.
What a scandal, Gohlisch thought, instead of having Frächter send ten copies to my house, I have to buy one myself! He bought one for one mark fifty. Glanced at his article. Very good, he thought, but for free?! No way. What a disgrace! I’m going to get that back!
Voices buzzed around the room. Müller called out to Lieven, who was five rows over, “Well, sugar, you lovely doll, you! Want to steer your graceful body over to me at the break?”
Lieven cried, “My greetings to the fairer daughters of fair mothers.”
Miermann said to Käte, who was sitting next to him, “He may know Horace, but only halfways. O matre pulchra filia pulchrior, o mother, fairer than your fair daughter. Gracious lady, dear Käte—may I call you that?—I’d like to greet you with a classical phrase as well. Recepto dulce mihi furere est amico. It is sweet to be wild, as my friend has returned.”
“Sounds nice,” Käte said. She was pleased by the attentions of this important man, but she thought him passé, so passé with his Latin allusions.
“Do you know much about music?”
“No, I’m completely tone-deaf.”
“Me neither, we’ll be able to write about it so much the better.”
First, the famous girls flexed their behinds on stage and kicked their legs in the air; doubtless a healthy gymnastics exercise for fifteen-to sixteen-year-olds. But some of the girls were pushing forty.
Two times nine hundred eyes, more than half of them male, stared out of the darkness. Naked legs en masse are incredibly distressing, smiling en masse causes embarrassment, as it’s unvarnished prostitution, but fifteen women to every two hundred men somewhat temper the matter.
Lively, up-tempo music began. People arranged themselves on top of one another, flew off seesaws, carried out exercises in dexterity and courage. The act was directed by a large-chested, dark-haired woman, a Jewish matron of forty-five to fifty years of age. She wore a pale green tricot and a short pink skirt. Poor devil.
Indians appeared, pulled paper through fire without letting it burn, made cut-up fabric whole again, and separated water and fire with their bare hands. The whole thing smacked suspiciously of false bottoms.
Miermann took Käte’s hand, bent down, kissed her hand, then put his wide and unkempt right hand on her thigh. Käte pushed it gently to the side, very gently, overly gently, so as to avoid any insult.
One of the soap dolls in the women’s dance band was making hungry eyes at the audience, striking poses and flaring her nostrils. If her ravenous eyes stirred the appetite of one of the ten thousand salarymen of this northern city, she would surely say that her father, an important public official, had disowned her when she was studying voice, as an officer had left her with child.
The intermission came. Gohlisch went looking for Frächter. He confronted him.
“Well, you scoundrel, someone should really light a fire under you.”
Frächter took it as a joke. “How can I be of service, Herr von Goethe?”
“Don’t give me a song and dance, you know what I mean. We may be on the galley, we may be galley slaves, but you’re mistaken if you think we’re doing it for the honor of the printed word. How much? Moolah, moolah, mazuma.” He stroked his fingers with his thumb. “You wretched swindler, you.”
“But Mr. Gohlisch, I don’t want to cheat you on your fee, how could you possibly think that of me?”
“I think all kinds of things of you.”
“I just didn’t dare to offer you twenty marks. That’s the most I can pay you.”
“And what did you get, sir?”
“Oh, barely a penny. And you can imagine how hard I had to work to collect all the essays.”
“I’m no amateur, sir. I have decent penmanship. Here’s the money, here are the goods. Tit for tat. I don’t churn things out, which means I don’t push prices down.”
“Like I said, Mr. Gohlisch, do you want twenty marks?”
“Come on, twenty-five.”
“Fine, twenty-five. I’ll send it over. And I’ll ring you sometime. I have plans for you.”
Käte said to Miermann, “It would be lovely if you could introduce me to some journalists.”
Miermann was thrilled and steered her toward Gohlisch.
“May I introduce Mr. Emil Gohlisch.”
Gohlisch bowed and said, “Berliner Rundschau.”
Käte laughed. “Why do you introduce yourself with your newspaper?”
“Miermann was kind enough to introduce me by my real name. A journalist introduces himself by saying, ‘Berliner Rundschau,’ or ‘Berliner Tageszeitung,’ or ‘Allgemeines Blatt.’ We aren’t human, you see. We’re a kind of—”
“Well, we’re galley slaves,” added Miermann.
“We’ve been branded,” said Gohlisch.
Käte’s smile was frozen in place. How can I manage to steer this conversation with Gohlisch toward gymnastics lessons? she wondered.
“We’re all galley slaves,” she said.
“What are you chained to?” asked Gohlisch.
“I’m a gymnastics teacher.”
“That must be fun.”
“It is. I’m hoping it will also be profitable.”
“Do you work a lot?”
“A decent amount. I’ve got a very particular method. Part Mensendieck, part Loheland.”
“I’ll have to check it out sometime.”
“Give me a ring sometime. I’m always at your disposal.”
Miermann smiled. “You’re industrious,” he said as they continued along. They bumped into Frächter. Frächter greeted Miermann.
“How do you do, Mr. Miermann? Käsebier will be on soon. I’m telling you, a natural talent like that is rare, a child of the people, completely unselfconscious, naïve, a treasure trove for a fine essayist such as yourself. I’ve meant to call you for ages. How’s your wonderful poetry doing? I recently saw your book Heimweg remaindered on a book cart. It should be reprinted.”
“But Mr. Frächter. Protest poetry, these days.”
“All the same, we live in Germany. There’s still an audience for that. Not just the loudmouths make it here. Look, if a wonderful poet like Hermann Stehr has a following, why shouldn’t Miermann have one?”
“The only people who read my books have gotten them as presents. Try giving them away for free with razor blades.”
“But Mr. Miermann, most of the readers of the Berliner Rundschau always look first to see if they can’t find the Miermann article.”
“They get me for free there as well, as a newspaper supplement.”
“I’d still like to talk to a publisher about your collection.”
“Do what you have to do, but wait until I start writing songs about Käsebier.”
Waldschmidt said to Lambeck, “D’you see anyone you don’t see? Tout Berlin, so to speak. And this is all thanks to you; that is, thanks to us. That’s the way it should be, you see, publishers and poets collaborating. I asked you to write an article about Berlin. You wrote about Käsebier. This evening is the result.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t take credit for the discovery. Mr. Frächter alerted me to Käsebier.”
“Who’s Mr. Frächter? I just bought a book on Käsebier. Edited by Frächter, introduction by Frächter. Did Frächter invent Käsebier? From time to time, young people pop up in Berlin whom you’ve never heard of. Three weeks later, they’ve made a na
me for themselves. Apparently, Frächter also negotiated Käsebier’s contract with the Wintergarten.”
Käte was now standing by Margot Weissmann.
“Enchantée de vous voir,” Margot said to Käte, because of the foreign gentleman.
“Enchantée,” Käte replied.
The gentleman said, “C’était très chic ça! Très chic.”
Käte said, “Yes, I thought so too. I’m eager to see Käsebier.”
“Simply terrific,” said Margot, “marvelous, fantastic, splendid.”
“When will you finally come by?”
“But my dear, I most definitely will. I’ve meant to ring you for ages now, I’ve felt so guilty. But you know how it is. We’ve been completely swamped since we’ve begun looking for an apartment. We want to move back into the old west, and, on top of that, my cook is sick. Otto and I are lunching at the Bristol every day. Ghastly. I can’t even tell you what we’ve been through.”
“Good evening,” said Muschler the banker, and stepped towards them.
“Good day,” said Mrs. Thedy Muschler. “My dear, we barely see each other anymore. How in the world are you?”
Käsebier Takes Berlin Page 11