Over the years, Erwin has had to play every imaginable role. The roles forced on him range from a grocer’s apprentice to a film comedian, from a troubled youth to a cousin gone missing in Australia. At first he vehemently opposed any false identification. He refused to be the one who was supposedly “recognized,” and tried to clear up the confusion with denials and a stamped personal identification card. He had yet to learn how obstinately people insist on defending their mistakes. He had yet to foresee the mistrust his protests would sow. No one believed his avowals that he was not the one he had been taken for. If they believed him at all, it was the part that he didn’t want to be that person, that he had some painful reason to dispute his identity. Soon Erwin’s peaceful nature grew tired of the constant squabbling. He acquiesced, and sought to bear his destiny of “looking similar” with dignity. He good-naturedly turned into an unwilling swindler. He let mistakes take their course and strove to conform reasonably well to the roles demanded of him. If threatened with exposure, he would leave on the spot.
Two weeks ago everything was going along smoothly, but then, in a dance hall, a bony monster tried to reclaim Erwin as her bridegroom, who had deserted her before the year was out. Erwin put his foot down. He had been hoping for a pleasant mix-up, and did not have the slightest desire to spend the evening at the side of this skeleton draped in black. He understood at first glance why the groom had fled. So he resorted to denials and displaying his stamped ID card, the way he used to do. A terrible scene ensued right there. The bony bride shouted to everyone that he had already tried this fake papers maneuver once before, though back then his name was Egon. If he didn’t pony up his alimony back payments right away, she would hand him over to the police. She lunged at him threateningly, and the other guests took her side. Slaps in the face and worse followed.
When Erwin got home in a fit of desperation, his first thought was to grab a razor and slit his wrists. He later realized how little this sort of behavior suited his style. He moaned and groaned all the way till morning, having had quite enough of bearing the burdens of others on top of the heap of misfortune already allotted to himself. Then he came to a decision. No matter what, he had to have his own “distinguishing mark.” Although he could not revise history, he did have the power to accentuate his individuality, and that is what he would do. He renounced any trace of human vanity.
Now Erwin sports muttonchops and a shaved head. A metal-rimmed pince-nez bobs up and down on his nose. His stand-up collar reaches up to his chin. He wears brown top boots, and a faded Tyrolean hat adorns his head. When he trudges across the street, people nudge one another with a laugh. “Quite an inventive disguise,” they say, and muse about who might be trying to hide behind that mask—Herr Klappke or Herr Rednitz?
Berliner Börsen Courier, June 14, 1927
A Minister on Foot
No doubt about it: that’s him. That bull neck, the sharp horizontal line of those square shoulders, those determinedly casual steps are unmistakable. Theo has often studied the silhouette of the minister’s back in the caricatured exaggerations of the satirical magazines. Even so, he hesitates to vouch for this encounter. A minister on foot, in a business suit? Such an ordinary, inconspicuous part of the procession of afternoon strollers? Full of disdain for all party politics, Theo still has too much respect for high-ranking government officials to picture them without a formal police presence. A newspaper headline he catches sight of in passing dispels his doubts. Oh, I get it, parliamentary session. The minister has given his big speech. Understandably, he is looking for a break in the fresh air after the contentious debates. Five steps behind him, Theo glides through the summer evening in the ministerial wake.
No one pays much attention to the rarely seen flâneur and his daydreaming appendage. If this event were announced officially, the gawking crowd would soon be pushing and shoving en masse. But today, as he is not expected, let alone in such an unaccustomed procession, not one of the thousands recognizes the statesman. “Our surest form of incognito,” Theo notes down for his little book of aphorisms, “is the undeveloped physiognomic memory of our fellow men.” On a refreshing break from his usual dignified stance, he could relax and tuck his left hand playfully into the back tab of his overcoat while his right arm swings back and forth happily. The embodiment of the foreign office is strolling right in front of Theo’s probing gaze. A pleasant young man at the official’s side eagerly chats away to score points with him while leaning in a bit too confidentially, and wearing clothing too exaggeratedly elegant for Theo to regard him as an undersecretary; this is probably his personal secretary.—What might the two of them be so absorbed in discussing? Tidbits from a cabinet session? The plan for a new political initiative? An overpowering desire to find out makes Theo forget to keep his distance. Inadvertently, his pace quickens, and his arm almost brushes against the man in front of him. His ears lie in wait for state secrets. “Yes, my dear,” he hears the minister say, “in the end, this will be a real summer.” Nothing else, a long pause.
