by Irmgard Keun
And here is how it all happened: I hadn’t been writing enough letters because I had been thinking about Hubert, and all of a sudden I had to go full steam ahead, to have something to show for by the end of the day. Of course there were no commas in sight, which is one of my strategies: because I figure, it’s better to have no commas at all than commas in the wrong places, since it’s easier to pencil them in than have to erase them. And there were still more mistakes in my letters and I had my doubts about them. So I put on my Marlene Dietrich face as I go into his office, like I’m making those big eyes at him like I can’t wait to jump into bed with him. And the Pimple Face tells everyone to go home, only I have to stay and write those letters over again, which grosses me out, and I never feel like it, because they are files with some kind of nonsense about some guy Blasewitz, who had had a gold crown stolen by his dentist, who then charged him for it — I can’t make any sense of it, and for weeks I’ve been writing about Blasewitz and his molars, which can really get on your nerves. So I go to see the Pimple Face — everybody has left already — it’s only him and myself. And he’s going over my letters, marking them with commas in ink — and I’m thinking to myself, What can you do? and casually brush against him, as if by accident. And he keeps putting in more and more commas, and crosses out words and corrects, and he’s about to tell me that one of the letters has to be written again. But as he says “again” I press my breasts against his shoulder, and when he looks up I madly flare my nostrils, because I want to go home and don’t want to write about Blasewitz’s molars anymore and about Frau Gumpel’s payments for that stinky old dairy store. And so I had to distract the Pimple Face and was flaring my nostrils like one of those giant Belgian rabbits when they eat cabbage. And just as I want to whisper that my poor old father has rheumatism and I’ve been reading “Happiness at the Gates” — just as I want to say it, it happens, and I notice too late that I’ve gone too far with those nostrils. So the guy jumps up and clutches me and breathes heavily like a locomotive about to leave the station. And I say: but — and I try to get his disgusting bony fingers off of me, and I’m really confused, because I hadn’t expected all of this for another four weeks, and this just goes to show you that you always learn something new. And he says: “My child, stop pretending. I’ve know for a long time that you have feelings for me and that your blood longs for me.”
Well, all I can say is that it beats me how a man who has a degree and who is able to follow all that stuff about Blasewitz and his molars, how a man like that can be so stupid. And it was Hubert’s fault and my empty stomach and everything happened so quickly and the pimples and he was moving his mouth like a flounder — so I lost control of the situation. And I whisper nonsense — the usual stuff — and he wants to push me over toward the cold leather sofa — and I haven’t even had dinner yet, and might have to rewrite those letters after all — I wouldn’t put it beyond him, being an attorney — so I figured, enough of it. So I said very calmly: “How dare you wrinkle my dress like this, when I don’t have anything to wear already!” And that was a hint and a test, and whether I would rebuff him gently and politely or get mean all depended on his response. Naturally, I got just the answer I had expected: “My child, how can you think about this now, and I like you best naked and without any clothes on anyway.”
That really blew my mind. I kicked his shin so he would let go of me and said: “Now tell me one thing, you stupid attorney, what on earth are you thinking? How can a highly educated man like yourself be so dumb to think that a pretty young girl like myself would be crazy about him? Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? I’m asking you, what sex appeal could you possibly have?”
It would have been very interesting to hear a logical response, because a man has to be thinking something after all. But instead he just said: “So that’s the kind you are!”
And he draws out the “that” as if it were gum arabica. And so I go: “That kind or not that kind — I consider it a wonder of nature to see you turn blue in the face with anger, and I never would have thought that you could get even meaner than you already are — and your wife dyes her hair yellow like egg yolks and is into expensive cosmetics and cruising around in her car all day and doing nothing in terms of honest work — and I’m supposed to do it with you for nothing, just for love. And I slap his pimply face with that letter about Blasewitz and his molars; since I had nothing more to lose, at least I wanted to give my temperament full rein. Of course he gave me notice effective the first of the month. I just said: “I’ve also had it with you. Just give me one month’s salary and I won’t be back again.”
And I made cheeky threats — that the guys in court would only have to look at his miserable face and would believe me immediately that I had never given him any sensual looks and I would win my case — or if he wanted me to tell the girls in the office tomorrow, particularly since he used vulgar words like naked and that my blood was longing for him. And when I get really excited about something, I just have to tell somebody. And now I’m sitting here with my 120 marks and am trying to figure out my future. And I’m waiting for Therese, whom I called, so she can come and comfort me and calm me down, since after all, I’ve just lived through a sensational event.
I told my mother everything, but only mentioned 60 marks of which I kept 20 which makes a total of 80 for myself. Because you have to appreciate money, and you learn that when you’re working. And I have to hand it to my mother; she’s quite a woman. She still has a certain something from the old days, even though she’s working the cloakroom at the theater these days. She may be a bit overweight, but not too bad and she wears her hats in an old-fashioned kind of way — kind of like a dot on the i — but that’s becoming fashionable again. In any case, she carries herself like a really expensive lady, and that’s because she used to have a life. Unfortunately, she married my father, which was a mistake, I think, because he’s completely uneducated and as lazy as a dead body and only shouts every once in a while to show off his big mouth — we all know about that sort of thing. Only when he’s not at home does he have manners, including elegant gestures with his arms, pulling up his eyebrows, and wiping the sweat off his forehead — particularly in the company of women who weigh more than 500 pounds and aren’t married to him.
