Chapter 4. Destinies Behind Typewriters. The Supporting Class of the New Age. Office, Home, Work, Love. How did she ever combine them all? Imgardcoin. Gilgi, one of us. At 8 o'clock in the morning, strange beings populate the streets. Anyone wanting to make a phone call in 1920 picked the receiver up from the cradle and dialed. Two or three turns was enough and the electricity produced made a signal flap on the switchboard in the nearest telephone office. Each line had an indicator flap next to it. The switchboard operator could tell by the drop of the flap that someone on the line wanted to speak.
She, it was always a woman, put the cable of the heavy headset that hung around her neck into the corresponding socket and said, Hello, how may I help you? Or, office here, what can I do for you? The caller gave her the number that they wanted to speak to whereupon the operator connected the two lines with a cable and plugged it in. The girl from the office could bring two people together like this up to a hundred times an hour. She was a tirelessly active synapse, a living connection cable. Many dozens of telephone operators, often even hundreds, sat side by side at huge rows of switchboards, talking and plugging. They formed the human nodules of the telephone network, changing its connections by the second, asking the number, plugging, asking the number, plugging.
That went on for eight hours a day. The pressure intensified when several flaps fell at once. Then the callers would have to wait for a few seconds, cursing under their breath and asking to speak to a manager. Even when new operators were employed, the rush in the telephone offices increased because the number of connections was growing unevenly. The women were supervised by men who sat at broad desks in the middle of the vast halls, ensuring that the operators kept their nerve. Automatic self-dial phone calls became more commonplace throughout the 1920s.
Now, at first only on some local networks, one could dial the desired number directly. This way, the electricity passed automatically through the nodal points of the network. When this technique became more widespread, many telephone operators were dismissed, but soon found new jobs in the booming offices that were springing up because the more phone calls people made, the more work they made elsewhere. The more often than the faster people communicated, the more administrative processes were set in motion. The more had to be noted, recorded, invoiced, checked and filed.
The emblem of the times was no longer a smoking factory, but the apparently emission-free palace of administration, a beehive containing honeycombs of offices and typing pools. By day, office workers disappeared into these massive or inspiring valhallers. These buildings told everyone where power was to be found, at the desk. They included genuine works of art, such as the Heelahouse in Hamburg, built between 1922 and 1924. A wonderful building of burned bricks running together into points and peaks, like a gigantic ship's prow, the apotheosis in stone of foreign trade bringing back its visual ingredients from somewhere remote and unimaginably exotic.
The first high-rise building in Berlin was constructed in 1922, an office building with an expressionist-inspired twist. The 65-metre Bozigtwam had a jagged penthouse floor that radiated the light of office administration far into the distance, like a giant gothic lantern, bureaucracy as a source of redemption. But the claim to universal validity embodied by the administrative office of Ige Fábm in Frankfurt put everything else in the shade. The enormous 250-metre-long building looked as if it was merely the entrance to something much bigger lurking behind it. The Ige Fábm building may legitimately be called Kafkaesque.
In the imagination, it could have easily continued into an endless sequence of administrative corridors in which losing one's way seemed inevitable, and any petition would be lost forever. The Kafkaesque, as we know, is a heightened manifestation of bureaucracy, and Kafka's work, as singular as it might be, is unimaginable without that experience of administration. Franz Kafka, until 1922, chief legal secretary for the Workman's Accident Insurance Institute for the Kingdom of Bohemia in Prague, had learned to value and fear life from the perspective of risk evaluation, as a bookkeeper of anxiety, against which his writing was inadequate insurance.
In the existentially excessive demands made upon him, he was an entirely modern character, whose posthumous fame was able to grow out of an experience shared by millions. Martin Kesser, author of what is probably the most significant office novel of the 1920s, called this collective experience the bent or seated way of life, the way of life of the modern clerical worker. Between 1914 and 1933, the number of office workers would double from 2 million to over 4 million. The rise in the number of female clerical workers was disproportionately large, and 65% of the 1.2 million women employed in 1925 were under 25 years old. In absolute terms, there might not have been very many of them compared with the number of manual workers, but they were a new phenomenon on the streets, and to the surprise of many contemporaries shaped the face not only of the cities but also of the future.
