Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  “Feeling better?”

  She nodded, without saying a word.

  The maids were passing out fruit salad, plates, and spoons. The men had gathered in the Italian Renaissance library by the liqueurs. Waldschmidt, who was on the National Council of Economic Advisors, was discussing the current state of affairs. The others were listening.

  “We won’t be in the black definitively for quite some time,” he said, and helped himself to a Hennessy. Another man was discussing Bismarck and Ebert. He was an ardent young socialist.

  “Ebert has accomplished far more than Bismarck by leading us out of chaos. You can accomplish anything in the heady days following a military victory.”

  Frächter was there. No one knew why he’d been invited. He was describing his impressions from his last trip to America.

  “Machines,” he said. “Machines, reducing the cost of labor, rationality. They’re producing three times what we are. Here, everyone is busy complaining about how rotten business is, and people aren’t even doing that poorly. I went to the movies on Frankfurter Allee on Saturday recently, and they were packed, I’m telling you, packed, and everyone was well dressed.”

  Waldschmidt said, “Our Dr. Frächter is still a young hothead—but too much steam will scald you. We have to recognize that workers are the first to feel the effects of any economic change.”

  “Certainly,” said Frächter. “But sentimentality won’t get us far.” He thought little of empathy. “The best technical methods are what’s right; America has triumphed. You’re not about to become a Luddite, are you, Mr. Waldschmidt?”

  “Yes,” Cochius said slowly. “We allow a film like Potemkin to be shown but we’re against filth and trash; shouldn’t we protect our children?”

  “But your own newspaper! Miermann!” Waldschmidt laughed.

  “Yes,” Cochius said. “Unfortunately, I have a different opinion from Miermann. England also banned Potemkin.”

  “Well, we don’t know how to run our country,” Frächter said.

  Said Waldschmidt, the old cynic, “People need medals and titles. You can address almost any manager in Bavaria as ‘councilor,’ and everyone’s happy.”

  The young unemployed man wanted to say something, but Frächter took Cochius to the side and said, “Even the American newspapers are organized very differently. Large rooms, fifty typewriters to a room, everyone in the same place. You can keep an eye on everything.”

  Cochius said, “That’s brilliant.”

  Frächter said, “Newspapers have to be fun, entertaining, you know. One day, you might lead with the culture section; the next day, with a murder; the next, with politics, but not politics all the time; no one wants to read that.”

  “Yes,” said Cochius. “Quite right.”

  “And pictures,” said Frächter. “Each article needs top-notch illustrations.”

  “We’re starting to publish drawings now,” Cochius said.

  “But drawings? Why drawings? Photography, technology’s your trump card! Mechanization. Why should the Berliner Rundschau have lower circulation numbers than the Berliner Tageszeitung? You’re not going to dazzle anyone with your intellect. Intellect? Who wants that? Speed, headlines, sensationalism: that’s what people want. Entertainment. Something sensational every day, splashed across the front page. Oh, I could liven up a newspaper, all right! Three issues a day! Journalists still quote Latin in your paper. On the front page: ‘Schmeling wins; Germany crowned world champion.’ I want to create a ladies’ journal, a beauty page, a page with dress patterns, and publish society happenings with the names intact, so that you can actually catch the gossip and know that something’s going on between Count Dinkelsbühl and Meyer-Lewin, that Mrs. Weissmann received the Marquese de l’Espinosa at home.”

  Cochius laughed. “That’s good, very good. Who will publish the newspaper?”

  “Rüttger, I think.”

  “I’d be glad to work with you. We need to restructure our paper.”

  “That’s right. The old grind won’t do anymore. You have to organize a sightseeing flight sponsored by the Berliner Rundschau, introduce Berlin to its most beautiful pair of legs, give away thousands of little houses, host a swimming competition with prizes. The Berliner Rundschau’s most loyal seeing eye dog; the Berliner Rundschau’s last buggy-cart driver. Publish pictures of the fifty most elegant stenotypists in Berlin, the oldest cooks in the city, the most successful female drivers. You have to infiltrate every milieu. The zeppelin shouldn’t be called zeppelin anymore, but Berliner Rundschau.”

