She had extremely blonde hair, wore stilettos and garish dresses. She was all for Kurfürstendamm: “A big fancy apartment, you know, where we can put up a new sideboard, and a new kitchen too, right? And elegant bedsheets with lots of lace and a fur coat, right? In Hasenheide, where every Tom, Dick, and Harry knows us, it’s embarrassing, right? But in the west, we’d be high society, right?”
“Well, you could buy yourself a fur coat here too. The whole thing gives me a funny feeling!”
“Honey, I don’t understand you. What d’you want? They’re making a talkie for you. You’re famous. You were at the Wintergarten. What’s got you stuck on Hasenheide? You can become Caruso, Hindenburg’ll invite you over, you’ll sing for the king of England, after all, things aren’t right around here anymore without a crown on someone’s head.”
“Y’know, Kitty, you’ll weep for Wilhelm, you’re mad about Lehmann, and I’ve got Bebel and Marx hanging in our parlor.”
“You’re just not into high class. I don’t like the proletariat. I wanna be a lady. Remember, in Wiesbaden the police lieutenant told me, ‘Madam, you belong in high society,’ and I felt it too. I told him, ‘Please mind your own business, lieutenant, sir,’ but he was right.”
“Well, Kitty-pie, what d’you expect, the bourgeoisie is a dying class.”
“Oh, c’mon, it’s still pretty nice to have a villa in Zeuthen or Grunewald. You’ve got no ambition! You’re so famous, I want to get something out of it too.”
“Well, what d’you want?”
“A car and a real parlor and embroidered sheets and country trips with a car and a gramophone and picnics and chilled punch! You could be as famous as Chaplin, lords could invite you to their castles, and you want to wither away in Hasenheide.”
“I don’t need to go to Kurfürstendamm just for a car.”
But in truth, Käsebier had already been won over. When Mitte called the cigar store in the building the next morning—Käsebier was just getting around to having a phone line wired—and asked for Käsebier, the matter was settled within two minutes. “The rent, well, the rent! We’ll see about that.”
21
The construction fence
THE CONSTRUCTION fence on Kurfürstendamm was already up. It was impressive. In those years, construction fences were no longer just construction fences. They were “free space, available to rent for advertising.” The doge of Venice was no longer letting Tintoretto paint his palace; instead, the laundry business on Leipziger Strasse and the wine store on Leipziger Strasse who were building on Kurfürstendamm let great artists paint on their construction fences. This was the contemporary fresco. Something was being built behind these fences by coincidence. Purely by coincidence. And a lot was being built. Every self-respecting store was tearing down the German marble from the Wilhelmine period because it was too ostentatious. They covered their walls with more expensive Italian travertine. Carved oak and German walnut tables were ripped out; smooth, luxurious Makassar ebony was used instead. Plaster was knocked off the walls and simple transoms installed, because there had to be construction, no matter the cost. The landlords of the Kurfürstendamm had succumbed to the frenzy of inflation. They destroyed ground-floor apartments, lordly apartments of ten to fourteen rooms, in which parties for sixty had been hosted a mere decade and a half ago: fish, turkey, ice cream, lieutenants courting the young daughters of industrial magnates, young sons of industrial magnates wearily thinking, Socialism or the South Sea? First editions, faïence, Wildean aphorisms, lawyers and undersecretaries making toasts, engagements celebrated with vast sums of money. These apartments were to become shops, shops rented out for fifty thousand marks a month, shops for cars, shops for clothes, shops for perfume, shops for shoes.
And Otto Mitte & Co. had installed quite a construction fence! Käsebier, painted by Scharnagl, stood three stories high. At the last moment, Gödowecz had tried to wrest the contract from Scharnagl, but Scharnagl was and remained the best commercial artist in all Berlin. His style, a kind of children’s drawing, was immediately recognizable: “Aha, Scharnagl!” Scharnagl had asked for five thousand marks for the fence. Otto Mitte had agreed. Next to the enormous Käsebier were the words WHAT? KÄSEBIER? YES, KÄSEBIER ON KURFÜRSTENDAMM! All around him dancers skipped, acrobats climbed, one balanced on a tightrope, another juggled balls.
