“It’s disgusting, no one can stand to hear it anymore. They should turn off the radio,” said Muschler. “Waiter, turn off the radio, it’s awful.”
“Terribly sorry, but I can’t turn off the radio, they’re playing the ‘Thin Wall’ by Käsebier. The gentlemen at the next table also said they can’t stand it anymore.”
“Oh no,” Muschler, who had just recognized it, said quickly, “I wouldn’t say that, he’s a great artist.”
“Sure,” said Oberndorffer. “They just took it too far in Berlin, as usual. It’s a bit annoying now.”
“Well, he’ll perk up again on Kurfürstendamm,” Muschler said.
Augur came into the offices every day. Gloomily, his head bowed, his pockets stuffed with newspapers—a Cassandra—he would deliver daily prophecies of yet another city councilman’s downfall, and, just like Troy, they fell.
“Well, Augur,” said Miermann, “what’s new with the election?”
“Do you know who’s supposed to have paid for the poster of the German Nationalists with Sklarek on it? The Sklareks!”40
“How’s that possible?”
“Because the Sklareks gave huge sums to the German Nationalists—who haven’t they given money to?—and because the printing costs were paid for with a Sklarek check.”
“That’s outrageous,” said Gohlisch.
“I fear,” said Miermann, “we’ll end up with a completely radicalized Reichstag.”
“Dissolving the Reichstag is a huge blunder on the part of the Social Democrats,” said Gohlisch.
“What else can we expect from a party of weak-minded prats?” said Augur.
“How’s your daughter doing?” asked Gohlisch.
“Not so well at the moment, the doctor said that we should send her to Switzerland once her health improves.”
Miss Kohler sat quietly. The two renters had left. What could she do? In the front room were now two homosexuals who walked through the apartment in women’s nightgowns. In back was a young man who brought back a different girl every night.
Their home had become a brothel. If the doorman got upset, he could report Mrs. Kohler to the police at any moment. She had long since stopped telling renters, “Ladies may only visit by day, please.”
They were sinking; they could swim all they wanted, but they were sinking. The apartment cost five hundred marks a month. They couldn’t afford to let the young people give notice.
30
A child dies, a man despairs
IT WAS four thirty in the afternoon on July 31. Miermann, Gohlisch, and Miss Kohler were sitting in the editorial offices again. They were discussing a speech that the leader of the Stahlhelm had given in Leipzig.41
“Well,” said Gohlisch, “at the Stahlhelm rally in Berlin, he drove along Unter den Linden, studied the map of Berlin intently, and looked for the Lustgarten. Once he had found it, he stood there with three gloves, two on his hands, the third held in front of him like a kind of marshal’s baton.”
“Gohlisch, is that true?”
“Just do me a favor and order coffee,” said Miss Kohler.
“With cake?”
“Without,” called Miermann.
“With,” Lotte Kohler.
Gohlisch went to the phone and ordered. “Three coffees, but hurry up, pretty thing, and three grappas for room eight, Berliner Rundschau.”
That instant, a young messenger came in and announced a gentleman who had followed on his heels: Mr. Förster.
Miermann was about to say, “Please ask him to wait next door,” when the man entered. He was very long and gaunt, had rather bony hands, and wore a yellowish linen jacket and a wide green scarf bound as a tie along with trousers that were too short.
“Gentlemen, please allow me to put down my suitcase. My name is Förster, police constable. I have some important documents to show you. I have a clock that will allow you to read off the election results.”
“What?” said Miermann. “The election results? Very interesting.”
“Yes,” the stranger said. “I worked on it for a year until it was ready, but now it works. It doesn’t show the time anymore, just the election results.”
“An odd clock,” said Gohlisch. “How do you read it?”
The stranger stood up and walked over to Gohlisch. He showed him a golden pocket-watch: “Here you can see one hundred and ten votes for the National Socialists, one hundred votes for the Social Democrats.”
“I see a twelve,” said Gohlisch.
