Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  She was welcomed everywhere, she was lovable, and would immediately take on a slightly erotic tone that never became pushy. “Mr. Persianer,” she’d say, “you know that I love you; how many would you like?” She sat easily on desks, and would just as easily let herself be caressed every now and then. Miss Götzel had ten women sewing Käsebier dolls out of two brown, one white, and one flesh-colored dust cloth. They were quite original, and met the expectations they were held up to. That summer, a rubber Käsebier was also sold on Tauentzienstrasse and Leipziger Strasse, together with balloons and frogs.

  But the best product turned out to be a Käsebier doll that could be wound up to sing “How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?” A patent had been filed, and the factory wanted to roll them out around Christmas. Twenty salespeople had already been hired.

  During this time, you could hear “If You Wanna Come with Me, Come with; and If You Don’t, Go Your Way Alone,” in every beer garden. In every café, people requested “Boy, Isn’t Love Swell?” Every jazz musician crowed it, every piano player plonked it out. Every gramophone jingled, “How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?” The songs rang out in every last hovel. They were sung during work breaks. They were sung on Sundays on the Müggelsee. The cook sang it while she washed dishes in the west of Berlin, and the courtyards of the east, north, and south rang out with “How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?” On Monday morning, every office worker said to his colleague, “Boy, isn’t love swell.” “Boy, isn’t love swell,” Käte Herzfeld said haughtily to Margot Weissmann. “Boy, isn’t love swell,” Gohlisch said ironically to Miss Kohler, to pull her leg. “Boy, isn’t love swell,” Miss Fleissig, Mitte’s secretary, said to her colleagues. “Boy, isn’t love swell,” Aja Müller bellowed down the phone six times a day. “Boy, isn’t love swell,” said the workers making the Käsebier dolls, and the workers making the rubber Käsebiers, and the natty typesetter at the Berliner Rundschau.

  Meanwhile, the Megaphon Corporation was suing Omega for malpractice, an omission concerning the slogan “Hear Käsebier speak and sing—only on Omega!” Years ago, Käsebier had sung a few lines on an old record by Megaphon, “In the Hasenheide.” Megaphon’s overeager manager had remembered this record, and had filed a lawsuit with the help of Dr. Löwenstein. I’m slowly turning into a Käsebier expert, Löwenstein thought. As a result, Löwenstein gave a radio lecture on artist lawsuits.

  Soon thereafter, Käsebier was facing plagiarism charges. Mr. Theobald Sawierski, of 7 Kameruner Strasse, declared that the opening words to “Boy, Isn’t Love Swell?” came from him. It was June, and the papers jumped on the trial since they had nothing else to write about.

  Gohlisch wrote a delightful editorial for the culture section in which he examined the words “boy, isn’t love swell?” to see whether they could be plagiarized. Can the words “girl, I love you” be copyrighted? Is the conjunction of “girl” with “I love you” already a proprietary product? Is “miss, I love you” a Heine quotation or an everyday expression? He suggested trademarking the following phrases for hits: “Hey, don’t walk so fast,” “I wish the beer were better here,” “Round the corner to the right, straight ahead to the left.” —“Anyway,” he concluded, “an expression as unusual and unique as ‘Boy, isn’t love swell’ is certainly worth protecting. We eagerly await the outcome of this plagiarism trial, which will be of great importance to all poets.”

  Frächter wrote a larger piece in ten installments for the Rasender Roland evening paper on historic plagiarism trials.

  Around the same time, Lieven stormed into the office again and informed Miermann and Öchsli that he had just finished writing a musical comedy entitled Käsebier, composed by the operetta composer Adams, in which Käsebier would play the lead roll.

  “I have already prepared a notice for you: ‘The famous playwright Lieven and the operetta composer Adams have just completed the musical comedy Käsebier, in which the famous singer will star in the title role himself, alternating with Pallenberg. The premiere will take place on September 4 at the German Artists’ Theater.”

  Gohlisch said, “Let’s say ‘well-known’ rather than ‘famous,’ ” crossed out famous, wrote well-known above it, 12 pt. Feull., and brought the notice to the composing room.

