Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  “From where?”

  “I’ve known him since 1917. When I was a reporter for the Berliner Tageszeitung in Bern during the war, he was a German idealist, doing a little espionage on all sides. I met him again in Munich in 1918. He had since founded a newspaper, the Sun of the East, and had become a spokesperson for various -isms. He was against money and warfare and believed in the human soul, he wanted ‘community’ to embrace the world, like Schiller’s millions under the starry canopy: ‘Man, brother, the crown of creation.’ He gave his disciples explanations for the connection between the war, the Russian Revolution, and the world to come. ‘France, England, and America are done for, their edifices are collapsing.’ I can still hear him today in his room in the boardinghouse by the Victory Gate. All the girls listened to him. ‘Everything to do with knowledge and rationality will be destroyed.’ The rational man was a dead man since the death knell had sounded for human exploitation, the worship of plenty, the thousand dozen a day. Instead, we had the rise of observation and intuition, the East, Buddha. But India wasn’t far east enough for him, so he said, ‘Maybe Laozi.’ He wore black peasant blouses and let his hair grow to his shoulders. He put up pictures that were jumbles of brushstrokes. ‘That’s what we are,’ he said, ‘chaos.’ He wrote a kind of Sonnenspektrum and called it ‘Love.’36 Back then, he was writing plays.”

  “The Son,” cried Miss Kohler.37

  “No, Lassalle, who shoots his father.”

  “I knew it!” cried Miss Kohler.

  “No, not because of the house key like in Hasenclever; it was more symbolic, because we had to get over the guilty fathers who were capitalistic and mechanistic, and who had presumptuously taken steam and electric power for life itself. Later, he would worship machines through communism. Today, he does so through capitalism.”

  “Have you read the play?” Miss Kohler asked.

  “He gave a reading once, what do you expect!”

  “I think I’ll order a coffee and a grappa now,” said Gohlisch. “Cake?”

  “No thanks. So what’s with Frächter’s play?”

  “The play featured never-ending debates between a general, a capitalist, a gentleman in blue, a gentleman in gray, a gentleman in yellow, and a ‘Führer.’ He was the Führer, of course. After the murder, he ran away with a girl in order to build a new world. The girl was a noble thing. She was supposed to keep her hands folded over her body, wear a blue robe, have a blonde face straight out of Holbein, and do nothing except give birth to the New Man. He was an antifeminist, because his ideal was the ‘Hero,’ the embodiment of logos and eros.”

  “Erooos,” said Miss Kohler, “oh, that whole Blüher nonsense.”38

  “He didn’t find women spiritually mature enough. He tried to pick them up, started doing that at fancy-dress balls. He didn’t think much of marriage. A man had to remain free; he supported matriarchy. He looked down on people who coveted marriage, standing, or income. He had a lover he called Sonja although her name was Margot. He lived with her on the money he’d received through a dispute settlement with his publisher. No one else had gotten as much money out of the publisher as he had, because he always signed extremely clever contracts. He wrote for all kinds of newspapers, was apparently involved with a film company at some point, and now Cochius is mad about him.”

  “They met at Mrs. Weissmann’s party,” said Miss Kohler.

  “Yes, it seems like a lot of people met there,” said Gohlisch. “The great Käsebier theater is supposed to have been conceived there too.”

  “That’s possible,” said Miermann, “but I was the one who introduced Frächter to Cochius. I remember it as if it were yesterday; it was after Käsebier’s premiere at the Wintergarten. Frächter called it ‘capitalist art’ and drove off with a friend of mine.”

  “Why didn’t Frächter become a Nazi intellectual?”

  “He could have,” Miermann said. “It’s simply chance that he hasn’t, but he probably still will.”

  “An unhappy man, really,” said Gohlisch.

  “Well, if you want to put it like that.”

  “What does he get out of all his ventures?” asked Gohlisch.

  “He’ll marry someone very wealthy,” said Miss Kohler.

  “He certainly won’t fall in love.”

  “Poor sod,” said Gohlisch.