Disappointed, Theo pulls back to his earlier position. Frankly, he expected more. He had no need to eavesdrop on a minister’s conversation for the sake of such banal truth. At every moment, with every word, a politician of this stature ought to be aware of his obligation to focus on significant matters. Still, he takes solace in the knowledge that it could have been worse. After all, at least it was a full sentence. A statement, even. “Real summer.” Up to this point, that had been by no means certain. Now it has become a fact. He had it from the best source. Officially, you might say. Feeling better about the whole thing, Theo decides to hang on. After all, he has nothing to lose by investing a few more minutes. His thoughts revolve around the experience, and he starts to process the scene. Dress rehearsal for the report in the café. Those envious glances … The minister recognized me right away, requested that I accompany him. Ostensibly only the conventional chitchat about the weather. But with a hidden agenda. Meteorology and politics. It’ll get dry and warm, so the British-Russian conflict will have to … A sudden downpour jolts Theo out of his fantasies. He rushes for cover in a hallway to keep his flimsy outfit dry, while the minister, discounted so precipitously, dodges any complications by fleeing the scene.
Berliner Börsen Courier, July 7, 1927
Interview with a Witch
WOMEN’S NEWEST PROFESSION
The card lying before me, with its delicate copperplate engraving and refined type, struck me as nearly incomprehensible: Magda C. offers her services in performing metaphysical missions. Metaphysical missions? What are those? Was this about communicating with the dead, mediumistic matters? Was Magda C. a medium using the path of spiritualist science? What did she do? Who was she and what did she look like? Whatever the case, this could open a little hidden door into the realm of marvels, coolly and unemotionally. On the face of it, Magda C. was not a pallid theosophist on the brink of cringeworthy raptures. The trendy design of the business card made that quite evident. Clear objectivity shone through, training in the methods of meeting modern demands. I called her up and invited her over for a visit.
A young, well-attired lady, looking quite distinguished, showed up, sat down in an armchair, and began: “I am Magda C.; my last name doesn’t matter. It is totally clear to me, of course, that you’re unable to picture anything specific in regard to metaphysical missions. My field—or, if I may put it this way, my profession—requires a brief explanation. You undoubtedly know that we are living in a metaphysically minded age, in spite of all the talk about crass materialism and so forth …”
“Certainly! But won’t you tell me right from the start, without any special introduction, what your metaphysical missions consist of? What do you actually do?”
“I wish,” she stated simply. “Nothing more than that. I accept commissions from the well-to-do to make wishes.—Wishes, intensely cultivated, intervene in the course of events. Wishes have power. But most people are powerless, or too lethargic, to wish for themselve
s. I make myself available to people like that for a moderate fee with my tried-and-true wishing power. I integrate their wishes into my schedule and wish for them, intensely and confidently. They are unburdened, depression drains away from their souls, they can go to the theater, to a concert, to balls, with the reassuring feeling that their issues, their wishes, are in the care of an experienced professional …”
“So what do you wish for, Madam? Perhaps some examples.”
“Mostly death and destruction,” she said, with a friendly smile. “Loss of assets, loss of face, and a bit of damage. For one person I wish for someone to defraud a business, for another I wish for a minor but annoying skin disease. The wishes, especially those of my female clients, get quite elaborate. Loss of a piece of jewelry, hair loss, rapid weight gain—think of that as my bread-and-butter work. There are people who have read older books of magic, have trained with Eliphas Lévi or Papus and consequently cling to a strict ceremonial. I don’t think much of that, but I let them have their fun. They hand over photographs of their enemies, instruct me to pierce them with a gold needle or to put a hex on little wax figures that symbolically represent their adversaries. The main point remains concentration, focusing the will squarely on the goal.”
