Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  Shortly thereafter, Pankow was commissioned to paint a portrait of Countess Dinkelsbühl, and his Käsebier painting was the only work of art sold in the show.

  On Monday, the lunching ladies of Berlin held a big meeting to discuss two exhibitions. The first was to be a “table spread” in a department store, the other was a charity tea at a club, for which the ladies would also have to set tables. Countess Dinkelsbühl chaired the meeting. Countess Dinkelsbühl asked Mrs. Adolf Weissman for suggestions. Mrs. Adolf Weissmann wanted to put together a Käsebier table, decorated with the most famous lines from his songs.

  Mrs. Muschler called out, “My dear Mrs. Weissmann, I’ve already asked for a Käsebier doll to be made for my table. I was counting on putting together a Käsebier table.”

  “My dear Mrs. Muschler, why didn’t you give me a call? I could have told you right away that I had discussed this table with the countess quite some time ago,” Margot said.

  “I would have liked to put together a Käsebier spread as well,” said Mrs. von Heyke, “but I think that we should do as our dear honored Countess says.”

  Countess Dinkelsbühl suggested that Mrs. Adolf Weissmann might like to set the Käsebier table for the charity tea, and Mrs. von Heyke could do so for the department store. Mrs. Muschler could put together a very simple table for Käsebier’s coworkers; that way, the Käsebier doll would still be used.

  “You’ll do a lovely job, my dear Mrs. Muschler, you have splendid taste,” said the Countess. “A table for artistes, dancers, and other circus folk.”

  The ladies agreed on the plan.

  Mrs. Muschler said, “I’m leaving for Cannes in two weeks at the latest. I need to know about the tables.”

  “But certainly, my dear Mrs. Muschler,” said the Countess.

  Mrs. Adolf Weissmann wanted to do something very modern. “I’ll put out blue glass plates for eight people, some bright vetches, and I’ll make small tableaux of dolls based on ‘How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?,’ that could be quite charming.”

  Mrs. von Heyke, the manager’s wife, wanted to use her antique Berlin porcelain set and prepare an old-fashioned coffee table with Bundt cake and bouquets of wildflowers. The Countess agreed. Then the discussion moved on to the remaining tables. Mrs. Thedy was beside herself. She left early.

  “I have a fitting to get to,” she said.

  But the real reason was that she wanted to prepare a Käsebier table since it would garner the most attention. She phoned up her mother.

  “Mama, don’t you think Margot’s behavior is simply outrageous? Of course she’s the one who gets to have the Käsebier table, because it’ll be the biggest hit. She’s playing it up as if he were her godson. And you know that we’re the ones planning a theater for him.”

  “Richard told me not to discuss it with anyone yet.”

  “Yes, unfortunately not, otherwise I’d have loved to say it straight to Margot’s face this morning in front of the other ladies. She shouldn’t get all high and mighty just because he had breakfast with her. We’re building him a theater, that counts for so much more.”

  “Oh, please, Margot’s making herself look ridiculous. Her parties are never good. I found Saturday’s very disappointing.”

  “She always orders from the traiteur. Food only tastes good when it’s cooked at home. I’ve always told Margot that she should get our Kriepke to help her out. That way, you know what you get.”

  “The turkey was dry.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “And she served compote.”

  “Yes, I really don’t understand Margot. Compote is so terribly old-fashioned. And I’d like to see the Weissmanns serve decent Turkish coffee just for once. Margot is far too lax. She doesn’t know how to handle her servants, she spoils her staff, and she doesn’t put enough truffle on her turkey. Don’t be upset about the table. You should have suggested another idea straight away. ‘Souper à deux,’ for example.”

  “I thought of something similar, ‘A farewell souper.’ ”

  “Yes, see, isn’t that charming.”

  “Isn’t it, with white roses?”

