“Well, what about you?”
“I’ve acted in your interest. Who does the building belong to: me or you?”
“Well, he’ll still be able to pay the lease.”
“Nah, I don’t think so!”
“Go right ahead and talk it down. I’d also like to get a building worth a million for a mortgage of two hundred and fifty thousand!”
“What about the property tax?”
“Another hundred thousand.”
“Do you think the bank will let it stand?”
“The bank has got to let it stand.”
Mitte thought. He didn’t have 350,000 marks in available funds. If it came to a foreclosure and a forced sale, he’d have no chance with the second mortgage. Muschler thought that the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-mark mortgage might be enough to delay the bankruptcy.
Löwenstein said, “If it goes into foreclosure, someone could get a good deal and buy something worth a million for three hundred and fifty thousand marks.”
“Well, we won’t let it get that far,” Mitte said. “Otto Mitte and Co.’ll buy it, but I think you can hand it over for a little less, Mr. Muschler. A house with a theater that’s broke, and no renters for the apartments!”
“If you pick such a genius architect!”
“Nah, don’t pin this on Karlweiss. The economy’s changed. I can’t even say what the building cost me. The whole affair started with our recently defunct Kaliski!”
“How much did Kaliski cost you?” Muschler asked.
“He got ten thousand marks for brokering this fine deal.”
“What?” Muschler and Löwenstein exclaimed. “He told us he was satisfied with the rentals.”
“Well, he told me a different story.”
“Look at what’s coming out now. But the law’s still the law, and a contract is a contract.”
“Can’t get blood from a stone!”
“What do you mean?”
“You can go peddling around Berlin, but you won’t find any buyers right now. I’m offering you fifty thousand marks to take over the Käsebier theater.”
“ ’Scuse me, councilor,” said Muschler. “We’ve got a contract on the mortgage.”
“Just wait and see who’ll pay. Otto Mitte and Co. won’t. I’ll give you fifty thousand, that’s it.”
They parted ways.
News spread through Berlin that there was a deal to be made; the Käsebier theater was up for sale! Brokers were running about, phones were ringing off the hook. This was the deal of a lifetime!
“We’ll split the broker’s fee,” Schabe told Peter.
“Why split it? I told you about the deal,” Peter said to Schabe. “I want at least two-thirds.”
“Why’s that? You won’t be able to get anywhere without my connections. I know all the rich buyers interested in a deal like this.”
“Well, if you manage to bring it in, we’ll split it.”
•
Frechheim gave his nephew Muschler a piece of his mind.
“You’ve got some nerve, doing business behind my back! It’s a disgrace. You’ve dragged us all through the mud: your name, our name.”
Muschler shrugged.
“Oh, you don’t care?! Names don’t matter to you anymore?! And why not? Where are your savings? You scoundrel!”
“How dare you!”
“You mortgaged the accounts! Took other people’s money! You could go to jail. And this crazy building! Idiotic! You think you’re so smart!”
Uncle Gustav sat down, exhausted. Muschler sat there calmly.
“The family will cover it.”
“If they can. And what will you do with your villa?”
“It belongs to Thedy.”
“As long as I have something to say, Thedy will pawn off her villa and her diamonds! Don’t you have any sense of honor? It goes without saying that I’m giving everything up—the paintings and furniture in my apartment on Keithstrasse. Are you a crook, or were your father and grandfather respectable, honest men, bankers who dined with Rothschild?”
“You’ll have to talk to Thedy.”
“I certainly will.”
But that didn’t change much. Thedy insisted on keeping her property. She would certainly give up the villa and some of the furniture, but she was under no obligation to do so. She stressed that she stood under no obligation. And the diamonds were out of the question. They were in part old Frechheim family heirlooms. She wouldn’t even consider it. Worst case, they would move to Switzerland after the settlement, she said.
Muschler, who was easygoing and liked his comfortable life, agreed with her. It would be much more comfortable to move to Switzerland with debts than to become poor.