  “By the way, you mentioned Käsebier before. Where is he, anyways?” asked Kohler.

  “On tour, of course,” said Gohlisch, “through all of northern and western Germany.”

  “A week in August in Baden-Baden?” said Miss Kohler.

  “Well, what else?” said Gohlisch. “Miermann,” he continued, “you may have just called Frächter a traitor, but I’m also a traitor. I’m a traitor to my class.”

  “How can you say that?” Miss Kohler cried. “Have you ever written a single line that could harm your class?”

  “The Berliner Rundschau is a liberal right-wing newspaper, a leftist German People’s Party. I went to a social democratic primary school.”

  “You’re a German romantic,” said Miermann.

  “Does party politics have to be everything?” said Miss Kohler. “If so, you belong to the party of loners.”

  “I want to write a book,” said Gohlisch. “Hölderlin and the Rubber Collar, a fusion of socialism and classicism.”

  “Why combine socialism and classicism? Why socialism? The collectivization of the means of production, the unbelievably unfortunate distribution of goods—in Argentina, they fuel their locomotives with corn—has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with this monstrous goading and division of our society into bourgeoisie and proletariat. I think that the socialist ideology, which is committed to one scientific theory that has certainly not yet been established as correct, is an impediment to impartial scholarship. ‘Hölderlin and the Rubber Collar’ could be the party for intellectuals.”

  “Don’t forget, my children, that the Nazis think they’re ‘Hölderlin and the Rubber Collar’ too,” Miermann said.

  “Nonsense,” said Gohlisch. “Fascism is just a party for power.”

  “Form as content,” said Miermann.

  “To come back to Frächter,” said Miss Kohler, “after his past and all his jabbering about capitalism, how can he a) publish such a pro-American book, and b) become such a thoroughly rationalizing business dictator?”

  “It’s a springboard to him. I don’t find it all that odd; it’s the fight for survival. His love of machines is just as Soviet as American, of course.”

  “Collectivization,” said Gohlisch, “requires the initial step of greatly increasing the volume of consumer goods, which we’re now calling Americanization.”

  “The inefficient distribution of surplus,” said Miermann, “is the problem. They say collectivization is the solution.”

  “I don’t believe that hatred will create a happy world,” said Miss Kohler. “I simply don’t. What we’re seeing in Russia, compared to western Europe, seems to be a deterioration of living conditions fueled by ideology. The ideology of Christianity in the Roman Empire was just the same. But that’s the opposite of historical materialism.”

  The phone rang.

  “Very thoughtful, very kind,” said Miermann. “Thank you!”

  Miermann turned: “That was Hoffmann from the Allgemeine. He sent along Meyer-Paris’s apologies for not saying goodbye. He didn’t have enough time. Why didn’t you tell us that Meyer-Paris is going to America?”

  “What?” said Miss Kohler, and went pale. “I don’t understand.”

  Miermann and Gohlisch looked at each other.

  “Meyer-Paris is going to America for his paper; in fact, he’s already left.”

  Miss Kohler opened the door and walked out without saying a word.

  Gohlisch went after her: “Where are you going?”

  “Just leave me alone, please,” she said to the well-meaning man.

  She called up her friend Miss Wendland.

  “Something dreadf
ul has happened.”

  “Has he left again?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Kohler, crying.

  “Do you want to come over?”

  “No, please come here as fast as possible.”

  “Where?”

  “To the café on Mauerstrasse.”

  “Fine, I’ll be there straightaway.”

  “What should I do?” asked Miss Kohler.

  “Take a trip, definitely take a trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “A nice hotel, a nice place. Go to the Black Forest, or might I suggest a cheap, small B and B in Schierke, it’s always lovely there.”

  “I’ll write them. But I can’t go alone. Can’t you come along?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’d like to very much.”

  “Maybe it’s not true after all.”

  “I’m sure it’s true.”

  “I have to ask him again.”

  “Do you have to put yourself through that humiliation?”