  “So call up Countess Dinkelsbühl, you know that she loves to hear from you, and tell her that you don’t want to prepare the table for Käsebier’s employees. They can’t expect that of you, after all. What a stupid idea! Why didn’t you say so straightaway?”

  “Oh, I was too upset to say anything. Besides, I still need to order some new clothes for the trip.”

  “That’s right, I don’t understand why you want to walk around in that brown coat every day. Did you go see Marbach yesterday? You can only go to Marbach. Everyone else is no good. You want to use Frisko? I wouldn’t do that. Everyone already wore that last year. Panama’s a better bet. Did you go to Hammer’s fashion show? I was there the day before yesterday. She showed a combination of beige, rose, and blue, enchanting and not even that expensive. Five hundred. Your cousin Nelly is a sharp one. She and Glauker have agreed that every time she comes in with her husband, Glauker asks for seven hundred marks, and then lets herself be bargained down by two hundred. Nelly says her Erich is so pleased with his bargaining skills that he buys everything on the spot. She knows how to do it, unlike you. You’ve spoiled your husband too much. You can never just squeeze money out of men. They want to give you presents. If you send him the bill, he’ll agree to it. By the way, once I got home, I didn’t like the shoes we bought together. Luckily, I discovered a small scrape just above the right heel, so I brought them back. They didn’t want to take them back, but I told them that I simply wouldn’t accept a damaged pair, and that if they wanted to keep me as a client, they would have to do it. So they did.”

  “I really must be going.”

  “By the way, just imagine, Gabriele Meyer-Lewin broke her leg, so they brought her to her sleeping car to Cannes in a stretcher yesterday. She’d already reserved rooms at the Palace. Dreadful, isn’t it?”

  14

  Conversations; or, Love in Berlin

  MEYER-Paris happened to run into Miss Kohler. He took her along in his taxi. Meyer became angry with the driver, who couldn’t figure out a simple route, and decided to make him stop briefly at a stationery store. Meyer bought a Pharus map, showed him the way, and said, “Here, now you can get to know Berlin.” Lotte thought he was over-doing it. But she was too thrilled to be sitting next to him to think any more of it. It was raining.

  “It’s raining,” he said. “It’s always raining when we meet.” Once they arrived at their destination, Meyer insisted on subtracting the price of the map from the fare. The driver refused. Miss Kohler turned bright red.

  She said to Meyer, “Please, don’t make the driver pay for it.”

  She was embarrassed by Meyer, pleased that she still had her wits about her, but it was no use. A car narrowly missed them as they crossed the street.

  “We were lucky,” he said. “Otherwise, the midday papers would have already printed the news: ‘Charming young married couple run over by Lützowufer.’ ” He looked at her meaningfully. “Come with me to Paris in April. Please do.”

  “With pleasure,” she said.

  “I’ll let you know well in advance.”

  “And then suddenly I’ll be standing alone in some train station, holding my luggage. You’ll have forgotten about me, and there will be no one there to help me.”

  Meyer caressed her.

  “No, I won’t leave you alone.” He kissed her on the mouth.

  She couldn’t keep quiet. She would have liked to speak with her friend. But she had to go to the office. Miermann and Gohlisch were there.

  The money courier knocked. “Mr. Gohlisch?”

  “Come on in.”

  “Here are twenty marks from Mr. Frächter.”

  “Thanks from the court of Austria,” said Gohlisch. “We’d agreed on twenty-five.”30

  A messenger knocked and brought in telegrams.

  Landsbergwarte. 1405—press—berliner rundscha
u. 46-y.o. clerk erich sahler minzke nordau-warthe region swallowed dentures lunch died despite immediate operation.

  “What a telegram,” said Gohlisch. “What correspondents we have! They’ll telegraph us about some swallowed dentures, but we can’t find out anything about the political situation. By the way, the Völkischer Aufgang recently published the following: ‘A Mr. Gohlisch, whose name is really Cohn, a slimy Jew in the service of Mr. Cochius, discovered the simpering singer who is dragging our most precious goods through muck, and crooning of male loyalty in the jargon of red pigs.’ Can I respond?”

