But events overtook Muschler before he could respond to this suggestion. Otto Mitte telegraphed that he could obtain a first mortgage of 900,000 marks, but first needed a definite answer as to whether Muschler could return for a meeting. Muschler telegraphed:
RETURN TO BERLIN IMPOSSIBLE STOP SUGGEST MEETING IN BADEN BADEN ON RETURN FROM CANNES STOP MUSCHLER
Mitte telegraphed back:
MORNING MAY 30 OK STOP BADEN BADEN HOTEL BELLEVUE
On May 29, 1929, Muschler & Sons ordered five sleeping-car tickets to Baden-Baden for Otto Mitte, Karlweiss, Matukat the assessor, Dr. Löwenstein, Muschler’s lawyer, and Gustav Frechheim, the uncle.
The five men met at Anhalter Bahnhof on a lovely May evening. From there they traveled directly to Baden-Baden. Muschler came up from Cannes by car.
In Baden-Baden, the five men were picked up from the train station by the car of the Hotel Bellevue, where rooms had been reserved for them.
They sat down for their meeting immediately. A building contract was to be drawn up.
The great battle that Muschler was waging was, firstly, to get Mitte to guarantee the rental income. Secondly—and this was the most important guarantee—Muschler wanted a property lien in the amount of 250,000 marks to be recorded behind the first mortgage, representing the value of the land.
Mitte laughed. “Impossible. You’re providing nothing but the lot and are getting a building put up by me for free that will generate one hundred thousand marks in rental income, and now you want another security that will leave me completely defenseless. Impossible.”
But Muschler refused to back down, and asked for more: guaranteed interest on the value of the property in the amount of twenty-five thousand marks per year, which he insisted on in any case.
Mitte agreed to the second mortgage. Should the rental income fail to cover interest and depreciation, Mitte would defer the remaining payments.
“I’m a banker,” Muschler said. “I’m not an entrepreneur. I can’t bear a risk.”
It was noon. Muschler said, “In case of foreclosure, the owner of the second mortgage will have to pay me the two hundred and fifty thousand marks. That’s my only security. No, no, I’m not letting go of that. Otherwise the deal’s off.”
Mitte was an entrepreneur. He could never take on enough projects, enough risk, have enough to do. He had a head of white hair, he was worth millions, but he didn’t have a retiree’s soul. He was no heir. He was old Mitte: the most feared, most hated, most hardworking building contractor in Berlin. Before the war, he had built tenements on empty land according to the construction code set forth by the Wilhelmine privy councilors, and, just like the bureaucrats, had thought little of the people he was building for. He built courtyards up against courtyards, windows facing windows; his priority was fire safety. Bedrooms faced north in vain, living rooms opened onto southern courtyards that had never seen a ray of sun. He never went against the law. Even though children were cut off from all the joys of life, sunless creatures chased out of courtyards and stairwells where they were forbidden to play, with no lawns, no sandboxes, and subject to every danger—he couldn’t have cared less.
Through the housing situation, today’s society necessarily forces the lower ranks of the urban factory proletariat to sink back to a level of barbarism, brutality, callousness, and hooliganism that our ancestors left behind centuries ago. I would like to argue that this environment represents the greatest threat to our culture. The property-owning classes must be shaken from their slumber and must finally recognize that, even if they make great sacrifices, these are only a reasonable, modest price to pay to protect themselves against the epidemics and social revolutions that will result if we do not cease to oppress the lower classes in our cities through their housing situation, force them to become barbarians and lead bestial lives.