“Sir, can you not see one hundred and ten in small, blue letters over the twelve?”
“Have you come to show us the clock?”
“Certainly, the clock, certainly! I’ve been collecting old newspapers on Wittembergplatz, but I was once a police constable. The police work under unbelievable conditions. Here, this entire suitcase is full of material, I’m in the process of writing my memoirs, I’m just looking for a publisher. I contracted a serious illness for fiscal reasons and am receiving no remuneration!”
“That’s disgraceful,” said Gohlisch.
“Isn’t it? Listen, I’m a man of the old school, my great-grandfather was hanged by Frederick the Great. Gentlemen, I had a criminal case to solve, a mysterious murder among the reeds of Buchsum. I was looking for the body when my supervisor said, ‘His girlfriend will know everything.’ I got on my bike, rode over, took along a bar of chocolate and went to see the girl. The girl was crying, I comforted her, squeezed her knee, I’m a man of the old school, and, to cut a long story short—after all, we have a lady present—the gentlemen can picture the situation, she confessed to me—in bed, apologies—the name of the murderer. I filed a report and fell ill. And the government, gentlemen, the state, where can we seek justice? The Jews have been bribed by the Catholics. The Jews—”
Miermann and Gohlisch looked at each other.
Miermann interrupted the stranger and said, “Won’t you write your business down for us, we have work to do, I’d be happy for it.”
Gohlisch stood up: “Please follow me outside. The man has work to do.”
With great long steps, the man stood up.
He pulled out his watch again and said, “My clock, gentlemen, shows a dead man. I’d like to shake your hands. One of you, I won’t be seeing again.”
He left.
“Well,” said Miermann, “that was uncanny.”
“Dreadful, yes.”
Gohlisch came back.
“Is he outside?”
“I got rid of him.”
“Don’t kid around,” said Miermann.
“Are you superstitious?” Gohlisch asked.
“I don’t understand where Augur is hiding with the news.”
“I don’t either.”
“I’ll give him a call.”
Gohlisch got on the phone.
“This is Gohlisch. Hey, conspirator, where are you with the news? Are you only going to come out of hiding around midnight?”
“I’ll send them along,” said Augur. “I can’t come in, my daughter has died.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Gohlisch hung up.
“The child is dead?” said Miermann.
Gohlisch nodded.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” said Miss Kohler. “We’re sitting around here chatting about Stahlhelms, Nazis, Socialists, corruption in the Berlin administration, elections, elections, and then a child dies.”
“I don’t know,” said Gohlisch, “why I didn’t try to help.”
“You never know until it’s too late,” said Miermann.
“I mentioned something to Dr. Krone once,” said Gohlisch.
“Sure, sure,” said Miss Kohler. “But the death of a small, gentle, young, wistful creature was unnecessary, it was so much more important than all this nonsense, much more. I didn’t try to help either.”
“Yes,” said Gohlisch, dejected.
“Yes,” said Miermann.
They sat and drank their coffee.
Miehlke came in, a
sked what was going in, too little room, gotta cut. “Doesn’t matter,” Miehlke said, “cut, cut.” Ten percent of Siemens workers were to be fired. Schiele had moved to the Farmer’s Party. 272,000,000 railroad commissions. Earthquake in southern Italy. Big clashes between Communists and National Socialists.
The phone rang. “Layout, gentlemen.”
Miermann and Gohlisch disappeared in the composing room.
The next day, Miermann and Käte sat together in an unused room. Miermann told her that Augur’s little daughter had died.
“What?” said Käte. “And you all watched as the child slowly wasted away from tuberculosis? It didn’t occur to you, Gohlisch, or Miss Kohler to help out?”
“I’m upset with myself too.”
“What do you mean, upset with yourself? It’s terribly easy to be upset with yourself. It was your damned duty and your responsibility to intervene. You should have gone, sent for a doctor, or seen to it that the child was sent away. Letting yourself go and standing by as someone croaks, that’s lovely, all right. If I’ d have been there, it wouldn’t have happened.”