All of a sudden, office workers seem to have become the crowd, and had burdened from a manageable quantity to a barely imaginable dimension, a class full of mysteries. Hundreds of thousands of office workers populate the streets of Berlin every day, and yet less is known about their lives than that of the primitive tribespeople whose customs the office workers admire in films. With this oft-quoted sentence, the commentator Zekefried Karkauer introduced his sociological study, the Ungerstären, the Salaried Masses, which bore the subtitle from the newest Germany, and with which he wanted to shed light on the darkness of this unknown species. Karkauer was by no means alone in his curiosity. In the Weimar Republic, clerical workers, particularly the female kind, became the object of growing interest. Secretaries and shorthand typists were the sirens of the New Age, the object of sociological research, and the protagonists of an overflowing, frivolous imagination. Film titles such as The Department Store Princess, 1926, The Little Short Hand Typist, 1925, and so on, speak for themselves.
Not so I go out and you stay here, 1931, based on the homonymous novel of a model by Wilhelm Schpier, which put the confident retail employee Garbi at its center. In the James Klein Review, laughing Berlin in 1925, the office was put on stage. The set consisted of an enormous typewriter in which the dancers positioned themselves as keys, wearing black letters on their heads. In their basic position, they formed the German QWERTZ arrangement before their legs started swinging, and they began shedding their clothes. The idea of women pursuing professions was not a new one. They had already been Emilia Vinckelmann, Germany's first architect, Marie Monke, the first judge, Lisa Meitner, the first physics professor, and in 1929, Ellie Blah, the first taxi driver. But they were still exceptions, even if they were typical of a now unstoppable development.
Short-hand typists and office assistants were a different matter, however. They were a mass phenomenon. Their headiness, their lust for life, their visible confidence, their tendency to appear in groups seemed to bring fresh air to the public space. Women were no longer only men's companions, and they didn't dart home by the quickest route at night after work. They hung around, they populated the cafes, inspected the shop windows, never had so many women had so much money of their own, made their own decisions, moved out, resigned, made their own plans. It was their taste that now helped to decide the success and failure of films and magazines. Their gaze now appraised men, just as men had for so long appraised women, and their intelligence helped to determine the efficiency of an office.
And as customers, their purchasing power was considerable. The business world had never been so dependent on women, but women were dependent on it as well. They decided which records would be bought, which cinema tickets clipped. They became a crucial target group for the booming entertainment industry. Hyperactive, busy at work by day, ready to dance in the evening, the modern urban woman was redefined and reappraised. Hardworking, beautiful legs, and the necessary mixture of reliability and frivolity, blurring and contour, kindness and coolness. This was how German Vogue summed up the woman of today. Countless magazine articles, some films, and numerous novels were devoted to the secretary.
Gilgi, one of us, 1931, by Iomgad Koin, the girl at the Orga Prevart, 1930, by Rudolf Breonna, destinies behind typewriters, 1930, by Christina Anita Brook, and Herbrajes Fiasco, 1932, by Martin Kessel, all revolved around secretaries. The fact that their positions were not mere trophies of emancipation, but that they were ancillary, badly paid, subordinate jobs did nothing to diminish the interest. It was precisely that ambivalence, that oscillation between dependence and autonomy, that sparked the curiosity of the media and stirred the collective imagination. Glossy magazines, such as Das Leibem and Wu sent their reporters and photographers into offices to explore the new social terrain that had formed in the smart office block palaces.
In the summer of 1929, the trendy magazine Das Leibem published in Leipzig, published a long read, zoology of the shorthand typist, in words and pictures. This presented a whole series of female types found more or less in this form in every office, the good girl, the beginner, the factotum, the intellectual, the enamored one, the slut, the greedy one, the oath, and finally, the lady who for various reasons gets away with everything. But she, the magazine reminded its readers, appeared almost only in films. Koutorholski also explored the world of office workers, and for Oohoo, he set out his thoughts about what a good secretary had to be.