  “It’s not a humiliation. I’m like a dead woman, beyond everything. Nothing else can touch me.”

  “I’m asking you, please don’t do it.”

  But she did it anyways. She called up the Allgemeine. He was still there. She wrote a letter. “Dear friend, I can tell that you have reservations, and perhaps you’d prefer that I tell you to travel alone. But there is a moment where pride runs ashore or rather, when personal certainty trumps any feelings of pride. Barely four weeks ago, you said you would come see me with a finished program in hand, and, fool that I am, I waited for your finished program and your Kingdom of Orangia.39 And all this time, the person in question already has the tickets for his voyage. That’s a bitter pill to swallow. But because I’m not going to pretend, I’ll come to you, put my arms around your neck, and once, just once, lay my head on your shoulder, speak from my innermost soul, and tell you that the few conversations we would have on such a trip are existentially necessary to me. Eight days somewhere. I won’t bother you. I’ll be very quiet.”

  She received no answer.

  She phoned up the Allgemeine the following day. She picked up the receiver and said, “Dönhoff 7630.”

  “You’ve reached the main desk of the Allgemeine Zeitung.”

  “Could I please speak to Mr. Meyer-Paris?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  When he picked up, she hung up.

  She phoned up the Allgemeine the following day. She picked up the receiver and said, “Dönhoff 7630.”

  “You’ve reached the main desk of the Allgemeine Zeitung.”

  “Could I please speak to Mr. Meyer-Paris?”

  “The gentleman is currently not available.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yes, probably, he was on the phone just a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh, in that case I’ll try again later.”

  The third day she phoned the Allgemeine Zeitung, the girl said, “Mr. Meyer-Paris is no longer in Berlin, he left for Hamburg last night.”

  She managed to choke out, “Thank you.”

  She burst into the hallway, put on her hat, ran outside. It was pouring rain. She hailed a taxi. The money I’m spending, she thought.

  “Hapag, please.”

  The chauffeur drove her to Unter den Linden. She stood in the Hapag like a madwoman, hat askew, eyes swollen from crying.

  “Which ship is going to Hamburg tomorrow?”

  “What?” said the clerk.

  “I mean, from Hamburg to New York.”

  “There isn’t one.”

  She ran out without saying thank you. She stumbled up the street to the North German Lloyd company. A gentleman who thought he was dealing with a deranged woman stuck a pince-nez on the tip of his nose and kept an eye on her as he looked through the records.

  “A ship left this morning. But there was no Mr. Meyer from Berlin on it. At any rate, he didn’t have a reservation, but it’s possible that he boarded the ship early today without a reservation.”

  He was gone. Stunned, she walked through Neustädtische Kirchstrasse to Dorotheenstrasse in the awful weather, sat on a stone ledge, jumped up, and drove to her friend.

  “I’d like to shoot him. Why can’t we shoot people?”

  “Because you’re not a maid who can’t control her temper.”

  “Is he allowed to make me this miserable?”

  “But you can’t shoot him or chase him down. Have a seat and write the little B and B in Schierke.”

  Three days later, she packed up while her girlfriend kept her company.

  “Take a look,” said Lotte Kohler, “at the nice note the B and B sent me. We are looking forward to welcoming you.”

  “You’re so miserable,” said Wendland, patting her, “so miserable that you’re even touched when a hotel is delighted to welcome you.”

  The next day, she said to Wendland, “I’ll tell you something. It’s over with Käsebier too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I just have a feeling. Everything began with Käsebier; now it’s ending with Käsebier.”

  “You’ve gotten your sense of humor back!”

  “Till soon, Kläre, till soon. I’m a hopeless case. But I’m trying to change. Look at me.”

  “You cut your hair?”

  “My braid is gone.”

  “Hopefully, something else will be gone soon too.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “Best of luck. But for God’s sakes, don’t fall in love, don’t fall in love.”

  “A burnt child fears the fire. You know, Miermann recently said that if I’d come from different circumstances, I would already have five children out of wedlock and wouldn’t be getting any alimony because I wouldn’t know who the father was. And a goose like me managed to get her PhD.”

