by Irmgard Keun
Gilgi’s suitcase is under the wardrobe in the bedroom. She pulls it out. Puts in her clothes, her underwear. She works very quickly and surely. Surely? The tiniest question mark, the very slightest thought beyond what’s in front of her makes her hands tremble, incapable of moving, of picking up, of holding. Stay hard, stay hard—do the most difficult thing, do the right thing—right thing? Right how?… Ah, don’t think … She runs her hand lightly over the colorful evening dresses in the wardrobe—you can all stay hanging there, I don’t need you—by the time I wear an evening dress again, you’ll be long out of fashion. Don’t stand motionless—keep doing something, keep doing something—she shuts the suitcase. What now … a few lines for Martin … I’m hurting myself so much, I’ll kill myself entirely—the air will have to help me and the paper and everything around me—too difficult alone … too difficult—no—yes, I will write … firm, hard letters—white paper, black loops, white paper … red shoes, red … and the air will have to help me.
“… precisely because I love you. Don’t be afraid—not for me. It all has to be like this, you must trust me—Martin—something has happened, I can’t laugh anymore, not for a long time. The way I am now, I’d only be a burden to you and make you sad along with me … then maybe you wouldn’t love me anymore … there’s nothing I fear more than that. Don’t forget me—please.”
She signs with a long, swerving line like a sob. She puts the note in the center of the dining table—hyacinths—white hyacinths in black vases. My sweet life—I’ll carry you in my blood forever. The golden fire … Kneels down in front of the divan, little Gilgi, lays her head onto the cushions—the red-gold silk—the color of the love of your life—you, and again only you … I have no tears for others—tears evaporate unshed for love of you … I am your creation—I worship you—your red-gold color—I will have no gray in it—not for you, not for me … the suitcase will be heavy …
Gilgi stands up. Her eyes hollow and unseeing, her mouth twisted, her skin ashen … and you walk, walk—you don’t cry, you’re not dying—you walk—with your suitcase—you catch the streetcar … Frozen world. Why do you hurt yourself—so much? You’re a bleeding scrap of flesh, disguised by skin … oh, my head—who is stabbing the needles in—dear God, do you think my head is a pincushion …
“Pit,” Gilgi says as she enters his room—“Pit, you’re here! Thank God! You have to help me, so that I get on the Berlin train tonight …”
They sit quietly beside each other, the two children. Pit holds Gilgi’s limp little hand for a very long time, very calmly—giving her what it is he has to give—a little human closeness. That’s not much. That’s a great deal. And the walls surround two small, insignificant people with indifferent understanding. A drop of sorrow in the room—a teardrop of nothing shed behind the eyes—a drop of long-suffering breathing—a drop of sweet, young superfluousness. And so much outside! Nazi guys beating up Communists—Communists beating up Nazis—they’re both right—because they both believe they’re right. A terrible lot of newspapers writing—right and left—and right and left don’t get to the core of things. And the world bends over laughing—go ahead and paint your political colors on my face—a single, tiny raindrop will wash them off … you can try that with me—oh well—so much purposeful-purposeless racket—and a little cloud opens its mouth and spits in your stupid non-faces—just incidentally. There’s a great deal going on in the world, and nothing happening—precisely because so much is going on—sophistry which is bellowed down to the earth and bounces back—try not to choke yourselves … a great deal going on outside … And the sun falls in love with the earth again—kisses all kinds of bright, green, flowery toys out of her … its own game makes its love warmer and hotter—and there’ll be a little notice in this evening’s edition of the Advertiser—reporting and regretting impersonally … four people dead of gas … The notice isn’t on the front page, and isn’t very long—because that kind of thing goes on all the time and isn’t really anyone’s business particularly … And in a halting monotone Gilgi tells her friend what will be in the newspaper this evening, tells him a bit more than that … She wants to look at Pit, but her gaze flows emptily and vaguely down him—it’s quite unable to fix on anything tangible …
“What kind of people are we, then, Pit? Do you think I could be sad now—do you think I could shed a tear—because that’s happened … yes, I know it has, but somehow I don’t know it has—it doesn’t get through to me—only that I bear some guilt for it, Pit—the guilt—but—I don’t understand it all …”
