Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  “You could have said that in Baden-Baden!” Muschler shouted.

  “I thought I could expedite the process, but for the additional requests from Mr. Muschler.”

  “Well, isn’t that swell. I left everything regarding the construction up to you, and now—”

  “Quiet, quiet!” Mitte cried. “We’re not going to argue here, right, Mr. Muschler? Everyone’s doing their best. This entire project has cost us more than we’ll ever make on it.”

  “Well, well, councilor, aren’t you clever.”

  “But I’m an entrepreneur, I want a job, I’m not a financier.”

  “All the same, Mr. Mitte, I don’t know how the construction and financial markets will continue to evolve. In these times, we can’t move things back by three-quarters of a year into fall.”

  “I often have to plan for stone or wood—or construction materials in general, for that matter—over a year in advance. We can surely plan over a few months. I don’t quite understand, Mr. Muschler.”

  “I have nothing against continuing to pursue the permits and I want to check everything thoroughly once they come through, but right now I need free rein.”

  “That’s fine,” said Mitte. “I’ve survived many a go-round with the building inspectors.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll halt construction again this time, and cost us many opportunities.”

  “What d’you think the building inspectors are there for, after all?”

  “Too bad, this would be a good topic for my literary nephew,” Muschler said, “but Oberndorffer should go by sometime.”

  “Fine,” said Mitte. “I won’t stop you.”

  Muschler had repeatedly requested that Oberndorffer approach the building inspectors on his behalf. Karlweiss had invariably replied that given his excellent relationships, there was more to be lost than gained from this venture.

  In early December, Oberndorffer finally went to the building inspectors. An official received him downstairs. He had a gray walrus moustache and peered over his pince-nez at Oberndorffer. “Fill out this form, please.”

  Oberndorffer took the form: visitor’s name and business matter. The concierge pressed another form into his hand, identical to the first. “Here, fill out this ’un too. You can keep that one.”

  Oberndorffer filled it out. “It would be more practical,” he said, “if you used carbon paper.”

  “Yes,” said the porter, and blossomed as if he’d just received two cigars. “Someone else said that once, we even tried it, but then they weren’t accepted anymore. Anyways, those things’re useless, we were given ’em a while ago and now they’ve got to be used up. So we’ve got to keep ’em lying around for a while, and then we’ll throw ’em out.”

  Oberndorffer went up to the top floor, walked down a wide gray corridor, and arrived at room 213. Two clerks sat at the window. One was writing, the other was finishing his breakfast, and the third, an old man, was filing papers. Coarse twine and glue stood next to him. Oberndorffer went over to the man eating his breakfast. “Dispensation appeal Mitte/Muschler.” The breakfasting clerk pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the fully dressed clerk sitting behind him. Oberndorffer turned to him: “I have an inquiry regarding the Mitte/Muschler dispensation appeal.”

  The clerk reached wordlessly into the card file in front of him, shook his head, turned around, got up, went to the file cabinet behind him, and looked: “ ’S’been passed along already, room 238.”

  “Thank you.” Oberndorffer went to room 238. The man sitting there ignored him.

  Oberndorffer said, “I have an inquiry regarding the Mitte/Muschler dispensation appeal.”

  “Just a moment,” the clerk said. He looked around. “It’s gone on to the head of the department.”

  Well, that was quick, thought Oberndorffer. He walked back down the corridor, took the stairs up two flights, made a right, then a left. He was standing in front of a window and the ladies’ toilet. He turned around. The hallways were deserted. They had become independent long ago. They offered themselves up to Oberndorffer as cruel, echoless. Finally, Oberndorffer knocked at a door that said “Registration.”

  “Excuse me, where can I find room 314?

  An affable East Prussian got up. “It’s quite difficult to find. Go back down the corridor, walk up two flights, then round the corner and round again, and you’ll be there.”

  Oberndorffer thanked him profusely and turned around. Finally, room 314. “Government and Construction Commissioner Hoppe.”

  Oberndorffer knocked. Commissioner Hoppe wasn’t there. Oberndorffer stood in the hallway again. Not a soul to be seen. He knocked on doors at random. A clerk said that the commissioner was meeting with the head of the department; it could take a quarter of an hour.

