Authors: Irmgard Keun
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 with 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.
Keun followed
Gilgi, One of Us
with
The Artificial Silk Girl
—which was also a bestseller—in 1932, less than a year before the Nazis came to power. On November 30, 1933, the German Book Trade Association sent Universitas a form letter headlined “
WORKS WHOSE SALE IS NOT DESIRED,
” which announced that: “With the agreement of the Fighting League for German Culture, we inform you that for national and cultural reasons the offer and the sale of the works named below is considered undesirable, and must therefore cease.” The “works named” included both
Gilgi, One of Us
and
The Artificial Silk Girl
and, incidentally, three titles by one of the fictional Gilgi’s favorite authors, Jack London (see
this page
).
The “national and cultural reasons” that prompted the prohibition of Keun’s novels were not described further in the Book Trade Association’s letter to Universitas. However, many aspects of
Gilgi, One of Us
were obviously contrary to Nazi sensibilities. The association’s reference to “national” reasons probably includes Gilgi’s distaste for demonstrative patriotism:
“Martin—I belong here.—What happens here is my business—all of it. A sad country, you say? Martin, even at school I was ashamed when they sang ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles’—such a revolting song—so oily when you were saying the words, so oily when you were thinking them, your whole mouth full of cod-liver oil.—Those people—who force their love of the fatherland on you—do you understand that— …” (
this page
).
But Gilgi’s clearest divergences from Nazi ideals originate in her self-concept as a woman, which encompasses a commitment to a professional career, sex independent of marriage, an acceptance of abortion for economic reasons, and a resolve to support her child as a single mother. And Gilgi’s attitudes are shared at least in part by her friends Olga and Hertha, and her colleague Fräulein Behrend.
It is perhaps worth noting in passing that although the Book Trade Association made no detailed criticism of
Gilgi, One of Us
in November 1933, at least two specific complaints were laid out later. On December 12, 1934, the police in the Silesian city of Opole wrote to the Gestapo in Berlin seeking advice about suppressing a copy of the novel that had remained in a local library, and quoting Gilgi’s words about “Deutschland über alles” as evidence of the narrative’s “hostility to the state.” And on September 19, 1934, the Reich Office for the Promotion of German Literature had also consulted the Gestapo about a copy of
Gilgi, One of Us
in a Berlin library, complaining on behalf of the Reich Federation of German Civil Servants that “the reputation of female postal workers” was “insulted in the crudest way” by the narrative’s incidental comment that if
a group of street prostitutes “weren’t wearing make-up and using belladonna you could take them for unemployed telephone operators” (
this page
).
As I have explained in my afterword to Melville House’s edition of
After Midnight
(1937), Keun never entirely recovered from the damage which the advent of Nazism inflicted on her creativity and her career. She published nothing more of substance until she had left Germany in 1936; she struggled with financial difficulties, psychological strain, and professional self-doubt while producing three novels and a volume of short stories after emigrating; she necessarily fell silent once she was overtaken by the invasion of the Netherlands in 1940 and, for sheer lack of other options, returned clandestinely to Germany; and she wrote very little in the decades between her sixth novel in 1950 and her death in 1982, although she did live to experience the belated recognition which was accorded to her work when critics and scholars began extensive study of writing by women, and writing by anti-Nazi exiles, in the 1970s.
GILGI, ONE OF US
The identity which Gilgi asserts places her at the center of the Weimar Republic’s debates about the so-called New Woman.
Gilgi, One of Us
was of course only one among many novels of the period in which New Women played important roles, though arguably it can be located more precisely within a kind of sub-genre which featured female typists, and which included works such as Vicki Baum’s
Grand Hotel
(1929) and Rudolf Braune’s
The Girl at the Orga Privat
(1930; Orga Privat was a brand of typewriter). In fact, Gilgi references Christa Anita Brück’s 1930 contribution to this sub-genre when she tells Martin that she tries to deflect her employers’ sexual advances “without starting some great drama of outraged honor, like in that novel,
Tragedies at the Typewriter
!” (
this page
).