Dumbly she closes in upon herself—a gray little heap of misery. Pit feels quite weird. Is she still alive? If only she’d cry and groan! But she’s not fit for anything anymore … And while moments ago he was genuinely moved by the terrible story of despair in the back-street attic—now he’s seized by obstinate, senseless rage—he’s never hated living people as much as he hates those poor dead ones. They’ve destroyed the girl I knew, the living girl …
“Listen—Gilgi!” He’s standing in front of her, stiff strands of his rust-red hair are falling over his white face — — — the girl—who means so much to me … “Listen, Gilgi—don’t talk that garbage about guilt—when someone does something like that, he’s at the end of his tether—and how were you involved in it? By going there this morning instead of last night! Don’t make yourself ridiculous, don’t give yourself a martyr complex, you silly goose. Do you think death and life depend on you—are you so disgustingly full of your own importance? I’m telling you, they’d completely lost their capacity to live, they were subject to every chance—and a thousand rings couldn’t have helped them in the end … The guilt belongs in lots of other places, not to you … And if you start thinking like this now—well, then pretty soon nothing will happen on earth without you feeling guilty about it …” You’d like to shake and to hit the little, dead, gray heap of misery, so that life flows into it again, so that it becomes the little person it once was again, figure upright, shoulders thrown back, bursting with energy …
Gilgi barely moves—hears Pit talking quite a long, long way off … thoughts wander … “Pit, you’ll make sure that, whatever happens, I get on the Berlin train tonight?”
“Of course. I’ll make sure.” Pit will do anything. It’ll be good for her to go away—only—“Why do you want to go to Berlin, of all places?”
Yes, why! Gilgi looks at Pit—as if he’d know why! Why does she want to go away, actually? Martin! But in a half-hour I can be with him … “Why, Pit? Yes … I know Pit, I know.” She pulls him down next to her. Her eyes are more purposeful, her hands more alive—she sees her way quite clearly … “Pit, I’m having a child. I want to have it. Because it’s a great joy to have a child by the one man I really love. It’s a great responsibility, too—which is good. I’ll have to gather and use all, all of the strength that’s in me—I’ll have to …”
Pit doesn’t quite understand—“Yes, but the man?”
“Yes, you see, Pit, even if I weren’t having the child—I’d have to leave him—for my sake and for his sake. I can’t work, Pit—if I’m with him. I’ve already tried, and I’ve seen and lived what happens then. I just love him too much—and in every way, and I only have to look at him for everything else to become meaningless to me, utterly, utterly meaningless. It doesn’t matter how much I strive to change things—nothing works. And you see, Pit, I have to work and keep my life in order … he doesn’t have enough money to support me—and anyway I wouldn’t want him to, if he did have enough. And he spends so much when he’s with me—and suddenly his small capital is gone, and then we’re both standing there not knowing what to do next. And he’s not at all used to working for money. He doesn’t understand it. And you know, someone can probably change of their own accord—but wanting to change someone else just means making life difficult for yourself and for them. I think he really loves me now, and maybe he’d adapt—to please me. But quite apart from the external difficulty—the rest
of it’s terribly hard too. Yes, if he did it later quite without being asked and quite slowly and gradually and above all quite, quite voluntarily—then—yes, then … But now! Because of the child—suddenly and from compulsion! And I’d get more and more nervous and more and more anxious and weaker, weaker, weaker, and I’d come to depend entirely on him … oh, Pit, my beautiful love shouldn’t turn into a kind of Strindberg play …”
“And you’re going to … all alone with the child … Oh, you’re so brave!”
Gilgi smiles—a poor smile that splits her face in the middle. “You can be sure, Pit, that I’m doing what requires the least amount of bravery from me. I’m not afraid—just for myself—I’ll look after myself, and the child too. And, Pit,” Gilgi’s eyes are becoming clearer and clearer, “there’s a real purpose to it all, Pit—without the child, without such a stark necessity it would’ve been harder. I would’ve had no armor—and so alone—maybe some man or other—even without love—just with … you know what I mean, Pit—and I know myself. But I don’t want any other man, because I know that I only love Martin. And then if I’m making a living later—a good, secure living—and the child—Pit, don’t you think too that then he’d come to me and be proud and happy, and everything would turn out right? Oh, that’s a long way off. The hard part comes first. But, Pit, you understand that I have to leave? And if I try to run away—run back—then you’ll drag me to the station and onto the train, won’t you?”
