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