  What a lot of standing around, Oberndorffer thought. There was a bank in the central wing. Oberndorffer bought the midday papers and read them. After a quarter of an hour, he returned to room 314. Commissioner Hoppe was a measured man. “Dispensation appeal Mitte/Muschler has already gone to signature.”

  “Many thanks,” said Oberndorffer. “May I ask whether it was approved?”

  “You will receive an answer through regular business channels,” the official said haughtily.

  Oberndorffer wandered through the office building and reached the chancery division. Two clerks sat at the window; one was writing, the other was wrapping up his breakfast, the third, an old man, was filing papers.

  Oberndorffer said into the room, “Dispensation appeal Mitte/ Muschler.”

  Wordlessly, one of the clerks reached into the card file behind him, turned around, shook his head, went over to a file cabinet, looked: “ ’S’gone already. Headquarters.”

  “When, please?”

  “Fourteen days ago.”

  “Thank you.”

  Oberndorffer stood on the street amid heavy snowdrifts. The wind whistled. “How can I get to headquarters? Metro. The metro is best.”

  He got to headquarters. The department head, Dr. Scheunemann, was a friendly man: “Dispensation appeal Mitte/Muschler isn’t here yet.”

  “But how is that possible? It left the municipal offices fourteen days ago.”

  “Yes, that’s how long it takes for the paperwork to reach us. Fourteen days isn’t so long for the file cart.”

  “Why don’t you send them by mail? Then they’d get there in a day.”

  “That would be far too expensive for the state. No, by mail, business would be much more expensive.”

  “But that’s dreadful, all this rushing around for something like that. Is there no way of telling where the appeal is, so as to expedite it?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” Dr. Scheunemann shrugged his shoulders. “I could just as well ask you about the whereabouts of a brick in a wall of one of your buildings.”

  The wind was sharp. Oberndorffer stood on the street. The snow had begun to fall thickly in wet flakes. Oberndorffer now had to get to the farthest reaches of Schöneberg because of the theater. The tram is far too dull, I’ll get a taxi. No luck, thought Oberndorffer. Drove to Schöneberg, thought that it wasn’t even his own building he was driving around for.

  He asked the driver to stop on Tauentzienstrasse, and inspected the Christmas shopping. Nothing but Käsebier. Käsebier rubber dolls, windup dolls, balloons. Got in again. Käsebier’s becoming more and more famous, he thought, but he’s not that good. We overdo everything. This rubber stuff is awful. People have no sense of quality anymore, things like this could be done well too.

  Oberndorffer arrived in Schöneberg. In a dark foyer, an old Berlin room, two clerks stood counting towels. One clerk was holding dirty towels and said, “Twenty-six.”

  Oberndorffer stood there: “I’d like to deliver a certificate to the head of your department.”

  “Yes, twenty-six. ’S’not there anymore,” said the other one. “Now for the twenty-eight clean ones.”

  The first: “Yes, twenty-eight.”

  T
he other counted. Oberndorffer said, “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to pass on the letter.”

  The clerk continued to count. “Thirty, thirty-one. I can do that, put it over here.”

  Oberndorffer said, “Please give me a receipt.”

  The clerk counted: “Thirty-five, thirty-six. No can do. Send it by registered mail.”

  Oberndorffer said, “It contains important documents. I need a receipt.”

  The clerk said, “No can do. Send it by registered mail. Forty-one, forty-two.”

  “Every government office is required to register the receipt of letters.”

  “We’re not required to do that. Send it by registered mail. Forty-four, forty-five.”

  “You’re required to do that.”

  “There’s a clause that says we don’t need to register receipt. File a complaint or send it by registered mail, forty-eight. One, two, three . . .”

  Oberndorffer left. He got out on Tauentzientstrasse. He wanted to buy himself a pair of shoes.

  “Do you want the Käsebier brand?” asked the girl in the shop.

  Oberndorffer let her show him the shoes. He would have preferred a different style, they were too gussied up for his taste. But in the end he bought them.

  On Tauentzienstrasse, street hawkers cried into the snow: “Silk scarves, first-class silk scarves, three marks each,” “Genuine Coty perfume, manufacturer’s gone bust, a bottle for a mark,” “Käsebier, the real rubber doll, something for the kids so they’ll laugh and won’t cry, you can squeeze it to your chest, put it in your bath . . .”