Pit nods. “You can bet on it. But it will be difficult, Gilgi.”
“Thank God, Pit! I’m so sick with longing to at last overcome difficulties again.”
“But the child, Gilgi! That’s still not the easiest thing in the world—a child without a father!”
“I’ll tell you something, Pit, there are so many marriages where the father and the mother have horrible arguments all the time—well, at least a child who only has a mother is better off than that. If the child’s healthy, and if I can support it—I don’t care about anything else at the moment. Because you see I’m terribly immoral, Pit. I’m lacking something—where other people have a morality, I have an empty hole. I simply don’t understand why an unmarried mother’s child is supposed to be something immoral. And, Pit—there’s one good thing: I’m so unshakably certain in myself on this point that I’ll take other people along with me.”
“Yes, but—will you even find a job?”
“Olga will help me. Remember, I can do all kinds of things, Pit—I’m really competent. And I have a very strong will. I’ve seen so many people who looked for work and didn’t find it—but most of them only half-wanted it, they’d already given up on everything. There’s a whole heap of people I can beat, because my will is stronger and more durable. Speculation à la baisse—sad—but that’s just the way it is.”
“But if you got sick … a birth can be …”
“Got sick! Why should I worry about that? I’m very healthy, and the odds are a thousand to one that I’ll stay healthy. Of course I can get sick, I can also be run over by a car or fall out of an elevator … Those kinds of possibilities don’t enter into my calculations—that just costs energy.”
She stands before him—her shoulders thrown further back, her eyes clearer. Pit looks at her—he’s got her where he wanted her to be. She’ll make it, you can see in every line of her body that she’ll make it. She knows what she wants, she’ll see it through. She’s got some damned difficult hours ahead of her—poor little one—she’s got mountains of pain and darkness to overcome—she will overcome them. “Ach, Gilgi, I’m damnably in love with you—may I give you a kiss—it’s one of the sort that’s all right for you to take.”
“It’s all right for you to give me several, Pit, if it means anything to you.”
A drafty railway platform. Cold-black iron of locomotives and hazy gray of stones and dust. Gilgi and Pit are sitting beside each other on a big suitcase. Gilgi is staring tiredly in front of her. Clever, straight tracks—a big, black locomotive—purposefully connected metal. Small wheels, big wheels—all fitted together, belonging together. A little orange has rolled off the platform and is lying out of place, stupidly and purposelessly, between the straight, smooth, clever rails. Hurrying gray sounds fill the air. Gilgi grips Pit’s hand more tightly. Trembles a little in her freezing aloneness. Feels the damp, dark evening coolness forcing its way through her thin dress … Sees how the big hand on the platform clock drops with a jerk to the next minute. An urge to weep balls itself up hotly and chokingly in her throat. So many iron wheels … there’s a little, yellow orange lying in front of the locomotive—but how did the little orange get there … a silly little melody which hums in her head and sticks there … in front of the locomotive … Maybe I’ll never see Martin again … she presses her hands to her face—“leave me alone, Pit—leave me alone”—buries her head in her arms—“please, Pit—surely people must be able to be left alone …”
If I never see him again … oh, why aren’t you allowed to be only a woman—only, only, only! Is the day more important than the night then—why are we split up into nights and days. Why is the law of the night in our blood—the eternally desiring womb—I’m split up into a thousand pieces—my reason says Yes to order and day and light. And my hands don’t know what to do, or where they belong—my thighs, my knees are waiting … I only need to think hyacinths, and a scent divides the oneness of my lips … light flashing and searing across white pillows—your dark head—your mouth—don’t close the lids over your eyes—most beloved pain—you—I—we—cursed torment—desired torment—God help me—I don’t want—but I’m burning up with longing for you … my fingernails in your flesh—your teeth, which make my lips bleed—as we let the world perish—people, people, people are dying—you, you, you—God help me—“Pit, I must go home …”
“The Cologne–Berlin express is your home …”
“Martin is my home.”