  29

  Frächter takes the paper into his hands once and for all

  FRÄCHTER took the paper into his hands once and for all. Rumor had it he was receiving a salary of thirty thousand marks, a bonus of twenty thousand marks, and a stake in the holdings—sixty to seventy thousand in total.

  First, the masthead of the Berliner Rundschau was changed. Next, an illustrated supplement was added with a cosmetics and tailoring section. Then, a section entitled “Berlin Is Talking About . . . ,” which a man from the tabloid Aus der Gesellschaft wrote for a hefty salary. Next, two large photographs were added to the daily front page, which was by now one-tenth advertisements. Finally, every fifth employee was fired and the remaining salaries reduced by a sixth. Öchsli, who had quietly stood by as his salary was halved, quit.

  When Frächter received the lists of employees who could be fired, he crossed out the accountant Dienstag’s name. The man sitting with him said, “Not Dienstag, he works enough for two.”

  “Then we can cut two jobs in his place,” said Frächter, and fired two people instead.

  But the children’s party at the zoo left everyone transfixed. As a matter of fact, the Sunday papers had twenty additional pages of advertisements for children’s products. Balloons, flags, and lanterns were handed out. They were all emblazoned with Berliner Rundschau. Fifty thousand children were there. Afterwards, the monkeys didn’t touch a morsel of food for days.

  Frächter was very pleased.

  In July, the Kaliski/Waldschmidt divorce was finalized. Miss Ella Waldschmidt drove with her governess and child to a hotel on Lake Carezza. Frächter, who had heard about the divorce, followed her. Miss Ella was leaving the dining room with her governess and son when the waiter handed her a business card.

  “Willy Frächter, publisher of the Berliner Rundschau.”

  That afternoon, he went for a walk with Miss Waldschmidt around Lake Carezza. He danced with her that evening. She had enjoyed getting dressed up. For the first time in ages, she was dressing up for a man. She considered whether to wear the black or the bleu, had her hair washed at the salon, and bought a new perfume: Narcisse noir. Thus revived, she met Frächter. Frächter still looked very g
ood. He was the rare German intellectual who dressed well. In his tuxedo, tall, mostly slender despite some pudginess here and there, dark blond, blue-eyed, his intellectual bearing stood out amidst the group of wealthy people. For Ella Waldschmidt, delicate, nervous, and unnoticed by most men, this encounter in the grand hotel was an event. Frächter showered her with graceful attention. “You beautiful, lonely woman,” he said, and raised his glass to hers, staring into her eyes until she blushed. After dinner, they danced. He danced very well. He was already holding her close by the second dance. After the fourth, he retrieved her furs, went with her into the summer night, and kissed her hand. When they returned to the hotel, he pointed to the façade and asked, “Where’s your room?”

  She showed him the window, already blushing. They spoke until morning in the hallway. She told him about her marriage. He understood her. Said intelligent things. He was a worker. Women? He’d never had much time for women. But her . . . He looked at her. There were no more doubts. If he had been leaving the next day, he would have embraced her that evening. So it happened. He was in love with her because of his ambition. True feelings could no longer be distinguished from artificial ones. This was only apparent in one aspect: the feeling didn’t change him; love didn’t bowl him over.

  Eight days later, they secretly got engaged. They planned to marry in August. Frächter would become Waldschmidt’s son-in-law.—

  Summer passed. It was impossible to rent out the apartments on Kurfürstendamm. Oberndorffer, who saw Muschler sitting in a café on Kurfürstendamm one hot August evening, couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Well, it would have been better if you’d built one- and two-room apartments. The bachelor apartments designed like that have all been rented out.”

  Muschler admitted this was true. But the construction wasn’t fully finished yet, so one had to wait. Everyone was waiting these days. All the same, it would have been smarter. The theater would open on September 1. One would have to see. The current situation was exceptionally disadvantageous.

  In the café, they were playing “How Can He Sleep with That Thin Wall?”