Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  Waldschmidt called Commissioner Levy. “Please put in a bid for the clock and the bronze Kruse bust.” He wanted to buy them for Frechheim. But later, he felt embarrassed and didn’t send them to Frechheim. The visit had been foolish enough.

  38

  The auction

  AUCTIONS in west Berlin are quite an affair! The well-heeled do all their shopping there. Buying something in a store run by experts, a place that contains carefully culled, beautiful, high-quality goods—anyone can do that. But going to an auction and recognizing what’s cheap and what’s expensive—now, that’s a task. It requires in-depth knowledge of all products in the interior furnishings business, which no one possesses to such a degree as the wife of luxury. Those constantly buying porcelain and toasters and cocktail glasses, replacing their curtains and repairing their Persian rugs, whose mothers already asked them as children what they thought of Aunt Herta’s new tea set—they know.

  Margot Weissmann phoned up Countess Dinkelsbühl. “Have you heard, dear countess, Frechheim is having an auction! His wonderful glassware and the other things! There’s a preview tomorrow.”

  “Poor Mrs. Thedy! Shouldn’t we give her a call?”

  “I think she’d only find it unpleasant. After all, her husband has been seriously compromised! Shall we drive over to Frechheim together?”

  “Gladly, it’s been quite some time that I’ve been looking for a baroque armoire just like the one Frechheim has in his hallway.”

  “One can buy things for so little at auctions.”

  The preview took place in the apartment on Keithstrasse that Sunday.

  The cars waited downstairs.

  Auctions have a particular atmosphere. The gloomy mood of dissolution, abandonment, and death is dispelled by the parade of elegant cars before the door and the even more elegant women in the rooms. The smell of dust and dirt is overwhelmed by Caron and Houbigant and eau de cologne and the scent of gaiety a well-groomed woman spreads wherever she bestows her smile.

  Käte Herzfeld was standing upstairs with Oppenheimer and the prominent art dealer when Countess Dinkelsbühl arrived with Margot Weissmann. Hersheimer the banker arrived with his wife a minute later. Mrs. Hersheimer was wearing a black knit coat and a Persian lamb fur. But Margot Weissmann was already in bottle green and broadtail. Countess Dinkelsbühl, a charming apparition, wore a brown suit. Käte was also dressed in black and Persian lamb. Frächter came with his wife, as they still needed a few things for their apartment.

  “Käte, you look wonderful,” Margot said. “I meant to ask you at my party, are you still going to Arden?”

  “No, I have a masseuse who’s simply divine, I’d be glad to give you her address.”

  “Have you seen the excellent sixties serving cart?” Oppenheimer asked.

  “Dear Oppenheimer, really, the sixties? You can’t be serious about the sixties!”

  “I find them quite stylish. By the way, there’s a fantastic commode there for you, very ornate, Louis XV, really fine stuff. It has a reserve price of five thousand marks. A steal!”

  The apartment was completely stuffed. Two beautiful commodes stood in the hallway; over them hung Dörbeck’s Berliner Redensarten.46

  In the first room were the vitrines, which had interior lighting for the Roman glassware. Next to it was the study: Renaissance, with a large Ruisdael over the desk. Next door, the Chippendale living room with blue velvet, the grand piano, a music stand. Then the salon with small French wardrobes and mighty vases just like those Paul I of Russia had made for Potsdam. There were piles of junk in the dining room: a large, smooth silver fruit basket by a Danish silversmith. The cocktail cabinet, a set of cordial glasses. A small silver candy bowl. A tea set from Meissen, silver, old Berliner and Sèvres breakfast plate sets, glasses with Baccarat etchings, colorful wine goblets—it was all there. Twenty-four silver finger bowls, one hundred and eighty-five grams apiece. Eighteen silver coffee cups, one hundred and seventy grams apiece. Twenty-four silver mocha cups, seventy grams apiece. Eleven plates, five hundred grams apiece. Twenty-four detachable silver fish-bone bowls, eighty grams apiece. A set of silver for thirty-six people with lobster and oyster forks, silver tea and coffee sets, biscuit jars, fruit bowls with matching plates, endless quantities of lead crystal trimmed with silver, endless tins, endless vases. A bronze inkwell, a green marble desk set, a silver smoking table, a silver cigar box, a brown marble ashtray topped with a golden deer, a gray marble ashtray on which a golden dancer perched, a bronze smoking set with individual ashtrays in green onyx and rose quartz. Souvenirs from Italy: majolica plates from Florence, bronze lamps from Pompeii, bronze statues standing stark naked on a red marble base, a farmer with a sickle, a blacksmith, a worker. In the middle stood Goethe, thirty-two volumes bound fully in leather. On the wall was a cupboard with stuffed birds shot by the man of the house himself: an eagle from the Caucasus, strange creatures from North Africa, eiders from a trip to the northern countries, a large variety of southern English seagulls. On the walls, antlers: deer antlers, elk antlers, and a boar’s head.