Otto Mitte had surely never read these words by Schmoller from 1886, but if he had, he would have laughed. He didn’t try to make others happy. He submitted to authority. He did what the others did. The only reason he was worse was because he was more hardworking than the others. He built German Renaissance, he built Art Nouveau, he built Wilhelmine baroque. He took long, narrow properties that had been parceled up by a clueless bureaucracy, built them up as densely as possible, and was proud. He was made a consultant, he received the Order of the Crown, fourth class, he became a Prussian councilor of commerce. He donated money to the naval fleet. He was a pan-Germanist. He supported the annexation of Longwy and Briey, and when there was a call for garden cities after the revolution, he built garden cities. They were never first-class; he never worked with good architects, but always with people who had influential, moneyed connections to city government. But he built them. He was not a rebel. He was a salesman. He submitted to authority. He slapped the communist councilor on the shoulder and invited him out hunting, or over for a bottle of Rhenish, just as he’d bowed and scraped for the privy councilors of the Wilhelmine era. He built with property taxes, he built without property taxes, he built garden cities, he built houses with loggias, he built flat roofs—“Dreadful, but they’re asking for it,”—he built steep roofs, he built row houses, he was not a rebel, he submitted to authority. That was Otto Mitte. Otto Mitte, a tough negotiator, for whom 150,000 marks was not an imaginary sum for which he would let two big jobs, the Kurfürstendamm project and the Hohenschönhausen project, slip out of his grasp.
“Let’s get some grub,” he said.
The others were ready for lunch as well. They ate at length, and steadily. Muschler had a kidney problem and could only digest Burgundy, but preferred to drink acidic water. Out of the blue, Mitte ordered a heavy Niersteiner.
“To yours,” he cried to Muschler.
“Hear, hear,” said Karlweiss.
“Let’s knock one back for the president,” called out assessor Matukat, a big, strawberry-blond East Prussian whose face was pockmarked with scars.
“Matukat, remember when we went hunting in Ikehmen and it took us so long to shoot down the big stag that was bleeding all over the place? Your old man brought out vats of Niersteiner. Remember?”
Matukat remembered.
“To yours,” he said to Mitte.
“Hear, hear,” said Mitte.
At three o’clock—Matukat and Mitte quickly knocked back a strong schnapps—they sat down at the bargaining table again. Muschler wouldn’t back down. Mitte had agreed to the terms by six thirty.
I’ll get it back during the construction, he thought.
Dr. Löwenstein read over the meeting minutes with great seriousness.
“Fabulous lawyer,” Muschler said to Otto Mitte in quiet admiration.
Old Gustav Frechheim knew Baden-Baden. He suggested they take a short tour through the Black Forest: “Just an hour by car.”
Mitte and Muschler thought this the idea of a doddering old man.
“Nah,” said Mitte, “A little nightcap’s fine by me, but no country outings.”
They walked briefly through the Oos. There was still music coming from the dance floor of the Hotel Stefani. Slim, beautiful women were dancing in light dresses, fresh chestnuts perfumed the air, the oleander had poured its pink blossoms over the gardens, and rhododendrons had grown into towers of petals. A sweet western wind rose from the Rhine valley, and the sun stood over the Black Forest.
“The train leaves at eight o’clock. If we’re quick, we can still get tickets and be back in Berlin early tomorrow morning,” said Otto Mitte.
“Don’t you want to spend the night?” Frechheim asked.
“What, and be on the road all day tomorrow? No way. I’m not traveling during the day. My life isn’t cushy enough to steal a whole day from our dear Lord.”
“Let’s go back and ask them to order our tickets,” Muschler said.
They crossed the bridge and walked a little longer through the dust thrown up by the cars. Löwenstein was calculating his notary fees, Karlweiss was thinking about his commission, and Muschler and Mitte we
re discussing the contingencies once again.
“In one week,” Muschler said, “the company N. Muschler & Son will notify you in writing whether we agree to the contract as per the proposal at hand. If we cannot come to an agreement, councilor, neither party will hold any claims.”
“Yes,” said Mitte. “But Karlweiss will need to be paid for his proposal, of course.”
“By you, by you,” said Muschler.
“But you’re the principal,” said Mitte.
They called Karlweiss over. “We forgot to negotiate what would happen if N. Muschler & Son decides to give the construction project to someone else.”
“Well, my proposal must be paid for, of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Because I’ve already done my work.”
“Well, how much?”
“Four thousand marks.”
“Well, look now, that’s pretty steep.”
“Given the project and the fee schedule, I should be owed a lot more.”
“Let’s say two thousand.”
“Come on, we’re not horse traders. Three thousand, period,” said Mitte, the great councilor of commerce.
The sun set over the Vosges, over the Cathedral of Strasbourg. The wind subsided; the air was fragrant with jasmine, hawthorn, fresh chestnuts, oleander. The pines towered darkly in the dusk, the Oos babbled quietly. A charming nymph in a short dress came out of the woods next to the gently bubbling spring.
