The Artificial Silk Girl (2 page)

In giving us the dark underside of the glamorous “golden twenties,” Keun came to be decried as an exponent of what the Nazis called “asphalt literature with anti-German tendencies.” But what disturbed the Nazis about Keun’s
Artificial Silk Girl
was not merely its evocation of urban pathologies, but also its endorsement of empathy and tolerance. Looking for distraction, Doris goes to the
movies with Ernest (the “Green Moss”) and sees
Girls in Uniform
, a film that had its world premier in Berlin in 1931. Directed by the actress Leontine Sagan, the film chronicles the events leading to the near suicide of a young woman at a German boarding school. Manuela, a newly arrived student, develops emotional and erotic feelings for one of her teachers, and is driven to the brink of suicide by the headmistress, a woman associated with militarism. The film ends on a conciliatory note, with a headmistress so shaken by the events that she is prepared to make real reforms.

Doris reacts with sympathy to Manuela’s plight, just as she empathizes with those who share her fate on the streets. “You love somebody and that brings tears to your eyes and gives you a red nose. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a man or a woman of God.” In this empathetic identification with a lesbian protagonist, Doris reveals herself to be, if not a shrewd social critic, then at least an exponent of open-mindedness and tolerance. It was this message about our common humanity more than the novel’s gritty realism that must have given offense to Nazi censorship boards.

In 1933, Irmgard Keun’s writings were banned.
The Artificial Silk Girl
was withdrawn from publication, with all remaining copies destroyed. Disturbed by the ease with which both her husband and her brother made the transition to a new political regime, Keun found herself anxious
and distraught, unable to continue writing. “Do I know where I’ll be tomorrow? If it were just a matter of talent, accomplishment, hard work, then I wouldn’t be afraid. The idea of risk doesn’t bother me. I know what risk is. But how do I deal with senseless arbitrary decisions?” she wrote in a letter of 1933. In 1936, she left her husband, who encouraged her to flee with “the Negroes and the Jews” and traveled to Belgium, where she could “write, speak, and breathe once again.” In Ostende she joined a circle of exiles that included Joseph Roth, with whom she had a two-yearlong affair.

After two months in New York, Keun returned to Germany illegally under the name Charlotte Tralow. Although she resumed writing, she remained socially isolated, even after the birth of her daughter in 1951. Although she was rediscovered as a writer in the mid-1970s, she remained indifferent to media attention. She died at home in Cologne in 1982.

Further Reading on Irmgard Keun’s
The Artificial Silk Girl

For a fuller analysis of Keun’s novel, readers will want to consult the essays listed below.

I
t must have been around twelve midnight last night that I felt something wonderful happening inside of me. I was in bed — I had meant to wash my feet, but I was too tired after that hectic night the day before, and hadn’t I told Therese: “You don’t get anything out of letting yourself be talked to on the street. You owe yourself some self-respect, after all.”

Besides, I already knew the program at the
Kaiserhof
. And then all this drinking — I had trouble getting home all right, and it’s never easy for me to say no in the first place. “The day after tomorrow, then,” I told him. But no way! A guy with knobby fingers like that and always just ordering the cheap wine from the top of the menu, and
cigarettes at five pfennigs apiece — when a man starts out that way, where is it going to end?

And then I felt so sick at the office, and the old man isn’t rolling in dough anymore either, and could fire me any day. So tonight I went straight home and to bed, without washing my feet. Didn’t wash my neck either. And as I was lying there and my whole body was asleep already, only my eyes were still open — and the white moonlight was shining on my head, and I was thinking how nice that goes with my black hair and what a shame Hubert can’t see me like that, when he’s the only one, after all, whom I’ve ever loved. And then I felt the aura of Hubert surrounding me, and the moon was shining and I could hear a gramophone playing next door, and then something wonderful happened inside of me — as had happened before, but never anything like this. I felt like writing a poem, but that might have had to rhyme and I was too tired for that. But I realized that there is something unusual about me. Hubert had felt it too, and Fräulein Vogelsang from my school as well, after I presented them with a rendition of
Erlkönig
that knocked their socks off. And I’m quite different from Therese and all those other girls at the office and the rest of them, who never have anything wonderful going on inside them. Plus I speak almost without dialect, which makes a difference, and gives me a special touch, particularly since my father and mother speak with a dialect that I find nothing short of embarrassing.