  Waldschmidt joined them. He said, “Are you discussing newspapers? Do you want to take out some ads? There’s no point. I once did a survey of all the subscribers I’d lost on my paper in southern Germany, and asked them why they’d cancelled their subscription. Ninety percent said they received three times as much paper with the Echo, and that they were grocers, or something like that, and needed paper. Five percent said they preferred the Echo because of the nice new novel it had, and five percent—it may have been two—said that they were unhappy with the paper’s politics. People would much rather receive blank instead of printed paper, it seems.”

  Short, bald, stocky Richard Muschler sat in a deep armchair. Next to him, on a tall chair, sat a handsome, elegant young man who had married the beautiful, aristocratic, and rich Miss Waldschmidt, and whom everyone considered very smart and hardworking. At least, this was what everyone assumed, since they couldn’t imagine that wily old Waldschmidt would have given away his daughter to a man of no stature whatsoever unless he was hardworking. “I’d also prefer a hardworking son-in-law to a stupid, rich one,” they all said.

  This young man was Mr. Reinhold Kaliski, J.D.

  Muschler owned the old bank Muschler & Son, whose offices were in the street behind the Catholic church, right by the house on the corner to Französische Strasse. Reinhold Kaliski, J.D., was discussing Käsebier at the Wintergarten.

  “The show’s excellent,” he said. “Fabulous girls.”

  Oppenheimer joined them.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The Palais had different foxes, not to mention the Metropol. Too scrawny for my taste, too scrawny.”

  “I like that tomboy look,” said Kaliski.

  “Not meant for the home,” said Oppenheimer.

  “Nothing for me,” said Waldschmidt, who had joined the group. “I like something a bit fuller with a slender waist.”

  “Remember that bird, Waldschmidt?” Oppenheimer asked. “That pretty girl. She started out at the Arkadia and went over to the Palais after doing some time with the Gerson girls.”27

  “I remember her, all right!” Waldschmidt laughed. “What a charming little thing. She definitely got her hundred thousand. Crazy Dicky once gave her a pink pearl that must be worth twenty thousand marks today, and an apartment.”

  “Oh, Dicky, good old Dicky! Life’s harder for girls these days. They only work in banks and factories. It’s sad.”

  “Don’t you want to sit down, father?” Kaliski asked.

  “Thanks, keep your hat on,” said Waldschmidt. He continued along with Oppenheimer. They spotted Miss Kohler.

  “A pretty woman,” said Oppenheimer.

  “A bit old fashioned and stuck-up,” said Waldschmidt. “Her mother’s an old friend of mine. We knew each other as children at Neue See. We went ice skating together. You know, old Blomberg’s daughter, from the U. family, of course. Her brother later . . . ,”—he made a sharp gesture across his neck—“her sister married a Baron Rygbart.”

  “She got the short end of the stick. He was a drinker, right? Now I remember! Kohler, who had the EGZ factory. Died in 1915. Left a huge fortune behind.”

  “Oh, people always exaggerate. His widow lost everything in the inflation. Muschler managed the money in part. Not particularly well.”

  Oppenheimer wasn’t interested.

  “Pretty girl,” he said, moving toward her. “Nicely filled-out, and such a tasty morsel.”

&nb
sp; “Käsebier is a first-class guy, truly first-class, you know,” Dr. Kaliski said to Muschler. “He should be managed.”

  “He’s being managed.”

  “No, just in the south. Who lives in the south, anyways? I’m talking about the west. Make him big on Kurfürstendamm! Organization is everything! You have land. It should be used. How large is your terrain?”

  “One thousand square meters.”

  “That’s perfect. A large house. A pure pleasure palace. Look at how Haus Vaterland is doing.28 But not that big by any means! Shops on the ground floor, on the left. On the right, Käsebier, up two floors, Käsebier’s theater. Just Käsebier. Käsebier the entrepreneur. He can be a real host and entertain his guests. After all, he once managed a bar on Wiener Strasse. He was always in the southeast, and he prefers the Wintergarten too.”