  Lieven forced a cigarette on Miermann. “Käsebier Bonus,” he said. “New kind.”

  “I’ve already heard there are three: Käsebier Melior, Käsebier Optimus, and Käsebier Bonus. There’s a poster hanging on the Friedrichstrasse train station so you can’t tell anymore whether the station’s called Friedrichstrasse or Käsebier.”

  “In one hundred years,” cried Lieven, “it may well be called Käsebier.”

  “Or Lieven, perhaps?”

  “Very flattering, but come on, what’s Friedrichstrasse? A memorial to an incompetent king.”

  “Someone just told me that he was the only hardworking ruler who wasn’t a Prussian, but a German patriot,” Miermann said.

  “At any rate, Käsebier brings people more joy than an absolutist monarch.”

  “Even I’ll agree to that.” The phone rang. “Goodbye,” Miermann waved.

  The first criminal trial in connection with Käsebier took place in June. A young unemployed singer, who did not bear the slightest resemblance to Käsebier and whose real name was Franz Leihhaus, had pretended to be Käsebier and had received an engagement of three marks a night plus dinner at a resort cabaret on the Baltic Sea. He had asked for, and received, an advance of fifty marks. He had swindled thirty marks from the widow of a privy councilor in similar fashion. The old lady, a very small, slender woman in black, testified: “Oh, I don’t want him to be punished, he sang for me all afternoon and I’m usually so lonely.” In contrast, the police statement given by the cabaret owner was quite heated and contained epithets such as “sneaky bastard.”

  The trial moved quickly. It was scheduled for nine thirty, so that the midday papers could run an account of the proceedings and the evening papers could announce the verdict: a month in prison followed by probation. The prosecutor pressed for five months, as the singer had signed his contract as Käsebier, which was a grave falsification of documents. The jury did not agree with this assessment.

  The fake Käsebier was photographed in the courtroom and his picture was published everywhere.

  Katter, Leihhaus’s defense lawyer, had notified the entire press and was thus mentioned everywhere and pictured with his client. He became famous in one stroke.

  The bar association, for whom Katter had been an unknown quantity until now, organized a disciplinary hearing on Katter and fined him three hundred marks for generating dishonorable publicity to his client’s detriment. Katter the lawyer appeared quite contrite, but secretly laughed up his sleeve. As if he cared about the old judges! Moabit was Moabit, and he was famous now. He gladly paid up the three hundred.

  The day after the trial, Leihhaus came to see Miermann at the Berliner Rundschau. He had no prior convictions, had been in dire straits as he was ineligible for unemployment benefits because of some formality or other, and thus, almost ironically, had decided to call himself Käsebier, whose glorification he found ridiculous and infuriating. Now his name had appeared in all the papers, his picture had been printed everywhere—in short, he was done for.

  Miermann was truly scandalized. But what had happened couldn’t be undone. He gave Leihhaus ten marks out of his own pocket and spoke to the court reporter.

  “All the newspapers published his name,” he said. “I can’t be the only one to use a pseudonym.”

  “Why not? Then you would be one of the only decent men left.”

  “And in the editorial office, the others would notice that I’m using a different name from the other newspapers and would change it to ‘Leihhaus.’ You can count on that. I’ve seen it happen all too often.”

  “Leihhaus is really such a fantastic name. I’ll admit it’s difficult to hold back.”33

  As it happens, there were already two or thr
ee cabaret singers who were imitating and parodying Käsebier.

  Once the film shoot had begun, rumors sprang up that Käsebier might go to Hollywood. But that hadn’t come up yet. Käsebier was still on his successful German tour. Negotiations were pending with Copenhagen, London, and Budapest.

  •

  On a Sunday in July, Miss Kohler was lying on the terrace of a weekend spot near Berlin. There was an incessant din. Cars nosed up against each other. Little men, little women, less kit and caboodle.