  “No, we don’t want to associate ourselves with that tone.”

  “Why don’t you take a look, Mr. Miermann, and see how well-written my answer is: ‘My name is Gohlisch, and I am a German of noble birth. The name Gohland, which is identical to Gohlisch, was already held by a clerk at Charlemagne’s court. My ancestors were hunting wild boar while yours were still living in trees and could only eat when the nut harvest was bountiful.”

  “That’s so beautiful it should really be published, but a joke shouldn’t tempt one to stupidity,” Miermann said.

  Augur walked in. Shook everyone’s hand without saying a word, as usual.

  “How are things, conspirator?” Miermann asked. “We’re completely jammed up with the Lankoop and Itzehoe trials. What’s there to expose?”

  “I got wind of some funny business with an architect from the housing welfare office.”

  “Who?”

  “Karlweiss.”

  “Well, if that isn’t interesting. He’s an extraordinarily dangerous man. I fear we won’t be able to prove anything.”

  “An out-of-court settlement took place in Moabit today. Karlweiss is on the housing welfare association, and it’s easier to get property tax money to finance his building projects, which is why many large construction companies got into the habit of involving Karlweiss, who’s not particularly well-known otherwise, in their construction projects. Anyway, he had been part of the Steglitz housing office, where he rubber-stamped apartment divisions so long as he got the job. He was kicked out of the housing office, but he’s still in the welfare association.”

  “Was anything proved?”

  “Negative, one hundred percent.”

  “Then I don’t want to publish anything. We already burned our fingers on Karlweiss once.”

  “But you can’t prove stuff like this unless you send up a trial balloon.”

  “Official denials are always unpleasant, dear Augur. You can’t imagine how much I’d like to publish something on Busch, who’s on the city council. But everyone always says that he’d deny everything. And I don’t want to put myself on the line for him. Gohland, our ur-Aryan, don’t you have anything to say?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Reflecting, rather, you’re reflecting. Who still thinks these days, after all!”

  “Of course I’m reflecting, I wouldn’t dream of thinking.”

  “What did the companies who hired Karlweiss say?”

  “They writhed and squirmed.”

  “I love to fuel scandals, but I need some facts first.”

  “I’m very suspicious of Busch,” said Gohlisch. “But I must say that although everyone always claims that he feathers his own nest, he raises far more money for Berlin, tremendous sums. A bit of corrupt ingenuity is better than honest incompetence. And that’s that. But Karlweiss? There’s a thorny issue. Where’s our coffee and grappa, and how’s your little daughter?”

  “Not much better, unfortunately, but the doctor says it isn’t serious.”

  “You should ask Dr. Krone to come by.”

  “Oh, our doctor is excellent.”

  “I’m going into the city,” said Miss Kohler. “Goodbye!”

  “You’re so cheerful today, my child, have you gotten engaged?”

  Miss Kohler turned red as a tomato. “Oh, nonsense.”

  “She’s obviously gotten engaged,” Miermann said to Gohlisch.

  “To our slanted-mouthed, bleary-eyed colleague?”

  “Oh, nonsense. Goodbye.”

  “She’s not denying it, look, she’s not denying it. Goodbye.”

  Miss Kohler walked through the city. She bought herself two pairs of silk stockings and two pairs of pink silk panties. She would have liked to buy herself a silk nightgown, but she didn’t dare. It seemed to tempt fate with its blissful intimations. Instead, she bought two sets of silken pajamas, but then thought that cambric would have sufficed.

  Her shopping caused her a fair amount of trouble. Mrs. Kohler was a Prussian. She thought cake was luxurious, afternoon naps were dubious, taxis were simply a waste, and spent her evenings contentedly and lovingly mending white laundry. She was deeply shocked by Lotte’s desire to wear colorful, let alone silk, underwear, and she only ever referred to them as “rags.”