“Fine,” said Muschler. “Three thousand marks, but I want a written confirmation of this agreement.”
“Quick, Matukat, deal with it, play travel agent, get the bill,” Mitte said a few minutes later at the Hotel Bellevue’s reception desk.
The concierge bowed. “Rooms for the day, lunch, dinner, and wine.”
Muschler wanted to see the bill: “They always miscalculate.”
Otto Mitte sent off two telegrams announcing his return and arranging business meetings. Karlweiss did the same. Muschler placed a phone call to Berlin, noted down share prices, gave various orders, ended the conversation when the gentlemen were ready to leave, and drove with them to the train station. One suitcase, Dr. Löwenstein’s, was missing when they got to the train station. There was a terrific commotion. Where was the valet? Muschler walked alongside the train.
“Bellevue!” he shouted, “Bellevue!”
Löwenstein cried, “If the suitcase doesn’t arrive, I’ll have to stay here. I have an appointment tomorrow, twelve o’clock, third district court. I wanted to look through the files in that suitcase tonight, where’s that suitcase?”
—“Bellevue! Bellevue!”
Matukat said, “Well, I’d get off, but then I can’t get on again.” Muschler paced up and down: “Bellevue! Bellevue!” he shouted. Muschler went over to the valets. The valets helped him look.
“Half a minute left.”
“All aboard!” cried the conductor.
“My suitcase is missing,” Löwenstein shouted.
“Looks like a stray suitcase got in here,” said a man sitting comfortably in a compartment. Löwenstein dashed over to him.
Short, fat Muschler was still shouting “Bellevue! Bellevue!” and racing around with the valets.
“It’s here!” cried Löwenstein.
“Thank God,” said Muschler. “Goodbye!” Karlweiss waved.
Muschler drove back to the hotel and made a phone call.
“Niedergesäss,” he said to his chauffeur, “tomorrow morning at eight, we’ll drive back to Cannes.”
18
Schierling’s report
ONCE MUSCHLER had returned to Berlin, Oberndorffer again suggested they commission an independent assessment. Oberndorffer had high hopes. His theater design was impressive, his floor plan far superior. If he got this job, he’d be made. In the back of his mind, he secretly dreamed of generous city government contracts.
Oberndorffer went to lunch with Gohlisch, Dr. Krone, and Augur on Kommandantenstrasse. Oberndorffer excitedly told them about his project and said, “Good sense will prevail.”
“That’s a fantasy straight out of the Bremen Ratskeller,” Gohlisch said. “Everything prevails, not just the good.”
“My dear friend,” said Dr. Krone, “you seem quite young.”
“But Schierling is such a capable man; you must know who Schierling is!” said Oberndorffer, a slim, young man.
“Even Schierling won’t say a word against Otto Mitte,” Gohlisch said.
“Even if the other project is that bad?”
“Mitte prefers it, and Schierling only does what Mitte wants. Believe me.”
Augur nodded gloomily. “Mitte’s said to pay half a million in bribes every year.”
“You’re being naïve. It’s not quite that primitive, but unfortunately far more dangerous. Did you make inquiries as to whether Mitte has ever worked with Schierling?”
“No, I didn’t do that,” said Oberndorffer.
“You’re going to stay on the galley forever.”
“Good work will prevail,” Dr. Krone scornfully laughed. “One of my patients died yesterday because of his mad follow-up appointments. I said the man was deathly ill, the head honcho disagreed with me, and I filed a complaint to no avail. Yesterday, the man got up, fell over, was dead.”
“Bon appetit,” said Gohlisch. “Four grappas and four coffees. I do hope you get it, but the great professor won’t help you!”
Oberndorffer wouldn’t be dissuaded.
“Come on, my project has one-and-a-half-, two-and-a-half-, and three-and-a-half-room apartments, while Karlweiss’s just looks impressive.”
“The content’s not important,” said Gohlisch. “Schierling gets work from Mitte, so he’ll say what Mitte wants to hear. Oberndorffer versus Mitte! That’s like Kazmierczak the foot soldier versus Ludendorff in the war.”32
“But Kazmierczak was stronger than Ludendorff.”