“And are you successful? I mean: are your wishes fulfilled, or rather, those of your clients? Can you earn a living from your odd profession?”
She made an elegant sweeping motion with her hand. “Take a look around you! Don’t you see people everywhere on the street talking loudly to themselves, gesticulating with their hands? What are these people doing? They’re wishing. Fervently! Ardently! Wishing for death and destruction, misery and meltdown. They believe in the destructive power of their wishes, take comfort in it, and gain the courage to face life. Don’t you think that’s a vital need just crying out for gratification? Which can be the focus of an adequate business? How about the women who tell fortunes using a deck of cards? That’s surely no different. In earlier times, people were content just to put a curse on the milk of a cow or to cast a spell on the fields. Life has become more multifaceted; the opportunities have expanded. You’ve got trade, industry, a monetized economy. But the human soul has essentially remained the same. You can call me a modern witch if you like …”
She took out her compact and a mirror and applied some rouge to her cheeks.
“You won’t believe me on all this,” she continued, “but what I am telling you is absolutely true. I have put the so-called chasms of the soul to good use. The first time it was a joke, a whim. At a gathering I offered my services in jest, wishing, on behalf of a busy business tycoon, for his enemy to have a car accident. Two days later, it came true. Word got around. People I didn’t know came to my apartment in secret, and carefully felt their way into conversations about the accident. They told me I had been recommended to them, they would like to … one could … occult influences … metaphysical missions. I knew enough. Today I make a living from this.”
“And your conscience?”
“Criminal charges would never stick. Witchcraft no longer counts as a crime in our oddly enlightened age, even though I think that over time a provision on this issue will need to be reinstated in the penal code. And theoretically, the effect is truly the same whether I’m the one doing the wishing or my clients are. Basically the whole thing comes down to what you believe …”
“Can you show me a list of your clients?”
“No, discretion obviously prevents me from doing that. But you’d be amazed at what sorts of people seek me out. People who occupy prominent positions in public life. People in banking who call on me to use my power for complex and difficult transactions. Big businessmen who want to have me wish for the success of their new product. Every Monday I’m invited to visit the general manager of a major industrial group, who swears by my supernatural powers and makes use of them for all his businesses. You’re skeptical, amazed, taken aback. But in two, three weeks, I’m certain I’ll be counting you among my clients, too. Don’t resist! There’s no point. You’ll come around. I know it. It makes too much sense nowadays, meshes too well with people’s current psychological conditions, with the situation as a whole. The modern witch is a necessary sign of the times …”
This young, good-looking, elegant, highly sophisticated lady actually exists. I really and truly did talk with her, she sat in my apartment, chatting away as though it was the most natural thing in the world. And I think it’s worth noting, for cultural and historical reasons, that a witch was able to establish herself in 1927 and do well enough in her profession to live more than comfortably. Her clothing was definitely from a top-notch boutique.
Berliner Börsen Courier, October 23, 1927
Grock, the Man Who Makes the World Laugh
A melancholy man goes to a famous doctor and tells his tales of woe. The doctor gives him this advice: “Go see Debureau the clown—if he can’t get you to laugh, you’re a lost cause.” The man shakes his head. “I can’t go see Debureau; I am Debureau!”
His gray-checked trousers are so baggy that they’re swimming on him like a loose scarf, he is sweating so much that his makeup is dripping from his temples and nose, his ridiculously hulking shoes seem as heavy as lead balls, his back is crooked. This is how Grock comes into the dressing room—a sad old man.
Outside, a thousand hands are clapping, the sound of laughter can be heard all the way over here, Grock had twelve curtain calls, and flowers, so many flowers.