  “If you want to wear those rags, go right ahead, but who knows where you’ll end up yet.”

  “But Mother, why are you always mending our white linen? No one does that anymore. Besides, you still hire someone to do the work for you. It’s not worth it.”

  “Let me worry about that. As long as I have something to say around here, nothing will go to waste.”

  Käte was at her wit’s end. She was in debt. Despite having hordes of students, she still hadn’t finished paying off the move or the new furniture. In addition, she had forgone everything in the divorce, even taken on the debt. She had wanted to get out. Mr. Herzfeld was what he was.

  “I should have never married him,” she said to Miermann, who felt that Mr. Herzfeld should have assumed the debt and paid her alimony, or at least given her a temporary allowance.

  “You’re at an economic disadvantage, and on top of that, you’re a woman. I don’t understand why you didn’t take advantage of the laws in your favor. Woman are feeble creatures. All that talk of independence is nonsense, after all.”

  “You belong to a different generation,” Käte said. “The debt is mine. I should never have married him. I wanted to be taken care of, that was my cross to bear. So why should he have taken on the debt? I wanted to leave him. Ultimately, he loves me in his own way. Why shouldn’t I make it easier for myself to get away? And how could I take money from someone I’m completely indifferent to? No, I’m independent now. I don’t want to feel tied down.”

  “Why not take money from him, just for a bit?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t accept capitalist justice, where a man owns his wife.”

  “You’ve made up your own set of mores, though you don’t even know if they’re justified, and they make your life quite difficult.”

  “It’s my only option. The notion that women should let themselves be fed by men is immoral. I don’t accept presents, either.”

  “But surely you don’t agree with those young girls who snap as soon as they’re given silk stockings.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Käte, half laughing. “Flowers and sweets are fine for women, but silk stockings are practically prostitution. Any other clothing is prostitution plain and simple.”

  “And what if you want to shower someone with love?”

  “There are other means. I also think that there’s something impure about unmarried people falling in love.”

  “???”

  “They’re focused on a goal. Love can only be completely pure and aimless if both parties are otherwise committed. In all other relationships, one thinks of, hopes for, and wishes for marriage, and defers the feeling of love.”

  “Years ago, we would have called that the transvaluation of values, but the younger generation doesn’t read Nietzsche anymore.”

  This entire conversation took place in the small café on Mauerstrasse, as usual. It was one thirty. Käte had eaten breakfast. Miermann wanted to pay for both of them. Käte wouldn’t permit it. She smoked one cigarette after another and got in a taxi. She drove to Waldschmidt at the Berliner Tageszeitung. Clever Waldschmidt had a soft spot for her.

  I
n his office, it was business as usual.

  “Welcome, welcome, dear child,” Waldschmidt said, covering up the mouthpiece of the telephone. “One moment please, have a seat, I’m just on the phone. —Yes, councilor. —No, impossible.”

  He put down the receiver and said to Käte, “He talks so much that he doesn’t even notice if you’re not listening. From time to time, I pick up the phone,” which he then did. “Of course, sir—no—no. Then I must have misunderstood you. We can gladly take the car. Goodbye. —Give my best to your wife.”

  The phone rang. “Yes, only up to ninety-eight. I’m capping it. No higher, by any means. They’re not worth more than that.”

  A messenger brought in a basket.

  “You see. I’ll be at your service straight away. One moment, please.” Into the telephone: “I’d like to speak to Mr. Otto. Mr. Otto? —I hear there’s a strike in Nieder-Klappsmühl. Entre nous, they’re quite right to strike. Abysmal salaries. What are they supposed to live on? It’s dreadful. The workers are always the first to feel any fluctuations. But it’s very unpleasant for us. If prices go up, we won’t be able to continue exporting.”—“So, my dear child, how are you doing?”

  “To speak plainly, I need five hundred marks.”