“But thinkers don’t have coalitions.”
“Right.”
“Thinkers should drink grappa,” said Gohlisch. “I’m drowning my sorrows.”
•
As expected, Mitte made a big fuss.
“Well, I’ll be damned, Mr. Muschler, what more do you want? I won’t even consider working with another architect than Karlweiss; he’s proven himself.”
“But look, Mr. Mitte, your architect can be all the same to you. Oberndorffer is very reliable and exacting. His apartments seem better to me, and my associates are urging me to use him.”
“What rubbish, Mr. Muschler. You’ve got socialist fancies, huh? One-and-a-half-, two-and-a-half-, and three-and-a-half-room apartments! What’s that supposed to mean? Assessment! I’m enough assessment on my own, I don’t need a professor!”
“But I’m paying for it! It would take a lot off my mind.”
“Well, if you’re just looking to ease your mind, Mr. Muschler, we can consult Schierling. But I’m not working with anyone but Karlweiss. A young architect like that, just think of the doozies, he’ll build rooms that are three meters tall and so narrow you can only squeeze three flies in them and no people. Nah, I don’t like people I don’t know! Fine, consult Schierling if it’ll calm you down, even though you’re only contributing the land. I’ve got just as much to lose. But Otto Mitte doesn’t need his mind eased. Well, no hard feelings. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, councilor.”
Mitte phoned up Karlweiss. “Professor Schierling is going to be engaged to assess the projects. It’s just a formality.” He laughed loudly. Karlweiss laughed too.
“Why is Muschler racking up extra costs?”
Oberndorffer’s friends were right. Schierling’s assessment twisted and turned, made general statements one could charitably interpret as a slight preference for Oberndorffer’s project, wasted no words on the grave problems in Karlweiss’s proposal, gave nothing away, and was otherwise useless. It almost seemed as if he hadn’t even looked at the blueprints for the apartments and the theater. The assessment cost
two thousand marks.
Oberndorffer was finally out of the running.
Muschler said to his wife, “Can you believe it? Mayer and Uncle Gustav’s cautiousness have cost us another two thousand. As important as the project is! I’m charging two thousand marks to Uncle Gustav’s private account. Why should the business have to foot the bill?”
The contract with Mitte took effect.
Mitte had delivered a remarkably bad building plan. Oberndorffer, whom Muschler had brought on as a consultant, pointed this out. Muschler asked for some changes, but he didn’t consider them that important.
“I can only reiterate that when you’re building, the building itself isn’t that important. The financing is everything.”
No one had spoken to Käsebier yet. Käsebier was on tour. Once the financing was in the bag, everything else would be a breeze.
19
Käsebier dolls and lawsuits
A CRAFTSWOMAN had patented a Käsebier doll made of four dust cloths. This hardworking craftswoman, Miss Götzel, had begun by making batik, which she had sold in huge quantities on the foreign market during the inflation. Later, when that wasn’t working well anymore, she painted shoes. But above all, she made every type and kind of doll. She had no artistic conscience. “If the women want it, I’ll make any old crap. Light blue rococo tea dolls with pink roses and tutus with silver trim.” Now she was making dust cloths and had invented a Käsebier doll. Who had ever given away dust cloths as presents? Had they even been a product? Miss Götzel made sure that dust cloths became a product. During the Christmas of 1928, a department store sold forty thousand dust cloth parrots designed by Miss Götzel. Now she’d managed to make Käsebier! She hoped it would be a major event. She thought of Käte Herzfeld, the beautiful businesswoman. Since it was summer, no one was taking gymnastics lessons. Käte could manage publicity for Käsebier, visit shoppers, perhaps drive out into the country as well, be paid for her expenses, and take a cut of the revenue. Käte agreed. She wasn’t tied down to Berlin. She still had Miermann. But she couldn’t hang on to Waldschmidt. Everything else was background noise. The job was made for Käte. She was an unbelievably talented saleswoman. She had everything: she believed in her product—what she had was always first-class and everything else was trash—she had the gift of gab, beauty, sex appeal, a sharp mind, and the ability to calculate.
Käsebier Takes Berlin Page 17