Something swelled up in Miermann. Maybe, he thought, she would have seen to everything with her energy and confidence, maybe I should have behaved like that, been a man. But her, a woman?
“You’re very convinced of yourself,” he said out loud.
She pulled back. “I think that someone should have intervened. And I would have!” She stood there, a blazing Judith.
“Käte, you know that I love you.”
“And I you,” Käte said, tongue in cheek.
“Please, be serious.”
Käte understood. “I’m quite serious, my dear,” she said.
“I want to ask you about something that’s been on my mind. I saw you yesterday with young Waldschmidt.”
“Yes?”
“I mean . . .”
“Yes.”
“Käte, really? You have a boyfriend?”
“What, just one? How many do you want to know about? One, two, three, four? Pardon my candor, but I can’t stand people who tell themselves stories.”
“But why? A creature so beautiful in body and spirit?”
“Can’t you understand? I married too young. I did not love my husband, as you know. I could have made a wonderful lover, but I became a cold thing instead. It’s a thorny problem. I started up with others. I had unhappy relationships between three and five o’clock in the afternoon. I fell in love again and again. I couldn’t stand anyone in the long term, but I didn’t want to, anyways.”
Miermann sat there with an uncomprehending face:
“But many?”
She guessed his thoughts: “I’ve never toyed around, I’ve also never acted a part for someone. Ugh! You can’t reproach me for leading you on. I find flirting vulgar, and then tout excepté ça. No, if someone’s fallen in love with me and I am perhaps to blame, then I am involved with him. I call that decent behavior. Everyone cheats on their wives in their minds, in their dreams—I think that’s just cowardly. Have you never cheated on your wife? If you say ‘never,’ you’re a liar, like this whole bourgeois society.”
“Dear Käte, I don’t believe you’re coldhearted. Don’t think emotion is shameless. You should dare to claim your clever heart. I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t be happy if a young, intelligent man came along and made you his wife.”
“I think marriage is crazy. I couldn’t stand it, even with someone I was completely in love with. I have to be free.”
She was incredibly beautiful. In that moment, Miermann followed the dictate of his generation, which forbade a man from appearing small, helpless, and afflicted in front of a woman, for fear of ridicule. “Free?” he said with an attempt at male scorn, and embraced the shrouded woman. He expected to encounter resistance. He didn’t. He had hoped to be freed, but he was embarrassed. They had both grown serious when they left. Though she found him unappealing, she needed tenderness, a kind word to become human again. He had failed. It had been rape. She would never forgive him.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. He went back to the office. Miss Kohler was in the room. Miermann looked pale.
“Is something the matter?” she asked. “Shall I order you something? Perhaps an iced coffee, in this heat?”
Miermann asked, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-three,” she said.
“You know women in their thirties?”
“Maybe. War generation.”
“Something strange happened to me. She told me that she’s had many affairs since her divorce, and that she takes them lightly.”
“Maybe she’s cold, maybe she’s looking for something.”
“Do you understand it? I can’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
Miermann shook his head. It was very hot. The windows were closed, the yellow summer blinds pulled down.
“But look, Miermann, such an intelligent and sensuous woman, as you always say, must be looking for great love. Mustn’t one perhaps go through many beds to find it?”
“She says everything else is just a fantasy.”
“A courageous woman. She knows that you can love many people, you can love them in succession, but you can also love different people at the same time.”
The phone rang. Mielke came in. “When are you coming in for layout? What’re we keeping? We’ve gotta cut.”
“Where’s the overset, Kohler?”
•
The funeral took place on August 4 in the Wilmersdorf crematorium. People stood in the portico of the cobblestone courtyard, wearing black clothes in the August sun. Many had come. Öchsli was there, Lambeck, and five small girls with brown and blonde hair carrying bouquets. Surprisingly, this did Augur some good. Augur came with his wife. He looked around sadly and supported the small, inconspicuous, miserable, overworked woman, who was crying, stunned. The organ played “Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rat.” The child’s coffin was completely covered with pale white and pink roses.