  Gustav Frechheim had been an elegant gentleman, a skillful hunter, yacht owner, collector of Roman glassware, and a music lover, a violinist who had given large sums to the philharmonic orchestra in fairer days.

  “Look at this enchanting little box,” said the countess. “And there are a few very nice embroideries. I’ll bid on them tomorrow.”

  “Just look at this dreadful dining room from 1900 and these silly bronzes, it’s too funny for words. There’s nothing decent here,” said Margot. “Perhaps the runners.”

  The women even crept into the attic. Margot nearly died of laughter. There stood the suitcases, covered with hotel etiquettes. Negresco, Nice. Daniela, Venice. Suvretta, St. Moritz.

  Levy the broker addressed the women: “Have you seen the Tabriz yet, Mrs. Weissmann? A wonderful piece, and you could still use a carpet. I could secure it for you at a very modest price. Perhaps the countess needs something as well?”

  “I’ll take a look,” said Margot. “How high do you think it’ll go?”

  “Well, about three hundred, Mrs. Weissmann.”

  “My limit’s two hundred.”

  “That won’t be possible, let’s say two-fifty. It would be perfect for your winter garden. Hasn’t Mrs. Weissmann always been pleased with my services?”

  Margot had to admit that this was true. She knew the agent. She had acquired a few beautiful pieces through him. She told him to proceed. The agent took notes. He knew the Tabriz well. He was brokering it for the fourth time in ten years. Mrs. Kohler had sold it in the inflation. It had made its way over to Lola di Vandey in the Grunewald. Once the actress liquidated her household, it came to Frechheim. Now Margot would have it. The countess placed a bid on the baroque wardrobe.

  The auction began at ten o’clock in the morning on the following day. The old servants stood together. Emma, the factotum, a cleaning woman who had helped out, Frechheim’s old manservant. The friends of the house were there. The auctioneers. And strangers. Elegant women. A fashion show. Only beautiful women. A Burne-Jones apparition, white-blonde in pale green, was speaking to a dark-haired woman in gray miniver. Everything was quickly cleared out. Fat men blew smoke into the air. One man with a long white beard and a Tyrolean hat smelled of onion; another of alcohol. The paintings were auctioned off. No one wanted the Aubusson. Five to six meters high. Who could still use an Aubusson these days? Later came the antique glassware, the commodes, the vases, the silver, the shabby velour, all somewhat more expensive than in stores. But everyone had been gripped by auction fever. The auction went from eleven till eight o’clock. A gray cloud of dust covered everything.

  “Lot number 212, canopy bed, Shantung silk. Opening bid? Thirty marks! Who’ll give me more? . . . Forty marks, do I hear forty-one? . . . Forty-one, forty-two, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five, sixty, do I hear sixty-one? Sixty-one, do I hear sixty-two? . . . Sixty-two, do I hear sixty-three?” The gavel struck. “Who’s the
winner?” “Wittstock.” “Wittstock! Number 213, grand piano, Bechstein, concert. Opening bid? . . . Fifty marks! Do I hear sixty? . . . Sixty marks, do I hear seventy? Seventy, eighty, one hundred, one-fifty, one-eighty, two hundred, two-fifty, three hundred, three-ten, three-fifteen, three-twenty-five, do I hear three-thirty? . . . Three-fifty, do I hear three-sixty? . . . Three-seventy, three-seventy-five, do I hear three-eighty? . . .” The gavel struck. “Who’s the winner?” “Greifenhagen.” “Greifenhagen!”

  This continued the entire day. Strange men in shabby suits loitered in the hallways, scattered ash on the good chairs, smoked pipes, sported beards and old coats. A large hole was burned into the pale green upholstery of a small white Empire chair with a golden fruit bowl on the backrest. The curtains were already being ripped from the windows. The packers, the movers, and the giants were already carrying out the heavier pieces with moving straps, dragging them off to furniture vans. The sausage man was doing brisk business with his harness tray. He put it on the Louis XV commode in the music room. Even a paper plate was good enough for that. It didn’t have to be porcelain from Meissen.