“You’re quite right, why should we scrape by in Germany where they tax everything away!”
36
The creditor meeting
THE FIRST creditor meeting took place on Monday, September 15. The enormous political excitement over the election results was mixed with people’s distress at losing the money they’d worked for, saved, and invested.
The meeting took place in Berlin-Mitte, on the third floor of the district court. It was held in the wood-paneled room of a wonderful house that, with its curved stairs, rococo balustrades, and rose petal decorations, had the feel of a dance hall. Miss Kohler arrived very early. But people were already clustered about, cornering each other, and furiously airing their stories.
“Three days ago—just imagine!—three days ago, I brought him two thousand marks and he took it,” said a small-time businessman. “Just imagine, he took it. It would have been only decent if he’d made up some excuse and sent me back my securities.”
“He won’t even have bought them, that bastard.”
“He used them up! Just used them up!”
“He’s still driving his car,” someone shouted.
“And what a car!”
“Someone’s got to be paying taxes on that!”
Duchow the carpenter was there. He was there: tiny, old, and gray, and shouting in a high-pitched voice, “We’ve got to fight like lions! Like lions, we’ve got to fight.” He shook his sparsely-haired head.
Dr. Krone stood there: “I’ll go to the state attorney right away if my certificates are gone. Right away! You think I’ll put up with this? First the state cheated us, now the bankers. Every five years they steal our savings. It’s plain theft! I have major expenses; I need a new apartment. That’s why you have money lying around. And now the certificates are gone. Simply gone. I’ve already asked twice for them to be sent by registered mail, and all I hear is something about a bankruptcy trustee. They may as well go ahead and bolshevize everything, then we’ll know where we stand.”
Oberndorffer, who had run late, came hurrying in: “Has it started yet?”
“What’s your business here?” Dr. Krone asked. “Lost your savings too?”
“No, a fee. Good day, Mr. Duchow. Have you lost money as well?”
“Yes, five hundred marks. That’s money too. Last year, I lost two thousand marks to a client. That’s a lot of money for old Duchow. Ah, it’s no fun anymore, Mr. Oberndorffer. No one knows how to recognize quality work anymore, and on top of that, you lose money. Us two, Mr. Oberndorffer, we’re artists with god-given talent, and no one knows what to do with us anymore.”
“God-given?! Mr. Duchow!”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“When you build,” said Oberndorffer, “the building doesn’t matter that much; the financing is everything. Here’s our financing.”
“Should just bolshevize everything,” Oberndorffer heard Krone say.
“My entire fortune’s gone,” said an old lady, crying. “Everything I saved from the inflation.”
Lawyers and representatives of major companies arrived. The meeting was opened. Böker the bankruptcy manager, a blond man with a goatee and a belly, delivered an overview. He read out a list of assets and withdrawals.
When the withdrawals
moved to personal listings, and he read out, “Withdrawal by Richard Muschler, seventy thousand marks,” indignation mounted. “Other people’s money!” “Of course!” “Our money!” “Disgraceful!”
“That covers my life insurance,” Muschler shouted. But it was no use. He was forced back into the corner. Frechheim had withdrawn ten thousand marks. A creditors’ committee was formed.
“Who do you represent anyways?” one shouted.
“Me? The import and export union.”
“That’s impossible. I represent them.”
“Sir, how dare you!”
Others intervened, trying to placate them. No one could get to the bottom of the matter.
A fat man yelled, “What’s the bankruptcy manager earning?”
With great gravitas, the judge replied, “That is legally predetermined. You can consult the bankruptcy code. This is not the place for such discussions!”
“How much are you asking for anyways?” someone said to the fat man who had asked the question.
“Ninety-three marks.”
Everyone laughed.
“Ninety-three marks is money to me,” said the fat man. “Maybe everything’s peanuts to you if it’s under a million.”
Dr. Krone wanted to join the creditors’ committee as a midsize creditor.
“But you’re not a businessman!” a lawyer rejoined.