“Gilgi—you should be ashamed of yourself!”
“I don’t know how to be ashamed of myself anymore.”—He grabs her arm—he’s a great guy, old Pit—poor, little Gilgi, you’d surely be lost on your own. Fold your hands obediently and piously and say “Thank you very much,” because he’s helping you—in simple humanity. For you being human means being human and being a woman and being a worker and being everything, everything. Asking a lot? Each of us is asked only for what he can give. Woe betide us, if he doesn’t give it. “Pull yourself together, Gilgi!”
She looks at him—blind, not understanding—sighs tiredly: “Yes, you’re right.” She sits beside him again without a word.… there’s a little, yellow orange lying in front of the locomotive … A tiny spark of happiness is kindled—flashes for a second: you’ll belong again—have your place in duty and in the system of wheels which fit together—you’ll be safe again in the desired compulsion of the days which you conquer by work, in the self-imposed law of what you build up yourself — — there’s a little, yellow orange lying in … oh, you’ll belong again. Because you belong in the overall structure, you’re not created to stand outside it—and you happen to believe profoundly in the obligation incumbent upon young, healthy hands …
Hissing and steaming, the locomotive begins to move. The track is only clear for a moment—then in the distance two lights are seen coming nearer—nearer … The people start to move, the confusion becomes more hurried and more tense. The noise becomes louder and heavier … “In you go,” Pit says and lifts Gilgi up. For a moment she sways—a thin, trembling little nothing under the huge vault of stone, glass, and iron … Scared, Pit grabs her arm—“Don’t worry, Pit, I won’t faint—that kind of minor anesthetic won’t help me, I have to be fully conscious of everything I’m fighting …”
She gives Pit her hand once more through the lowered window—wants to say something like “Thank you very much”—can’t utter another word … there’s a little, yellow orange lying in front of the locomotive … Clenches her hands over her chest … Martin, you will be w
ith me again one day—and I have to believe—won’t be able to stand it otherwise—oh, I know that one day you’ll be mine again—forever … imaginings—Flight from reality? Flight to a better reality?… there’s a little, yellow orange lying …
“Farewell, Gilgi—farewell!” Pit is running beside the moving train. “Farewell, farewell,” he calls in a shaky, childlike voice.
“Dear Pit,” Gilgi says softly, trying to produce a last, little smile for him, and half-succeeding.
AFTERWORD:
A WRITER IN THE SHADOW OF NAZISM
BY GEOFF WILKES
The way Irmgard Keun told the story to the journalist Jürgen Serke decades afterward, once she had finished writing Gilgi, One of Us she took a train from Cologne to Berlin (as Gilgi does at the end of the novel), rented a room in a church-run hostel, chose the nearby Universitas publishing house from the telephone directory, delivered the manuscript to its publisher Wolfgang Krüger personally, and asked him for a decision within two days. The next morning, Krüger summoned her back and said: “We read through the night. Are you satisfied?”
Although Keun’s accounts in old age of her earlier career were not always reliable, the history of Gilgi, One of Us was nevertheless remarkable. Keun was completely unknown and completely unpublished when she wrote it, but when Universitas released it in October 1931, it was an immediate bestseller. It was filmed in 1932, with a cast including Brigitte Helm (who had starred in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis), and with a radically altered “happy ending,” in which Gilgi’s lover Martin pursues her train to Berlin in a car and they are reunited. Like many novels in Germany at the time, Gilgi, One of Us was also serialized in various newspapers, most notably in the Social Democratic party’s daily Forward, which also published numerous letters from readers hotly debating whether Gilgi was indeed “one of us”—that is, whether her views and actions were consistent with Socialist principles. As the serialization was drawing to a close, Forward invited “its female readers” to submit short literary or descriptive pieces loosely related to the novel (a “sketch of someone’s life, a day in the office, an especially typical or significant scene from life and work, and experiences outside the realm of employment too”) to a competition; the prizes included a typewriter, a “lady’s bicycle,” and cosmetics, and Keun was a member of the judging panel.