“Have you heard?” Mrs. Adolf Weissmann said to Käte. “Käsebier on Kurfürstendamm. I think it’s completely justified.”
“Me too,” said Käte. “What a fascinating rise.”
“An artist of that caliber!”
“All the same! He came from nothing, after all.”
“He embodies the real Berlin. In Paris, the finest ladies marry people like that. By the way, I’m traveling to the races in Longchamps after all.”
“How was it at the Muschlers’?”
“Oh, quite delightful. You know how she always overdoes things. Mounds of caviar as an appetizer, and quite ordinary people. I mean, who keeps company with the Muschlers? But they’re building the theater! Thedy practically believes she’s the wife of a theater director. She only talks about ‘our theater.’ By the way, she was featured in Frau im Bild together with Trappen, Meyer-Lewin, and Count Dinkelsbühl at the Red-White Tournament.”
“Won’t she be thrilled.”
The construction fence caused a general stir.
Mitte began the excavation. Kaliski began his announcements:
“Magnificent luxury apartments on Kurfürstendamm with roof gardens, all amenities included. 4.5-, 5.5-, and 6.5-room apartments available. Contact Dr. Reinhold Kaliski, real estate and mortgages.”
Kaliski phoned up Rübe once again for his commission. He demanded thirty thousand marks.
Rübe said, “As you know, I’m not doing the construction. I wasn’t suited to the task, I spoke to my honorable father-in-law, and he gave Karlweiss the job. But I will naturally notify him of your demand.”
“Demand? You call that a demand, when a man does business and wants to get what he’s owed? Am I meshugge—excuse me—to hand over a project worth millions to Mitte & Co. for no reason? Am I a charity?”
“Don’t get so upset, Mr. Kaliski, you’ll get what you’re owed. Twenty thousand marks isn’t disastrous. I’ll discuss it with my father in law.”
“Oh, I’m already upset,” said Kaliski.
Ekkehard Rübe spoke to Mitte. “I’ll deal with that myself,” said Mitte, and called up Kaliski. “Now tell me, dear Mr. Kaliski, you’ve got your rentals, what more do you want from me?”
“ ’Scuse me, Mr. Mitte, I’ve already told your son-in-law I’m not a charity. I’m an agent, in case you weren’t aware.”
“Muschler told me you were getting nothing except for the rentals.”
“From Muschler, yes. I got the rentals from him, but what about you? Did I have to give you business for nothing? Can I help it if your son-in-law doesn’t like the job? Just because he’s an artist doesn’t mean I’m one, and I’m not even sure that’s the case. Karlweiss, people know, Karlweiss, the gentlemen at the building office—”
“That’s enough, Mr. Kaliski. If you don’t stop now, I’ll hang up. I thought you wanted money from me, but now you’re insulting me instead?”
“Excuse me, councilor, but I’m upset because I’ve been waiting on the commission for five months.”
“I can only reiterate that Muschler told me you hadn’t asked for a commission. He also told me you were Waldschmidt’s son-in-law.”
“I may be, but I’ve still got a real estate business. So Muschler thinks commissions are beneath him? Muschler, you know, Muschler, Muschler needs them badly! He was the banker for the EGZ factories and on their board of directors, what kinds of commissions do you think he got when he landed a contract worth millions for EGZ? Not too shabby. If old privy councilor Kohler had known about it, he’d never have trusted Muschler with his widow’s fortune. Now she’s sitting around renting out rooms.”
“That’s
quite interesting, what you’ve told me.”
“This is confidential, of course.”
“Naturally. So, the commission, Mr. Kaliski. Five thousand marks.”
“Councilor, you’re known to be a generous man. Your son-inlaw—he must have told you—promised me twenty thousand marks. A gentlemen’s agreement. You don’t need anything on paper for that.”
“No, Mr. Kaliski, of course not. But twenty thousand marks is a lot of money. The building office is giving us an awful lot of trouble. The job isn’t as good as I thought. Let’s say ten thousand marks, and I’ll have it disbursed to you tomorrow.”
“Fine, done, it’s not all that much, but it’s important for me that you know I’m an honorable businessman. Goodbye, councilor.”