  The jazz band struck up in the afternoon, my God, what a summer’s day! People shouted at one another from various terraces, made dates, went on joyrides, sailed, rowed, and produced an incredibly healthy, young racket. Miss Kohler had received a thick letter covered in familiar handwriting. It held the program and text for Käsebier’s guest appearance at the Stuttgart theater. There was also a card. “Despite everything—Charlotte—I remain yours. Your M. P.”

  20

  Käsebier seizes the moment

  CONTRARY to what Mitte had said and promised in Baden-Baden, the first mortgage hadn’t been granted by July. On July 24, he informed them that the relevant bank meeting would only take place on August 1. Karlweiss’s proposal for the municipal building inspectors was also ready by early August. It transpired that the new design, which had a smaller theater occupancy and omitted a shop and several rooms, was 47,000 marks less profitable than the initial project. In addition, new shortcomings arose. Dark apartments, rooms that were too small. Apartments with kitchens and maid’s quarters in the basement or the walk-down. One of the apartments had been listed in the calculation of expected returns as a three-room apartment. In fact, it consisted of two rooms, of which only one was usable.

  Muschler announced that he wouldn’t let himself be walked over like that.

  Karlweiss said on the phone, “I’ve already discussed most of this privately with the building inspectors. There can be no more changes.”

  Muschler was very annoyed. He wrote Mitte: “I can only say that I will not stand and accept a fait accompli concerning preliminary discussions on an unapproved project.” Negotiations dragged back and forth. On August 29, the Charlottenburg district office demanded a larger courtyard, but approved a sixth floor in exchange.

  A new proposal was put together. New profit calculations were made. Muschler was extremely annoyed. Couldn’t construction begin in the winter? Probably not? This meant he couldn’t count on any rent for the summer of 1930. Meanwhile, Mrs. Muschler was moaning that the children would have to stay in Berlin for the hot summer.

  Old Mrs. Frechheim, who telephoned her daughter every morning, had stirred her up. “You simply don’t understand. Take Lotte, although she’s quite ugly. Have you ever taken a good look at the pinkie on her left hand? It’s unbelievable, completely out of proportion. That it doesn’t send everyone running. But her husband just gave her a Maybach and let her go to Paris on her own. And you, you’re supposed to stay in hot Berlin all summer? Ridiculous. You know, men are always complaining. If it were up to them, we’d never spend any money. They always see the downside. I don’t understand you. Are you going to walk around in that brown coat every day? You simply can’t wear it anymore. You’ve spoiled your husband too much. You can never get any money out of men. I’m telling you, go to the North Sea. To Belgium, there’s a good crowd there. It’s ridiculous, Evimarie and Peter desperately need rest. But first go to Gerson—you should only go to Gerson—and get yourself a nice bathing suit. Something good. You’re never well dressed. How was your georgette dress yesterday evening? —Good? —I don’t think it’s all that perfect anymore. Go to Gerson and get yourself something.”

  Mrs. Muschler did everything her mother had advised her to do. She succeeded in traveling to Westende by the North Sea with the children, the governess, and the car.

  On September 14, the building inspectors received a dispensation request. An impossible number of applications had to be put through. Karlweiss had portrayed everything as small matters. He had wanted the provisional building permit by mid-July. But by mid-September, it still hadn’t arrived.

  Käsebier returned from his tour in mid-September. It was difficult to get hold of him; he was performing in Hasenheide every night and was at Babelsberg all day for filming. He was playing the lead in a filmed operetta: Gee, Love Must Be Swell.

  This filmed operetta had nothing to do with Lieven and Adam’s musical.

  It was a true Austrian operetta with a young archduke and a Berliner who kept making a fool of himself. Käsebier played the Berliner. The operetta featured delightful sentences such as “Follow me, my darling, and my heart will forever lie at your feet.”

  The big hit was Käsebier’s song “All the Rich Have Money.”

  Although it wasn’t his job, Otto Mitte arranged for a preliminary talk with Käsebier on September 16. Muschler gladly left it up to Mitte. Mitte spoke the language of the people; could boom and backslap; when necessary, he slipped his hat back on his neck and stuck a Gamsbart on it.34 He’d go for a pint with Käsebier. Mitte would get it done.