Miermann held the eulogy.
“Little Eva-Maria Tradt, today we lay you to eternal rest. Dear mourners, what can I say over the coffin of this little elf, this half-fledged woman-child, what can I say to her parents that will not tear their wounds open anew, since the pain is so overwhelming, since innocence itself has left this earth? This little girl was a marvel of grace, her little girlish footsteps pattered through the house. Her classmates adored her, here are a few of her little friends who have brought her flowers. Her soul held nothing but the longing of butterflies and the goldfinch and the cowslip. Her heart held love for her parents, her teacher, her little playmates, but her young mind desired to learn and do much. She was a clever child, a gentle soul, a loving heart. What, dear, good parents, honored Augur, good, dear mother, is better than that?
“We must think of ourselves, but not of her. For her, life would have been a disappointment; she would have suffered without end. Her delicate body would have been unable to bear the painful burdens heaped upon her heart, her soul unable to grasp them. The heart’s betrayal, deceived trust, the loneliness of city life would have dragged her down. She would have cried out and pleaded for salvation because such flowerlike beings are ruffled and uprooted by the storm of our time. This time is harsh and relentless, and we force little elves to face life, so that life’s millstone can grind them to bits.
“Heavenly little angel, you flew through life for a few sunny children’s days, you were sheltered from sin, shame, suffering, pain, sorrow, need, from the terrible problems of our time, against which life’s joys seem feather-light.
“You have been received by the great rapture. You will join the eternal choir as a heavenly seraph. We below, all of us sinners, who have lied without need and betrayed, who have bowed to power, closed ourselves off from the good and sought our advantage, we who have not loved our neighbor and have closed our doors and eyes and ears to his need, we will need to wander through many circles before we meet you again. For we have sunk so
low that the clocks no longer tell the time, but someone has invented a clock that shows election results. We no longer notice how time flows from night to day and from day to night, the sun setting on the horizon and rising at dawn, the awakening of the birds and the opening of flower buds, but we need clocks that indicate the day’s business, seismographs that track the collapse of parties.
“We have fallen so far, we have grown so ugly!
“But you are in the realm of the blessed. Because a life like yours, begun in heavenly lightness, without the pains of motherhood, of womanhood, of love, is not over yet. Love will never cease, love for you, little elf, from those who are banished from your sight, the unworthy, the unrepentant, woven into the wheel of life. You have found the river of knowledge. You will live eternally. Be blessed, as you were a blessing. Amen, amen.”
“You are the calm, the restful peace,
“You are my longing and what makes it cease . . .” the organ played.
Most of those present found Miermann’s speech strange. He, who was so highly educated, had mixed up all of his references. He had taken what he needed from Greek mythology, from Christian theology, and from the teachings of Buddha to prove that this child would live on.
But this was not the only thing that struck them. It was how moved Miermann was, how vehemently he confessed to his own sinfulness, how he sought a path, how helpless he was in the face of death, a fact he was perhaps still unconscious of. This intelligent man, so deeply connected to the events of the day, stood there, a short, fat man in a frock coat, whose collar was covered with dandruff even today, and cast off his cloak and his pride before God and confessed. Although everything he said was universal, although it touched on religious traditions across two millennia, it sounded intensely personal to those who knew Miermann. Gohlisch and Miss Kohler felt it was a resignation. This was more than the caprice of a journalist bowled over by the mood of the day: this was repentance, a great longing for the void.
Everyone shook the poor parents’ hands. “You too, Mr. Lambeck,” said Augur, touched. Lambeck led the poor parents out.
“I think my little girl will become an angel, I know I’ll see her again,” the wife said. “She was so beautiful. She was the perfect child,” and sobbed heavily when she saw the little living friends.
Käsebier Takes Berlin Page 24