To make a long story short, I don’t have much of an opinion of the man and the only reason I’m scared now is because my nerves can’t take it when he loses his temper — and when he talks to me about morals, I can’t really do anything about it because he is my father. And I’ve been asking my mother why she as a high-class woman settled for this loser, and instead of slapping me she just said: “You have to belong somewhere after a while.” And she was completely calm — but I almost cried, and don’t know why, but I understood and never complained about the old curmudgeon ever again.
I would just love to see Hubert again. And I can feel that great things are in store for me. But at this point, I’m still sitting here with 80 marks and without a new source of income and I ask you, Where is my man for this emergency? Times are horrible. Nobody has any money and there is an immoral spirit in the air — just as you’re getting ready to hit on someone for some cash, they’re already hitting on you!
So Therese advised me to check out Johnny Klotz, a fellow we know at the ice cream parlor — that’s because he’s got a car — nothing special, but it’s something. And me: “You don’t know about men nowadays, Therese — what do you mean a man with a car, when it’s not paid off? If you have money nowadays, you go by streetcar and to have 25 pfennigs in cash is worth more than owning a car on credit.” Therese understood, because she accepts my authority when it comes to things like this. So I’m racking my brain as to how I might be able to get back on my feet, because when you rely on men completely, things are bound to go wrong. Unless it’s someone really big — and that’s hard to come by in a crummy town like this. In any case, Johnny Klotz is going to teach me the new tango tonight, so I’ll stay on top of thing
s. I’m so fidgety — sitting around all day with nothing to do. I’m dying for it to get dark, and I constantly have that melody in my ears: I love you, my brown madonna — sunshine is glowing in your eyes.… And the violinist at the Palastdiele has a voice like sugar — oh my God — and I have to swallow whole that kind of night with music and lights and dancing, until I’ve had my fill — as if I were going to be dead by tomorrow morning and were never ever to get anything again. I want to have a pale pink tulle dress with silver lace and a ruby red rose pinned at my shoulder — I’m going to try to land a job as a model, I’m a gold star — and silver shoes … oh what a tango fairy tale … and what wonderful music there is — when you’re drunk, it’s like going down a slide.
There has been a significant development in my life, as I am now an artist. It all started out with my mother talking to Frau Buschmann who runs the cloakroom for the actresses, and she in turn spoke with Frau Baumann, who plays old and funny ladies — those crazy old women who still want to, but no one wants them any more, and people find that funny, but there’s really nothing funny about it. And she spoke to someone by the name of Klinkfeld who directs plays and is called director. And Klinkfeld spoke to someone who is one notch below him and directs plays under him. His name is Bloch and he is a stage manager and has a tummy like a throw pillow — I’m not sure if it’s embroidered or not — and he always pretends to be incredibly excited as if the theater belonged to him and is running around with a book in his hand saying vulgar things, and you never know if it’s in the book or if these are his own words. And Bloch spoke with the box opener who stands in front of the director’s box that provides direct access from the auditorium to the stage — which is prohibited and the box opener stands there with an impressive posture to make sure nobody steals the props. And he spoke with my mother and now I’m an extra. And I have to run across the stage in a play called Wallenstein’s Camp holding a jug together with other girls — it’s quite a scene — but it’s just a rehearsal for the time being, and the performance isn’t until the 12th. Until then it’s supposed to get even wilder. And nobody talks to me, because they all think they’re something special.
The girls are made up of two halves — one half is with the conservatory and only participates for money and feels like God’s gift to the world, and the others are with the drama school. They don’t get paid, but pay for it — and feel like a million dollars. The same thing is true for the male extras. And they carry on in a way that I’ve never seen before in my life and treat me with condescension, which they are going to regret. And the real actors look down on those from the drama school and are sure to let them know. They also look down on each other, but that they don’t show too much. In any case, there’s a hell of a lot of looking down on each other, and everyone thinks they’re the only one who’s wonderful. And the janitors are the only ones who act like normal people and greet you when you say hello to them.
Downstairs there’s a small room where the actors sit when they don’t have to be on stage, and the whole space is filled with smoke and you can hardly breathe. And everyone talks in an affected kind of voice and listens to himself, because no one else is listening. Except when someone is telling a joke, because that’s something they can tell the next person right away, with their affected voices. And they keep running back and forth and have strong upper thighs and then they stop all of a sudden and stare at a piece of paper in a frame that is called rehearsal schedule. And then they jiggle their feet and hum interesting tunes, despite the fact that no one is looking. Only sometimes people from the outside stop by and they get all excited and breathe heavily. And the less important actors mooch cigarettes from each other. And sometimes they give some to each other too.