  “What’re you going on about? You’re talking big! Who’s going to build and underwrite it? I’m not doing it. I don’t put my money into business ventures.”

  “I know some top-notch folks, believe me! We have to get a top-notch construction company interested. They’ll give you a first mortgage at eight percent, the second at ten.”

  “That’s very cheap.”

  “Kaliski can always get you the best deals.”

  “And what kind of guarantee would I have on my property? I’m a banker, not an entrepreneur. I don’t like dealing in things when I can’t be sure of the interest rate. What if the theater does badly?”

  “Then we won’t get the rental income.”

  “No, no, I don’t like deals like that. I know about securities. But construction?”

  “But Mr. Muschler, you’re not just going to let the land lie fallow in a neighborhood like that! Think of what the Sachows next door made on their property.”

  “Well, that was a particularly favorable contract.”

  “Fine, point taken.”

  “But why? What are you looking to earn? What’s your percentage?”

  “Me? Not at all. Please, Mr. Muschler. I might ask to be allowed to handle the leasing.”

  The maids came by and passed around beer and lemonade.

  “Shall we play a game of bridge?” asked Hersheimer the bank director.

  “With pleasure,” said Muschler. They went off into the adjoining room to play: Muschler, Mrs. Frechheim, Muschler’s mother-in-law, Hersheimer and his wife. Meanwhile, Kaliski had taken a seat at a round table with some five other guests. They were discussing tariffs.

  “I don’t know why women never want to pay duties on anything,” Commissioner G. said.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Muschler. “My husband is funny that way too. The last time we returned from Paris, I brought back several new things in my luggage. A coat and a few hats and the like. I had removed the labels beforehand, but my husband didn’t want me to.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never had trouble with the customs office,” Mrs. Weissmann said. “We drove through Italy with our car, from the Riviera to Africa. We never had trouble anywhere.”

  The maids were now passing bread around. The unemployed young man said, “The last time I came back from Czechoslovakia . . .” but no one allowed him to finish.

  Käte told everyone about bringing a few cold creams back from Paris.

  “When the officers began giving me a hard time, I told them that it was my food, took out a little spoon, and had a bite.” The group laughed.

  “But you live in Berlin now.”

  “Yes, but I don’t go out much, I have to work.”

  “Where do you hold your classes?”

  “Until now, I’ve been having them in my apartment; you know how difficult it is with apartments right now.”

  “Of course, terribly difficult.”

  “A friend of mine had to pay seven thousand marks in moving fees,” Mrs. Muschler said.

  “Yes, and we had to pay six thousand, not even for something first-rate.”

  “The situation is dreadful,” said Käte. Then Klaus Michael Waldschmidt sat down next to her.

  “What did you think of Käsebier, fair lady? My old man was quite taken.”

  “I didn’t find it to be all that. It’s prewar art, petit-bourgeois, with no élan. There are so many good cabarets today.”

  “Aren’t there, though? But I think Käsebier’s a great artist. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Not these days. Käsebier’s good at livening up shy men. He’s a kind of superior stimulant. But really, the whole thing is only good for a society that hasn’t understood anything yet. Look at the films from Russia. You avoid them, I presume? They’re not so pleasant, are they?”

  “Oh no, not at all, I love the Russians.”

  “Well, one can’t exactly love them, either. You can’t remain neutral these days, you need to know where you belong. We know where we belong. Käsebier doesn’t.”

  “I don’t think that you can view all art from a political perspective.”

  “Yes, you can. Those French lovers’ plays set in the clouds are sickening. We can do that on our own.”

  “Oh, really?” He kissed her hand.

  “Love must be beautiful, mustn’t it?”

  “Of course. Shall we dance?”

  Lieven was talking about Käsebier with sweet Hannelore. He wanted to take her along to Hasenheide.

  “Perhaps with my friend Susie?” she said. “We can ask her straightaway.”

  Susie was thrilled. So was Hannelore. A poet! they thought, A poet!

  Hannelore’s father and the parents were upset. Look at the girls, sitting with one of those literati.