“Mr. Kaliski, I’d be pleased to do business with you again. Goodbye.”
Oberndorffer intervened once more. He informed N. Muschler & Son of his many concerns in a long letter. Once again, he listed his concerns regarding the specifics for the apartments. They wouldn’t bring in the projected rent. The apartments had serious flaws, and such expensive apartments could only have one flaw, their price. Once again, he strongly counseled against the entire project. One and a half, two and a half, and three and a half rooms were what was needed. The demand for large apartments was already weakening. Not to mention the theater.
That evening, Uncle Frechheim and Mrs. Frechheim came to the Muschlers’ in Grunewald. After dinner, they sat together in the study, English mahogany with green.
“Young Oberndorffer wrote me another letter with his concerns regarding the apartments,” Muschler said. “In particular, he told me that apartments of that size will be unrentable soon.”
“Margot Weissmann just saw something she likes, it costs six thousand marks just to move in.”
“Fine. But not everyone’s Theodor Weissmann. Have another cigar, Uncle Gustav, they’re mild.”
“But on the other hand, you can’t build small-time apartments, you won’t get any rent,” the uncle said. “Good cigar,” he added, sniffing at it.
“Apartments with four, five, or six rooms at least,” said old Mrs. Frechheim, “if not grand ones.”
“I agree with you, of course,” said Muschler, “but times have changed.”
“But not so much that we’re building apartments for the proletariat on Kurfürstendamm all of a sudden,” the old lady said indignantly.
“All the young couples are only renting four-room apartments these days,” said Muschler, lighting a cigarette.
“Well, not among my acquaintances,” said Mrs. Frechheim.
“I also think it’s a ridiculous idea to build apartments with no stature whatsoever,” said Thedy.
The maid brought in coffee on a silver tray, then wheeled in a tea cart which held a fruit bowl with plums, pears, and grapes, fruit plates, and a basket with glass shelves for bowls, fruit forks, and paper napkins. Next to the basket stood two bowls of sweets.
“Have some,” Mrs. Muschler said to her mother. “They’re real, bitter sweets from Hamann.”
“I’ve discovered a new kind,” Mrs. Frechheim said. “Liqueur pralines from Hildebrandt, exquisite, you must try them sometime. I’ll have a quarter pound sent to you so you can try them.”
The uncle said, “I do think the ceilings are much too low.”
“What,” said Mrs. Frechheim, “you’re going to build low ceilings, too? Those rooms are at half-height, it’s all mezzanine.”
“That’s how people are building these days.”
“Isn’t that ghastly.”
“And rooms that small?”
“No, no, the rooms are very nice.”
“No,” said Mrs. Muschler, “you can’t build discount apartments, people won’t pay any money for those, really, how ghastly, four-room apartments are small enough.”
“A proper stately apartment begins with seven rooms, three water-closets, a dressing-room, two baths, a winter garden—that’s how it’s done. People will leave this petty stuff behind soon enough,” said Mrs. Frechheim.
“Who’d like a schnapps?” Muschler asked. “I have some real Benediktiner over here, or how about curaçao? To return to the house, Uncle Gustav, I received a reference for Otto Mitte today. These people are simply top of the line, I must say, and since they’re bearing all the risk and guaranteeing the rents, nothing can really happen to us. It doesn’t much matter what the building looks like.”
“I don’t know,” the uncle said. “In the long run, only attractive apartments bear returns. But what’s attractive today is ugly tomorrow. I find those modern, bare apartments dreadful, and my niece is always asking me, ‘How can you bear to live in those overstuffed, dark rooms?’ ”
“Well,” said Muschler, “there you have it.”
They were standing in the hallway.
“It’s getting cold already. You need your fur. Haven’t you turned on the heat?” Uncle Gustav asked.
“No,” Muschler said. “We’re pretending it’s summer, since we want to begin building.”
“Always witty, our son-in-law, always witty,” said Mrs. Frechheim. She put on her Persian lamb coat and got into the car with her brother.
“I have a bad feeling about this construction project,” he said.
“I don’t understand you. A Käsebier theater is a wonderful idea, after all.”