And then every morning the director comes in from the street. That’s a very solemn moment. You can tell by the way he pulls the door open that he rules over the theater. And because he’s a big fish and thinks highly of himself, he is almost always thin-lipped and in a bad mood. Otherwise he’s kind of chubby and has greenish skin and his name is Leo Olmütz. And he always sticks his head into the porter’s window really quickly and then pulls it right back — I have no idea why — but it has a great effect. And then he walks down the hallway to his office with those hard soles. The girls from the school make sure he notices them, whenever they intentionally happen to bump into him. And today he said to two of them: “Hello, girls — looks like you’re in a great mood.” That was sensational and they talked about it until noon. The fat blonde, whose face is shiny with grease and red as a tomato and who is called Linni, claims he had given her this look. And the other one with the black pageboy and her filthy mouth who is called Pilli said no. And then still others joined in, and later on they argued whether he had said “hey” or not. And they all formed a gang and looked at me condescendingly, because I wasn’t supposed to hear what they were whispering — and I was sitting nearby at the table in what is called the conversation lounge.
And all of a sudden, I said very calmly: “I’d be happy to ask Leo tonight whether he said ‘hey’ or not.”
Everybody was staring at me. I noticed immediately that I was on the right track to get them to respect me.
That thin drip of a girl Pilli just asked: “So do you know him?”
And me: “Know who? Leo? Well, of course. He’s personally in charge of my training here, but he doesn’t want me to talk about it. And besides, I’m supposed to keep my distance from all the goings-on around here.”
And I arrogantly wrinkled my nose and glanced dreamily through the top window. After that they’re swarming around me like bumblebees, and that fatso Linni invites me right away to have coffee with her after rehearsal. I’m quietly eating five pieces of danish, thinking to myself: let her pay while I’m getting the inside story on this outfit. Of course, I avoid talking about Leo, since after all I don’t know the first thing about him, and I get off the subject as soon as she asks and admit to nothing. Afterward we cross the street — and I can tell she doubts me — and so I stop in front of a fabric store, make an impressive gesture, and casually remark: “Leo had three pairs of pajamas made from this lovely fabric.”
And Linni, full of awe: “The crêpe de chine with the floral pattern?”
I hadn’t realized I had pointed at the floral pattern — and now all I could do was nod and pretend I had a coughing fit, because I was dying with laughter picturing that thin-lipped blob with his important heavy step wearing pajamas of white crepe de chine with little roses on it. And I thought to myself that I owed her an explanation, so as soon as I had regained control over myself, I said: “Yes, he did that for my sake. I asked him because I just love that fabric and I think it just makes for a splendid contrast with his dark hair.”
Even though he’s hardly got any hair left.
Then I swore her to secrecy. And now I’m terrified that someone will say something. And I’m scared because of how that’s going to make me look when the truth comes out — and to tell you the truth, I’m already sick and tired of the theater.
Art is something lofty, and I’m suffering for it and already had a success. So I found out that the drama students are more important than those who just participate. And so I’m thinking to myself, I’m not going to stay with the riffraff. And the more you get to say on stage, the more important you are, and it’s all about being listed on that piece of paper, and to get on it, you have to say something. So there was all this commotion about one sentence in that play called Wallenstein’s Camp. There’s this old woman who sleeps with a lot of soldiers. They don’t tell you that, but it’s obvious. And she also sells food to the soldiers, but I’m thinking to myself that that doesn’t pay the bills, particularly when there’s been a war on for 30 years. And this old woman has a relative who is young, and of course she also sleeps with the soldiers because what else is she going to do after all. And she’s called vivandrière, which is a foreign word — I would have loved to ask the girls about it. But despite my stor
y with Leo I hesitate to demonstrate my ignorance, which is never a good idea, by the way. Because you only get oppressed. And because those two females that are called vivandrières have such energy — I’m thinking it must have something to do with being vivacious. And this just goes to show you that a little thought can help you explain many things to yourself, and that you don’t have to ask. And the younger vivandrière is running around and pouring drinks and is sitting in a tent, which isn’t there yet — not until the dress rehearsal. And she comes out of the tent once and shouts: “Aunt, they’re off!” Referring to the soldiers of course. And she has to sound very excited, which makes no sense to me, because there’s still plenty of them staying behind and one more or less doesn’t seem to make a difference — especially with soldiers who are a dime a dozen anyway. And at first Klinkfeld was going to cut the role of the young vivandrière, since she would only be detracting from the military. But now he’s changed his mind and she’s supposed to say one sentence. And that one sentence caused as much of a stir as a loaf of bread during a famine. If not more so.
Because it was only one sentence, the real actresses weren’t keen on the role. So one of the girls from the drama school was supposed to get it. And there are seven of them, and in October, after the auditions for the new students, there will be still more. All of them have to train for two years. Beats me what there is to learn, but I’ll stay out of that for now and keep my mouth shut, since I’m with the school too now, and I also have a success.
But back to the sentence. That fatso Linni was after me to talk to Leo so she would get to say the sentence. That was embarrassing, and all I could tell her is that Leo would not feel like hearing anything about sentences after a hard day’s work — plus he’s so passionate, he won’t be able to think of anything else.