And I think it will be a good thing if I write everything down, because I’m an unusual person. I don’t mean a diary — that’s ridiculous for a trendy girl like me. But I want to write like a movie, because my life is like that and it’s going to become even more so. And I look like Colleen Moore, if she had a perm and her nose were a little more fashionable, like pointing up. And when I read it later on, everything will be like at the movies — I’m looking at myself in pictures. And now I’m sitting in my room in my nightgown, which has slipped off my famous shoulder, and everything about me is just first class — only my left leg is slightly wider than my right one. But only slightly. It’s very cold, but it’s nicer being in your nightgown — otherwise I’d put on my coat.

And it will do me good to be writing without commas for a change, and real language — not that unnatural stuff from the office. And for every comma that’s missing, I have to give that old beanstalk of an attorney — he has pimples too, and his skin looks like my old yellow leather purse without a zipper, I’m ashamed to have it on me when I’m in decent company — that’s the kind of skin he has. Anyway, I don’t think much of attorneys — always money-grubbing and talking big with nothing behind it. I pretend not to notice, since my father is out of work and my mother works at the theater, which you also can’t count on these days. But I was talking about the beanstalk. So I put the letters in front of him, and for every missing comma, I give
him this sensual look. And I can smell trouble already, because I’m getting tired of it. But I’m sure I can keep him off my back for another four weeks; I always tell him that my father is so strict, and I have to go home right away. But when a man gets wild, there’s no more excuses — I know what I’m talking about. And he’s bound to get worked up in time, considering my sensual looks at every missing comma. True education has nothing to do with commas! Not that there’s anything going on between him and me. As I’ve been telling Therese, who also works at the office and is my friend: “There has to be some love involved. Otherwise, what about our ideals?”

And Therese told me that she too has ideals, because she’s faithful to a married man who doesn’t have a penny and is not even thinking of divorce and has moved to Goslar — and she’s all dried up and turned 38 last weekend — although she only admits to 30, but looks like 40 — and all because of that Mr. Boring. Well, I’m not that much into ideals. I can’t see the point of it.

And I bought myself a thick black notebook and cut some doves out of white paper and stuck them on the cover, and now I’m looking for a beginning. My name is Doris, and I’m baptized and Christian, and born too. We are living in the year 1931. Tomorrow, I’ll write more.

   I had a good day, because it was my last one and getting paid just does one good, even though I have to give
70 of my 120 — Therese gets 20 more — to my father, who just gets drunk on it, because he’s unemployed right now and has nothing else to do. But I immediately bought a hat for myself with the 50 marks I had left, with a feather and in forest green — that’s this season’s fashion color, and it goes fabulously well with my rosy complexion. And wearing it off to the side is just so chic, and I already had a forest green coat made for myself — tailored with a fox collar — a present from Käsemann, who absolutely almost wanted to marry me. But I didn’t. Because in the long run, I’m too good for the short and stocky type, particularly if they’re called Käsemann. But now my outfit is complete, which is the most important thing for a girl who wants to get ahead and has ambition.

And I’m sitting in a café right now — a cup of coffee is something I can afford on my own today. I like the music they’re playing:
The Gypsy Baron
or
Aida
— it doesn’t really matter. There’s a man with a girl sitting next to me. He’s something more elegant — but not too — and she has a face like a turtle. And she’s not all that young anymore and has boobs like a swimming belt. I always listen in on conversations — that always interests me. You never know what you might learn from it. Of course I was right: they only just met. And he orders cigarettes at eight marks, when he usually only orders at four, I’m sure! The jerk. When they order those at eight, you know immediately what’s on their minds. If a man is respectable, he only
smokes those at six when he’s with a lady, because that’s the decent thing to do, and the change later on is less noticeable. I was once with an old fart who ordered at ten — what can I say, he was a sadist, and I would be embarrassed to put on paper what it was that he wanted from me. From me of all people, who can’t tolerate even the slightest bit of pain. I already suffer immensely when my garters are too tight. I’ve been suspicious ever since.