“Your son-in-law still has inflation psychosis, as does everyone in Germany, by the way. They all have property ghosting around in their heads. The whole matter seems a bit fishy. I have a bad feeling about Mitte, too. You can’t see straight with all of these people.”
“I don’t understand you, Gustav, Richard is such an entrepreneur. You’ve always been a spoilsport!”
“Dear Mathilde, don’t you remember when Thöny and Schwarzbach collapsed? They also started a theater. After that, not a soul went there. No, I have a bad feeling about this. We’ve had the land for so long, we might as well have hung on to it for a little longer.”
Mrs. Frechheim said, “Rumor has it Oppenheimer’s carrying on with little Kohler. It’s so dreadful today with the young girls. Now no one will marry her.”
“Do you want to come to the opera with me tomorrow? I have tickets.”
“What is it?”
“Traviata.”
“With pleasure, Gustav.”
“Then you’ll pick me up with the car.”
Uncle Gustav got out at Keithstrasse, where he had lived for many years.
22
The building inspectors
BY THE end of September, construction had progressed to the excavation of the foundation pit, but with no date yet in sight for the permits. In the meantime, Karlweiss had entrusted the complete execution of the Hohenschönhausen housing estate to Otto Mitte. Apartments for five thousand people were going up based on a completely absurd plan. The main space was reserved for interior courtyards and wonderfully spacious stairwells, which made for a picture-perfect façade. The apartments, by contrast, had two small holes for bedrooms, in addition to a bathroom, kitchen, and side room placed along a very wide, windowless foyer. The result would be that, year in and year out, wives and children would sew and play in that windowless space under artificial light.
On top of that, Otto Mitte’s construction work was particularly costly.
So far, the Otto Mitte/Karlweiss business venture had gone smoothly. Apart from the Käsebier theater. There everything was still up in the air. No building permits had been granted yet. Consequently, the Mitte/Muschler contract had yet to come into effect, which depended on the issuance of the permits. On October 22, they received an answer to their request from September 14. Otto Mitte realized that Karlweiss hadn’t been diligent enough and had underestimated the difficulties of going through proper channels. On the fifth of November, they received the permit for the basement. Two months had passed since Karlweiss had said he was sure to receive the construction permits any day now. By the end of November, when the frost had
come, they still hadn’t arrived. In the meantime, people who actually wanted to rent luxury apartments had answered the advertisements in the daily papers, only to back out when no one could provide them with a date. The whole business was now delayed for another six months. Instead of opening on February 1, the theater would open in the fall.
Käsebier had been unable to get out of his contract at Hasenheide before for April 1. This now proved to be a stroke of luck. He would remain in his gold mine until then. The colleagues he didn’t want to bring to the Kurfürstendamm also had some breathing room, while the summer of 1930 would be free to do film work and develop new acts.
Mrs. Käsebier, however, had been eager to suit herself to the new apartment: she was dismayed that her fantasies hadn’t yet materialized. She wanted to get to work on those lace curtains, and yet accurate window measurements were not to be had. She wanted a dining room with an elegant sideboard. How wide a wall would there be? She got no answers.
In early December, shortly before Christmas, Otto Mitte hosted a longer meeting on the “Käsebier Project.”
Mr. Karlweiss gave the parties in attendance a lengthy lecture on the nature of the proper channels and the timeframe for going through them. He said, “When you hand a project over to the building inspectors on June thirteenth, it’ll arrive at the municipal offices a week later, eight days later at the civil engineering department, and then June is over. On the second or third of July, it’ll reach the drainage department, then it’ll spend fourteen days with the deputation for structural engineering, eight days at the surveyor’s office, eight days in the fire safety department, which means we’re in August. From there, it goes to the city’s buildings department—another eight days—then in September, it goes to the headquarters of the building authorities. Assuming everything goes smoothly, it takes four weeks, that is to say, October, to get to the structural inspection department, three weeks to land in police headquarters, four weeks to get to the ministry. Now we’re in early December, which means almost half a year. The gentlemen always think we can plan today and build tomorrow. But getting the permits for a complicated project like ours takes six months if we’re lucky.”
Käsebier Takes Berlin Page 19