  Thus Mitte, Muschler, and Käsebier met on September 16 in Mitte’s garden in old Steglitz. Mitte served them wonderful wine from the Rhine.

  “Well, Mr. Käsebier, how’s life as a famous man?”

  “Thanks, kinda so-so.”

  “Why? Dissatisfied?”

  “Ah, nah. Not at all. Who’d I be taking myself for!”

  “Well, where d’you like it the best?”

  “Cologne, what a great city, the dome and the Rhine and the evenings on the Rhine terrace, fantastic.”

  “More beautiful than great Berlin?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you want to keep traveling around like that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, Mr. Käsebier. I’ll make you an offer the likes of which Otto Mitte, his majesty’s councilor of commerce, has never made. D’you know what a patron is?”

  “What do you think, course I do.”

  “I’m a patron, a patron like you’ve never seen before.”

  “I’m against that.”

  “What, you’re against Otto Mitte? Mister, do you know what you’re passing up? You’re passing up your lucky break. You’re a smart man after all, Mr. Käsebier.”

  “Well. Look here—”

  “Look, d’you want to stay in Hasenheide forever? Hasenheide’s fine and everything, and the Neue Welt was great when the giant swing was there.35 But if you want to get ahead, there’s only the west. You’ve got to go west. There’s a musical, The Girl from the Golden West. You see, if you’ve got a theater on Kurfürstendamm, you’ll have it made. The audience out there loves folksy stuff, you know. Cabaret shows, naked girls, and all that jazz aren’t doing it anymore. You—that’s what they want today. Imagine having a theater on Kurfürstendamm, Käsebier’s Parlor, or Käsebier’s Beer Garden. That works. Rococo’s out. Over. Out of the question.”

  “Yes,” said Käsebier. “Sounds nice, but it’ll cost a fortune.”

  “You pay thirty-five hundred a month in rent and make five hundred a night. You can tack a zero onto your prices, see: three marks, five marks, ten marks. In that tiny pit, that shed, in the Theater des Westens, they pay four, six, and eight marks, it’s bursting at the seams and a soda costs one-fifty. Easy money. Are you in? Let’s shake on it, why don’t you leave that old dump behind.”

  “Are we making trouble?” said Muschler.

  “Well,” said Käsebier.

  “Mr. Käsebier, what’s there to think about? Easy money. What kind of risk are you taking?”

  “Well,” said Käsebier, “it’s Hasenheide. I’d have to cancel the show there, and the ensemble. After all, you get used to things.”

  “Keep your best and fire the rest.”

  “Nah, I don’t want to do that. Now? Nah, I don’t want to.”

  “Why not? It’s the law of the jungle. Every man for himself. Give them severance pay, you’re a rich man
now.”

  “Well, I guess I have a few pennies to rub together.”

  “You call that a few pennies? Ha, ha, ha.”

  “You’ve got to decide, Mr. Käsebier, we have to begin construction. You’re fantastic, we want to build you a theater, and you’re still wondering whether to accept the present? Well, how about another round?”

  Käsebier said, “I’d like to, but I don’t want to. I’ll talk it over with my Kitty. Don’t take it the wrong way, Mr. Mitte. But that’s a big deal—and thirty-five hundred marks.”

  “Well, we can discuss that.”

  Käsebier left.

  “What now?” asked Muschler.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Muschler. Tomorrow Käsebier will come round. He’d have to be soft in the head to turn it down. Just calm down, Mr. Muschler. I’ll start digging the foundation.”

  “To your venture, councilor, to your venture.”

  “To my venture,” Mitte laughed, and washed down one more glass of heavy Rhenish wine.

  That evening, Käsebier spoke with his wife.

  They were sitting in their apartment. Dried laurel wreaths and photographs of Käsebier hung in the living room. Great hymns of praise pressed under glass and framed, newspaper already yellowed. Kitty didn’t keep a maid. “Nah,” she often said, “I can’t do that, have everything so improper. Bringing me coffee every morning, doing the housekeeping, going out to get a nice piece of meat. Nah, I wanna know what I’m eating.”