Now I’m really stunned: the turtle orders Camembert! I have to ask myself: Is she really that innocent or is it that she doesn’t want to? It’s just so like me to have to think about everything. So here’s what I’m thinking: if she doesn’t want to, then eating Camembert is a safeguard for her, because she’ll be inhibited by it. I’m thinking of my first date with Arthur Grönland. He was so good-looking and had style. But I said to myself: Doris, be strong — especially someone with style is ultimately impressed by respectability. And I really needed a wrist watch, and so it was better not to give in for the first three nights. But I know myself after all and I knew Arthur Grönland would order
Kupferberg
— and there was music too! So I attached seven rusty safety pins to my bra and my undershirt. I was stone drunk — like 80 naked savages — but I did not forget about the rusty safety pins. And Arthur Grönland kept pushing. And me: “But Sir, what are you thinking of me? I’m shocked. Who do you think I am?” And he was really impressed. Of course he was mad at first, but then, being
a man of noble sentiment, he said that he liked a girl who was in control of herself even when she was soused. And he respected my lofty morals. I merely said: “It’s my nature, Herr Grönland.”

And when we came to my doorstep, he kissed my hand. I just said: “I still don’t know what time it is — since my watch has been broken for so long.” And I was thinking, if he just offers to give me the money to have it fixed, I will have been disappointed once again.

But the following night he arrived at the Rix Bar with a small golden one. I acted so surprised: “How on earth did you know that I needed a watch? But you’re insulting me, I couldn’t possibly.…”

So he turned all white and apologized and put the watch away. And I was trembling and thinking: “Now you went too far, Doris! So I said, with tears in my voice: “Herr Grönland, I can’t bear to hurt you — please put it on for me.”

So he thanked me and I said: “You’re welcome.” And then he thrust himself on me again, but I remained strong. And when we were at my front door, he said: “Please forgive me, you innocent creature, for having been so pushy.”

And I said: “I forgive you, Herr Grönland.”

But actually I was pretty mad at those safety pins, because he had the sweetest black eyes and such style, and the small gold watch was softly ticking away on my arm. But ultimately I’m too decent to let a man see that I have
seven rusty safety pins stuck on my underwear. Later on, I would do without them.

Now it occurs to me that I too could eat Camembert whenever I feel I want to keep my reins on.

And the guy is squeezing the turtle’s hand under the table, and he’s staring at me with goggle eyes — that’s men for you! And they have no idea that we see through them better than they see themselves. Of course I could — he’s just starting to tell her about his wonderful motorboat on the Rhine with such and such horsepower — my guess is it’s a high-end dinghy. And I can tell that he’s talking at the top of his voice, so I can hear him — no wonder! I’m wearing my elegant hat and the coat with the fox collar, and the fact that I’m starting to write into my dove-covered notebook undoubtedly looks very intriguing. But just now the alligator smiles at me and that always softens me up. I’m thinking: there’s hardly ever anything out there for you, you poor turtle — perhaps you’re eating Camembert tonight but who knows about tomorrow? And I’m much too decent and too much into women’s Lib to take your questionable balding boat owner away from you. It would just be too easy to do, so I’m not interested. Plus his water sports and her swim belt bosom make such a great combination. And there’s a man with fabulously clean-cut features, like Conrad Veidt when he was at the height of his career, wearing a diamond ring on his pinky, who’s looking at me from the other end of the room. Usually,
there’s not much behind faces like that. But I’m intrigued just the same.