  And then everything was gone.

  39

  All that’s left is Minerva’s hand and a plaster rose

  IT WAS May 1931. Gohlisch, who had meanwhile found a job in Magdeburg, came back to Berlin on a visit. He bumped into Oberndorffer.

  “Do you want to come with me?” asked Oberndorffer. “I’m in a rush. I have to go to the court on Grunerstrasse, Otto Mitte’s hearing is today.”

  “Oh really, Otto Mitte’s broke now?”

  “He went broke partially because of his construction projects. When you build, the actual building doesn’t matter. The financing is everything. Here’s the financing.”

  They hurried along.

  The long rectangular room in Grunerstrasse was filled with people.

  The presiding judge sat at the front.

  A deputy read out the amounts at issue. Was there anyone in Berlin who hadn’t been affected? The banks had lost their money. Karlweiss hadn’t received his fee. The carpenters hadn’t been paid. Neither old Duchow, nor Schüttke, who’d snatched the contract from Feinschmidt & Rohhals, nor Staberow had been paid fully for their contributions. Käsebier had paid ten thousand marks. Scharnagl had never received the five thousand he had been promised for the construction fence, that wonderful construction fence on Kurfürstendamm. Even Kaliski was still owed one thousand. Not to mention the salaries! The hearing went quite peacefully. Now and again, someone would turn the door handle and quietly slip away. The deputy read in a monotone, “200,000 marks to the Berliner Bank, debt acknowledged by the trustee. 71 marks to Oberndorffer, debt disputed by the trustee; 150,000 marks to Karlweiss, disputed; 1,553 marks to Duchow, acknowledged; 78 marks to Feinschmidt, acknowledged; 11,444 marks to Schüttke, disputed; 2,500 marks to Scharnagl, disputed; 10,000 marks to Georg Käsebier, disputed; 1,000 marks to Dr. Reinhold Kaliski, disputed; 10,000 marks to Muschler, bankrupt, acknowledged; 2,945 marks to Staberow, disputed; 2,467 marks to Oberndorffer, disputed; 3,000 marks to Matukat, acknowledged; 2,400 marks to Schulz, acknowledged, 300 marks to Miss Fleissig, acknowledged; 1,500 marks to Dipfinger, acknowledged.”

  The voice of the deputy grew weary. For one hour, he read: disputed; disputed; disputed.

  “If we stay here any longer, I’ll fall asleep,” said Gohlisch. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “Disputed, disputed, disputed,” said Gohlisch. “Once it was ‘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,’ debt disputed, debt disputed, debt disputed.”

  “Have you heard that the Berliner Rundschau is being torn down?”

  “No, really? Whatever happened to Frächter, anyway?”

  “He left the Rundschau quite some time ago. Waldschmidt made him an associate, and apparently he’s working out quite well.”

  “What do you know. The world is changing.”

  “But the demolition is still one of Frächter’s projects.”

  They went to Kommandantenstrasse. The sidewalk had been blocked off. As Gohlisch and Oberndorffer stood there and looked up, Minerva flew down and shattered. A hand and a piece of the historical tablets crumbled on the street. Gohlisch bent down and picked up Minerva’s hand and a plaster rose. “I’ll have a paperweight for my desk made from this. A memory of Miermann. Our pleasant sojourn in Aranjuez has ceded to the glorious summer by this sun of York.47 Heil and Sieg.”

  “What about the fat one?”

  “There’s none to be had anymore. Farewell, Oberndorffer.”

  He walked away with Minerva’s hand in one pocket and the rose in the other.

  40

  Finale

  ARE YOU familiar with Cottbus, a small mill town in Lusatia?

  Four buyers from Berlin, who didn’t know where to go that evening, went to a pub with a cabaret. They sat down, ordered beers, and discussed the news.

  “Why are you talking about struggling along? You have no clue! If you want to know what a bad line of work looks like, try briefcases.”

  Four young girls wearing rather skimpy dresses were dancing. Once they had finished, they looked around to see whether someone might invite them to dinner.

  But the buyers were saying to each other, “What can I say! Topas was canned without notice. He said he’ll sue.”