  “You’ll only find little Käsebier here, turn a small screw . . .”

  “Three bars of chocolate for thirty pfennigs, from the famous Austrian chocolate factory. A nougat, a mocha, a marzipan, try a bar for ten, get three for thirty, for your own affairs, for your own person, for your own body, for yourself, for your own health, ten pfennigs, a groschen for yourself or the body of your child, your wife, for a groschen, ten pfennigs, for a . . .”

  “Käsebier, the real rubber doll, something for the kids so they’ll laugh and won’t cry, you can squeeze it to your chest, put it in your bath. Käsebier, the real rubber doll . . .”

  23

  A Christmas walk

  IN THE office, Gohlisch said, “I was walking down Leipziger Strasse today and wanted to buy myself a pair of shoes for Christmas. The shoe girl said to me, ‘Would you like Bally or Käsebier brand shoes?’ I said, ‘I’d prefer Gohlisch style.’ When she heard that, the girl turned pale and wanted to call her manager. If it had thawed, Miermann, Käsebier would never have seen the light of day! Now Käsebier has taken the universe by storm and conquered it. Will you venture into the storm with me?” he asked Miss Kohler.

  He turned up his coat collar, pulled his hat deep over his face, and said to Miermann, “Adieu, Heil and Sieg and catch a fat one,” and walked out, an old ham, with Kohler, who was large, slightly plump, and still wore a bun to match her boring face. She had on a simple brown coat. Off they went.

  There was a Christmas market on Dönhoffplatz. Rock candy and gingerbread hearts.

  “Silk scarves, three marks each.”

  “My dear lady, right here you can buy the wonderful Coty perfume, the wonderful flower scent. The manufacturer’s gone bust, so we’re selling off everything for a mark, genuine Coty perfume, the wonderful flower scent. What, it doesn’t smell like lilies of the valley to you? It smells wonderful to me! Genuine Coty perfume . . .”

  “Käsebier, something for the kids so they laugh and don’t cry, you can squeeze it to your chest, put it in your bath.”

  “You’ll only find little Käsebier here, turn a little screw and little Käsebier’ll sing ‘How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?’ For twenty pfennigs, you’ll reap millions in laughs at your favorite bar, at the regulars’ table, just turn the little key and he’ll waggle his head and sing, it’s not witchcraft, it’s not magic. Just turn the little key and little Käsebier’ll sing ‘How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?’ You’ll have so much fun with it at your favorite bar, at the regulars’ table.”

  The Käsebier doll sang.

  “Käsebier, the real rubber doll, doesn’t burst, doesn’t crack, it’s indestructible,” his neighbor said.

  Gohlisch and Miss Kohler moved on.

  “Lametta, Lametta, three packs for a groschen.”

  “Christmas candles, Christmas candles!”

  They went into a linens shop.

  “Something small?” the shopgirl asked. “Can I show you our latest? We have an enchanting flower bouquet made of dust cloths, charming, isn’t it? Or here, our latest: ‘Käsebier’ made of four dust cloths!”

  “Only Käsebier for Christmas,” said Gohlisch. They bought the dust cloth Käsebier.

  A chain of lights spelled out “No Christmas without Käsebier” above a fountain pen shop in which Gohlisch wanted to get his pen repaired.

  “It’s not worth repairing,” the owner said dismissively. “The repair’ll cost you three marks, it’s an outdated model. Buy the latest ‘Käsebier.’ You can get a pretty good one for three marks.”

  “No,” said Gohlisch. “This pen produced Käsebier. Am I Saturn, devouring my own children? Will I allow this pen to be killed by ‘Käsebier’?”

  “I’ll give it to Miermann for Christmas,” said Kohler, and pulled out three marks. “We still need cigarettes.”

  “Oh, right, cigarettes.”

  “Do you want Neuerhaus,” the cigarette seller asked, “Muratti, or Käsebier? Käsebier Melior for five pfennigs, Käsebier Bonus for three, Käsebier Optimus eight pfennigs.”

  “Since what’s good is better than what’s better,” said Miss Kohler, “you may as well get Bonus, if you want my advice.”