“Oh, the gentlemen wish to be amongst themselves,” the fat man called out.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Duchow.
And the printer said, “The large creditors will call the shots on the assets. The little ones’ll be left with nothing.”
“That’s right.”
Someone cried, “How did Messrs Muschler pay for the factory in Schleiz they recently bought?”
“We don’t have a factory in Schleiz,” Frechheim called out.
“It’s called Textol A.-G., but Mr. Muschler’s behind it. I want to know whether the factory will be liquidated.”
“That’s a question for the creditors’ committee.”
“I want to know whether the factory will be liquidated.”
He received no answer.
“And what’s with Mr. Muschler’s Swiss bank account?”
“I want to know what’s with Mr. Muschler’s bank account, otherwise I’ll report him for bankruptcy fraud!”
“D’you know who’s going to chair the creditors’ committee? Karlweiss, that crook.”
“Really,” said Oberndorffer. “Isn’t that wonderful.”
“Look at what we have here,” said Duchow. “A nursery, a real nursery. The big ’uns’ll take the pants off the little ones.”
“What will happen to Käsebier?”
“He’s yesterday’s news.”
“Is the theater doing that poorly?”
“Käsebier told me he’d come up short the first month. You know Berliners. As a rule, they only go for the first month. So if they don’t even walk in the door the first month, it’s over.”
A few gentlemen stood together. Lawyers, Karlweiss, a representative for Otto Mitte, representatives from other large firms. They were discussing the creditors’ committee. In the back, where the benches were, stood Duchow, Oberndorffer, the fat man, Miss Kohler, Dr. Krone, and the employees who hadn’t been paid in a month—a fact no one had known.
•
That same day, Mitte said to Muschler, “Shouldn’t we go to the court registry and examine the mortgage registration?”
“Why bother? We have the contracts.”
“You never know.”
“I don’t know if I’m coming or going and you want me to waste a whole morning at the local courthouse! I want to be helpful, of course.”
“That’s what I think too. You know what’ll happen if it comes to foreclosure?”
“Fine,” said Muschler, exhausted. “I’ll pick you up with the car.”
The following day, Muschler drove by Mitte’s office on Schellingstrasse.
“Well, Muschler, can’t let your head hang, could happen to anyone! These days! Gets some earlier, some later!”
“Oh no, no,” said Muschler. “I’m not letting it hang.”
They had to walk quite a way in the Charlottenburg courthouse before they found the right room. Mitte and Muschler inspected the property register.
Muschler was still scrutinizing it when Mitte began roaring with laughter. “Hey, Muschler,” he said, and thumped Muschler on the shoulder, “your precious Dr. Löwenstein forgot to write it in.”
Muschler said, “That’s impossible, councilor. Löwenstein knew how important this was to me.”
“You bet! We spent a whole day negotiating it in Baden-Baden.”
“That’s impossible. Such a respectable lawyer? Löwenstein doesn’t forget things like that.”
“Well, shall we ask a clerk?”
The gray-haired clerk peered over his glasses.
“Real estate mortgage for Mr. Muschler isn’t here.”
“It has to be!” said Muschler, furious. “Wait and see! I’m holding Löwenstein liable.”
“Till you win that lawsuit!” said Mitte.
“Please, I’ll keep at it until I’m foreclosed.”
Muschler couldn’t be spoken with. He drove to his office and called up Löwenstein immediately.
“And my savings, Mr. Muschler?” Löwenstein asked.
Muschler hung up. The overworked lawyer had dropped the ball. There was nothing left to do. That line of defense had vanished. The bankruptcy wound its course.
37
A visit
THE DAY before the auction preview, Waldschmidt paid Frechheim a visit. They had known each other since childhood, but for the past twenty years they had seen each other only at parties, premieres, and races. It hadn’t occurred to Waldschmidt to visit someone just for the sake of it in years. It was absolutely crazy, to visit someone for no reason. Suddenly, just after he had left the office, he asked his driver to stop on Keithstrasse. On the stairs, he thought, I’m simply barging into Frechheim’s place. He’ll think I’m here to offer him money. But he had the feeling that Frechheim might be contemplating suicide. And he was right.