  “What an awful company.”

  “Do you think Zwiebelfisch and Kämer, a firm with a working capital of three million, needs to behave decently?”

  Then a singer came on stage.

  “One beer,” a buyer shouted. The singer sang a song about hard times.

  “Who’s that?” the buyer asked the waiter. “He does his stuff pretty well.”

  “His name’s Käsebier, I think, but I can’t say for sure. I’d have to ask the boss,” the waiter said.

  “Ah, leave it, it’s not that important to me. D’you know that even R. Rockstroh and Co.’s facing the brink?”

  NOTES

  1 Carl Spitzweg (1808–1885) was a German painter famous for his genre paintings of often provincial, humorous character types.

  2 A reference to Friedrich Schiller’s play Fiesco (1893). Gohlisch is referring to the stern republican, Verrina, who tries to emancipate sixteenth-century Genoa from the rule of the nobility.

  3 Wolff’s Telegraphisches Bureau (1849–1934), one of the first European press agencies.

  4 Andreas Schlüter (1659–1714) was a sculptor and architect who shaped Berlin’s cityscape in his lifetime, working on the Berlin City Palace and old arsenal. Later in life, Schlüter fell into disfavor with his patron, Frederick I, and left for the court of Peter the Great in 1713.

  5 A quote from Friedrich Schiller’s poem “The German Muse,” written in 1800. The poem, which laments the lack of patronage that the German arts received under the enlightened despotism of Frederick the Great, is misquoted by Tergit, who changes the word “defenceless” to “inglorious.”

  6 A quote from Theodor Fontane’s poem “An meinem Fünfundsiebzigsten” (On My Seventy-Fifth Birthday), in which Fontane writes about his birthday celebrations—the guests for his party turn out not to be the German aristocrats he has written about for years, but his many Jewish readers instead. Some critics have taken the poem as proof of Fontane’s anti-Semitism, but it also illustrates the importance of German Jews in nineteenth-century German culture.

  7 Citation from Heinrich Heine’s poem “Nachtgedanken” (1844). Tired of the strict German censors and of being subject to anti-Semitism, Heine chose to settle in France after the July Revolution of 1830. “Nachtgedanken” portrays the poet as he longingly thinks of Germany by night from his home in Paris. This citation is taken, in slightly modified form, from The Complete Poems of Heinrich Heine, trans. Hal Draper (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1987), p. 408.

  8 This refe
rs to the geographical meeting-point of the Russian, Austro-Hungarian, and German Empires during the partition of Poland (1871–1918). The League of the Three Emperors, as this alliance among empires was known, was an important cornerstone of Otto von Bismarck’s foreign policy for the new German nation, since it safeguarded the country against Russian and Austro-Hungarian aggression. The alliance lapsed in 1887, but the spot remained a popular tourist destination until World War I, with the German government even erecting a Bismarck tower there in 1907.

  9 Paragraph 218 of the penal code of the Weimar Republic criminalized abortion and decreed that any woman who had undergone or assisted in an abortion could be imprisoned for up to five years or sent to a work house. The law was liberalized in 1926–1927, when a reform permitted abortion for medical reasons.

  10 An 1888 novel by Theodor Fontane about a love affair between young Lene Nimptsch and the baron Botho von Rienäcker, set near the Zoological Gardens in west Berlin.

  11 Heinrich Heine, “Pomare,” in The Complete Poems of Heinrich Heine, trans. Hal Draper (Cambridge, MA: Suhrkamp/Insel Publishers Boston, 1982), p. 579.

  12 The Aboag was a bus run by the Allgemeine Berliner Omnibus AG (General Berlin Omnibus Inc.).

  13 Harry Liedtke was a popular silent film actor in Weimar who frequently worked with director Ernst Lubitsch and who starred opposite Marlene Dietrich in the 1928 film I Kiss Your Hand, Madame. Adolphe Menjou was a dapper American actor famous for his suave, debonair demeanor. In 1934 The New York Times referred to him as a “perennial member of the world’s ten best-dressed men.”

  14 Claire Waldoff, born as Clara Wortmann (1884–1957), was a cabaret singer famous for her cross-dressed stage persona and bawdy songs in Berlin dialect. Waldoff was a significant presence in Berlin’s emerging lesbian nightlife scene, and attained national fame in the 1920s. Her career dimmed significantly after the Nazis came to power.