  Otto Peter sat in the corner, feeling lonely. He was nineteen years old. Hannelore was ignoring him. He considered whether he should shoot Lieven. He had seen Lieven kiss Hannelore in the sunroom. He had grabbed her by the armpit, that bastard. Hannelore and Susie stood together.

  “He’s divine,” said Hannelore.

  “Is he bold?” asked Susie.

  “Yes,” Hannelore said proudly.

  “Did he kiss you?” asked Susie.

  “Yes, just think, in the sunroom.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “We have to talk tomorrow, I’ll tell you more then.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Otto Peter looked gloomy.

  “Isn’t that boy green?” Hannelore asked Susie, glancing at him. “He trembles when he dances with a girl. What a frightful bore.”

  Susie agreed. “I’ve no time for boys either.”

  “He proposed to me. On Geissbergstrasse. Whad’ya think of that! When we haven’t even kissed!”

  Susie was equally indignant. “Any sensible person would at least pick the Grunewald for that. What a bore! What a bore!”

  Margot came over to the Muschlers and the Hersheimers. They discussed Käsebier.

  Mrs. Hersheimer said, “I saw him at the Wintergarten, unbelievable.”

  “Fabulous,” said Mrs. Muschler.

  “A genius,” said Margot.

  “A God-given talent,” said old Magnus.

  Otto Peter said, “A true man of the people. Magnificent. He should go to London.”

  “Exactly,” said Margot. “I met him recently when I was there with Meyer-Paris and the Attaché de l’Espinosa from the Spanish embassy.”

  “And what’s he like?”

  “A very simple man, of course, but very nice. He was very happy to meet me. We spoke to him backstage.”

  Beer, lemonade, and large platters with bread, salmon, cucumbers, eggs, and anchovy butter were being passed around. There were delicate spreads of egg, mustard, anchovies, and oil, as well as crackers with caviar.

  Frächter joined them.

  “My dear Frächter,” Margot Weissmann said, stretching her bare arms out toward him, “I believe I haven’t yet thanked you for your dedication in my Käsebier. Wonderfully witty.”

  She batted her lashes at him.

  “A very amusing bo
ok,” Thedy Muschler said.

  “I’m so pleased.”

  Mrs. Hersheimer said, “Your introduction brightened up my whole evening.”

  “And the writing!” said Margot. “You write with the wit of the French. Nothing can surpass Parisian légereté, of course. Paris is so enchanting.”

  “Naturally. We are always so serious,” said Frächter.

  “Dearest colleague,” Lieven said to Miss Kohler in the Louis XVI living room, “you know I’m only interested in little Hannelore Siebert and Susie Schneider. Perhaps the male death drive prizes the virgin.”

  “For God’s sakes, Lieven, get up.”

  “Why’s that, little Charlotte? What do you say to this one?” He pointed to the youngest Waldschmidt daughter. “She’s living a double life, sneaking out of her parents’ apartment three times a week to visit her boyfriend. I could imagine this woman in a few choice situations.”

  “I’m telling you for the last time, get up.”

  “Dearest lady, you’re sitting here all alone,” said Muschler, taking Lieven’s place. “D’you see that girl in blue and gold? She’s the best catch in Berlin.” He pointed to the youngest Waldschmidt daughter.

  “I can hardly believe that Waldschmidt managed to keep all of his money through the inflation.”

  “Well, it’s common knowledge at the stock exchange.”

  “Well, then it must be so.”

  Muschler felt uneasy. He had the feeling she was making fun of him. Entirely understandable that no one wants Kohler, he thought. Clever, educated women are awful.

  The man of the evening, the forty-year-old industrial titan, the important violinist with the famous East Asian collection, was strolling about with Käte.

  “Is the evening a bit too chaotic for your taste?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said, delighted.

  “You seem nervous,” he said. “I’m sorry that I can’t spend as much time with you as I would have liked.” He led Käte, who looked ravishing in her black taffeta, red hair, and copious fake pearls, in the direction of the sunroom.

  Miss Kohler flinched. But then Monsieur de l’Espinosa asked him about Yugoslavian sheep exports. He answered clearly, smartly, giving numbers. Miss Kohler fell more and more in love.