  “Give me twenty-five.”

  “Walk with Käsebier, write with Käsebier, dust with Käsebier, bathe with Käsebier, smoke Käsebier,” said Gohlisch.

  “Käsebier, the real rubber doll, doesn’t burst, doesn’t crack, it’s indestructible. Käsebier, the real rubber doll, something for the kids so they’ll laugh and won’t cry, you can squeeze it to your chest, put it in your bath. Käsebier, the real rubber doll—”

  Käsebier’s songs drifted from the gramophone stores. Käsebier lights glowed against the darkening sky, scrolling ads: “Käsebier shoes are the best.”

  On the streets, balloons shaped like Käsebier. A blow-up Käsebier. A windup Käsebier.

  Posters: “For your Christmas holidays: Käsebier, the Musical at the Artist’s Theater with Pallenberg.”

  Käsebier fountain pens. One lady said, “We’ll go to Käsebier on Christmas day, I still want to get tickets.”

  “Käsebier, the real rubber doll, doesn’t burst, doesn’t crack, it’s indestructible. Käsebier, the real rubber doll, something for the kids so they’ll laugh and won’t cry, you can squeeze it to your chest, put it in your bath. Käsebier, the real rubber doll—”

  Over in the shopwindows of the bookstore: Willy Frächter, Käsebier. Next, Heinrich Wurm’s Käsebier, from the series Darlings of the Public. The Käsebier Picture Book by Dr. Richard Thame. Käsebier Cartoons, put together by Gödovecz. Otto Lambeck: Käsebier, an Essay.

  Gohlisch and Miss Kohler were standing in front of the display when Lieven suddenly appeared before them.

  “My friends!” he cried enthusiastically, “isn’t this a tremendous symphony of fame? Nothing but Käsebier from earth to sky. Theater, music, comedy, banks, commerce, industry, the weavers and leather manufacturers and rubber goods and toys—everything’s here. They blow their trumpets with full cheeks, beat the drums, let the cymbals ring and dance a great dance with balloons and dust cloths and rubber dolls and singing dolls and records and brogues and construction fences and brick walls, with carpenters and woodworkers and plumbers and installers, flags and scrolling script and glowing letters in red, purple, and green, and above it all, gloria, gloria, the fountain pen of the press. And I’ve been a part of it, I’
m a child of my time, I acknowledge it, I belong to it.”

  “Why don’t you write the Song of Songs of advertising, how we woo her, sleep with her, the old whore. How beautiful are your breasts, O golden neon Atrax, I could embrace your thighs, sweet radio, how your adaptor glows with its fig leaf, sweet . . .”

  “But Gohlisch,” said Miss Kohler, feeling somewhat foolish and embarrassed.

  “You baroque jester,” Lieven said, unsettled. “My compliments.”

  “Heil and Sieg and catch a fat one,” said Gohlisch.

  “Käsebier, the real rubber doll, doesn’t burst, doesn’t crack, it’s indestructible. Käsebier, the real rubber doll, something for the kids so they’ll laugh and won’t cry, you can squeeze it to your chest, put it in your bath. Käsebier, the real rubber doll—”

  24

  The building

  IN THE meantime, the building had grown, the scaffolding had risen. The walls were rising. Allocations had begun, the great race for contracts. Otto Mitte’s Max Schulz, also called “Old Man Schulz,” was in charge of awarding contracts. He had a beard like August Bebel and watched every penny. The installation companies sent along their representatives. Old Wurm from Wurm & Redlich came for gas and water. Schulz would have liked to give Wurm & Redlich the contract, “But you’re too expensive, Mr. Wurm, what can I do, too expensive.” No, Wurm & Redlich was out of the question. Max Schulz had to give the contract to Staberow & Sons, although he found Staberow quite unpleasant, a smart, modern Nazi who did business with a swastika in his buttonhole.

  “Mr. Staberow, you may have gotten the contract because you’re the cheapest, unfortunately, but I’m an old Social Democrat. Next time, please leave your brass outfit at the coat check.”

  “An opinion is an opinion,” said Staberow.

  “And an asshole is an asshole,” said Schulz. I can get away with that, he thought, with a contract worth ninety thousand marks.