“Ah, Emma,” he said, “is the master of the house home?”
Waldschmidt entered the dark study. Frechheim sat there, cowering in the corner.
“Don’t even think of it!” Waldschmidt greeted him. “My dear Frechheim, why? A man as clever as you! It would be cowardice.”
“Muschler dragged my name through the mud with this affair.”
“People can make distinctions.”
“In Berlin? Where the scum floats to the top and the decent folk sink? You see, Muschler had no sense for business. My wife, who died so early, and I always asked ourselves whether something would harm or aid the company. Although Muschler bears the company name, N. Muschler and Son is his Hecuba. N. Muschler and Son might as well be a big credit line.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is these days. At the Weissmanns’ housewarming recently, I spoke to Theodor Weissmann. He said, ‘If things get worse, I’ll shut down the company’ the way you’d say, ‘I must order myself a new pair of shoes.’ When I remarked that he had such a great fortune and asked how he could even consider it, he answered, baffled, as if I came from the moon, that his private wealth had nothing to do with the factory.”
“Dear Waldschmidt, that’s the difference between our generation and the one that followed us.”
“Trust funds, trust funds, dear Frechheim, polo, golf, and an income; none of them are businessmen anymore.”
“In the old days—surely old Weissmann felt this way once—your company was your pride and joy, the thing you saved for and put every spare penny into. The capitalists reaped the rewards because they took risks. But these people who treat their business just like a stock that provides them with an income—those men are ripe for bolshevization. His private funds have nothing to do with the company! Just like my nephew Muschler! It’s a sign of par
ticular decency today if you emerge impoverished from a bankruptcy and don’t heal yourself with the money of your creditors.”
“But that’s old-fashioned now; I’d prefer going bust to a big wind-fall.”
“You know that the house I live in belongs to old Mrs. Gerhard. That’s another story; the house only has three apartments. The first is already free to let. If I move out, the second apartment will be empty, and the house will have to be foreclosed. Ever since my blessed wife died, that apartment has been too large for me. I just didn’t leave because I felt sorry for the old woman—and now I’m auctioning off my affairs.”
“That’s not easy either.”
“No, I’m attached to my possessions. My beautiful Roman glassware, and who wants real Renaissance doors these days, who can afford to install them? I would very much have liked to keep my desk clock with the glockenspiel, and the beautiful bronze by Kruse, and the lovely Krüger.”45
“Well,” said Waldschmidt, “we’re attached to many things. Right after the Nazis were elected, the Americans canceled a big loan I had obtained.”
In that moment, Waldschmidt wondered how he could blurt out something like that. Had he suddenly become a woman with his gossip, just like the ladies on the telephone?
Frechheim was deeply shocked. “It’s sad to hear that everyone’s doing so poorly.”
Waldschmidt laughed. “Well, I’m still doing all right, but I thought that would comfort you! I’ve had to let some of my employees go though, and it’s as bad with one as the other. But I have to pay my employees twice as much as in 1913 because of taxes and healthcare. We’re going nowhere! We’re all standing on the barricades, dear Frechheim. It seems to me that everyone’s equally brave. One man falls, the other is unscathed by the bullet—at least for now. But we’re all fighters.”
“The old guard,” said Frechheim. “But my honor as a businessman has been sullied. That man, that Muschler!”
“It happens to everyone,” said Waldschmidt, and thought of the dancer his son wanted to marry. The two men parted ways warmly.
Who’ll visit me when I go broke? thought Waldschmidt. He thought; there was no one.
By the time he stopped in front of his beautiful villa on Stülerstrasse, he had realized something: the fact that he was completely alone. He had business acquaintances, colleagues, a wife, and children. Some of his colleagues liked him. But friends?
Käsebier Takes Berlin Page 28