Grock, the man, plops down on the chair in the corner and breathes heavily. They wipe the sweat off his face. He can no longer keep his eyes open; that’s how much the footlights have blinded him. The photographer who has been waiting for an hour asks him to pose. Grock pulls his lips, which are painted black, into such a wide grimace that they almost touch his earlobes, and he grins into the lens. I think he dozes off during the photo sessions. But he doesn’t have the guts to say: Do it fast, that’s enough laughing, I have to get to bed!
Grock, the clown who has to make the world laugh, wants to get to bed, he doesn’t want to keep posing, he doesn’t want to smile, he wants to sleep!
Bienne is a small German city in Switzerland. Clock factories, clockmakers, clockface designers, clock hands manufacturers. And a café, Zum Paradies, owned by Herr Wettach, son, and daughter. Business at the café is as bad as bad can be, the people in Bienne are so hardworking. So what does Karl, the ten-year-old son, do about it? He performs in Papa’s café, juggles with cheesecake and beer bottles, plays the harmonica, tells the joke about the hippo and the sewing machine. The café is now full, every single evening, because his sister has also become an amateur performer, dancing on the rope stretched between the buffet and the cloakroom. Wettach has talented kids.
But the two develop an appetite for the circus ring, run away, find a spot for themselves with the circus, travel the world. Still, Karl Wettach is far from being Grock. First he lifts hefty weights, then he plays the clarinet, then he drops this career path and becomes a language teacher. Goes back to the circus. Successes, always successes. And the next thing you know, he is Grock, the clown dictator, the man who is booked solid for three years—his pay is guaranteed.
Eighteen years ago Grock was in Berlin. Came from Zirkus Schumann, went to the Wintergarten. Partner: Antonet. So what happened? Antonet and Grock bombed, because there is an enormous difference between the stage and the circus ring.—Antonet and Grock reworked the act, and one week later they—along with Reutter—were one of the two top attractions in Berlin.
His name is Grock, and here’s why: Brick, a very popular music clown, lost his partner, Brock, when Brock died. Then he looked for a new partner. Found Karl Wettach. They made a contract. But Brick and Brock had such a good name that Brick asked Wettach to call himself Brock. Wettach didn’t want to, since he never adorns himself with borrowed plumes. He called himself Grock. The name has stuck to this day.
What props does Grock work with?
He plays the piano, s
axophone, miniature violin, and accordion.
He can dance a little, he can juggle a little, he can do a little gymnastics.
That is all.
There are performers who can present all these little odds and ends with so much humanity. There are no performers who do comedy as profoundly as Grock. He is a clown of the soul, a metaphysical clown, as it were.
There is no performer who can replicate that, there is none.
Except one: Chaplin.
Chaplin and Grock are two brilliant brothers. Somewhere, deep down within them, their individualities connect.
It is said of Mark Twain that while concocting his droll stories in bed, he always wept, and that Saphir thought of his best punch lines during his strolls at a cemetery in Vienna. Chaplin read Greek philosophy.
And Grock, the clown, has gray hair and suuuch a sad face.
The only one who could entertain Grock is Grock. Grock would laugh until he cried about Grock.
Berliner Börsen Courier, November 2, 1927
Ten Minutes with Chaliapin
Such a commotion.
A hundred bellboys. Elevator up, elevator down. All the top management. Everyone in the film industry. Fountain pens scratching away. Cameras eating up plate after plate. A camera takes aim, menacing as a cannon. The heavy hand of a portly cartoonist is trembling. Everyone is sweating.
My God, my God.
Just a bunch of people: a manager who looks like Feodor Chaliapin, and a Chaliapin who appears to be a heavyweight wrestler.
Only his head. A fine, good, noble head. Unmoving. Like the Volga (a short, wizened-looking lady, in spite of her youth, said as much in the hallway, while lovingly clutching a volume of Turgenev to her Persian fur and somehow treating her words as a pitch for the first topic).
Billy Wilder on Assignment Page 12