She was the one who made the boss what he represented in the world by taking care of him and steering him so gently through files and corridors that he believed he was the one in charge. Take note, he wrote, under his pseudonym Peter Punta, a good secretary is invisible, inaudible, and only perceptible when she isn't there. The mutual dependencies in the system of governance in the office world were what turned the new employees into curious figures of social being, a class that was both difficult to define and politically unreliable. Regardless of how exploited office workers might have been, they at least felt that they were superior to proletarians since they had some role, however minimal, indirectorial, or at least, administrative functions.
Where the manual worker saw himself as the primal element in the generation of value, without whose strong arms or cogs would be brought to a standstill, office workers were the ones who assigned his work, calculated his efficiency, arranged his wages, and finally paid him. However, monotonous office work might have been, it was elevated above the dirt of production and played apart in the sphere of operational control. For that very reason, the young women, most of whom came from proletarian backgrounds, had enjoyed an enormous boost. They were participating in the modern age, they understood its technologies and its codes, they had an understanding of fashion, even if they couldn't afford much.
At home, they were the ones who read out and explained official letters to their parents, they knew the manners of educated people, they picked up their turns of phrase in the office and watched how they behaved at table. They didn't wolf their soup down from a lunch bucket like their proletarian brothers, but ate with their colleagues in the big cantines or even in subscription restaurants. They lived in an exciting world which they watched as if from outside. Quick even when sitting down, the quiet dramas of the office. These new office buildings operated a little like merchant vessels. The lower rooms belonged to the tabulating and hole punching machines which marked the beginning of modern data collection and processing.
Hole punches and saucers worked on those. Little training was required for the tasks involved. The job of the hole punches was one of the least highly regarded and toughest of the modern administrative jobs. Clerks who have previously engaged in office activity find it difficult to adapt to this new work. The prestige that comes with sitting at a desk is lost and the demands in terms of discipline become all the greater. Modern organization theory believed and recommended that only employees who were not accustomed to anything better be taken on as hole punch girls.
Upstairs the rather better off class of employees sat at their desks and produced the correspondence for the gentleman whose offices were arranged around the typing rooms. This was the site of sharp-tongued conversation that would become typical for the office was a place of social interaction. This was a particular kind of secretarial wit balanced between detachment and intimacy. A communicative grease that was urgently required to keep the wheels of the competitiveness, dependence, attraction and tedium rolling. Martin Kessel's novel, Hebrhejazviosko, features a wild office argo with which the secretaries defy the boredom of the job and the demands of their bosses.
Each sentence ends with an affected oo for example, in a request for a pencil not habmsi ein Blaistift but ava en blaieu a special jargon of their own invention. Kessel's male readers will have recognized this oo language not least because it coincided with the current prejudice that once respectable offices run by men had been overrun and deprofessionalized by hordes of chattering women who had changed the language of the office and administration. The prime cause was not the women however but the typewriter.
每句话都以一个特殊的"oo"结尾。比如,在请求一个铅笔时,不说 "habmsi ein Blaistift" 而说 "ava en blaieu”。这是他们自己发明的一种特殊术语。Kessel 的男性读者会认出这种"oo"语言,至少是因为人们普遍偏见认为,曾经由男性掌控的体面办公室如今已被大量喋喋不休的女性占领并去专业化,她们改变了办公室和行政的语言。然而,主要原因并不是这些女性,而是打字机的普及。
It was with that instrument that slang entered the world of bookkeeping and replaced the old specialist terms and abbreviations with which classic bookkeepers had kept things brief and precise in their handwritten documents. The typewriter granted business people the possibility of delegating paperwork and made their old professional codes obsolete. With the invasion of the office by female typists, businessmen jargon gradually disappeared. The sociologist Teor Pilka observed. But the perceived loss of class was usually attributed not to the women themselves but to the boss who often dictated distractively.
Pilka continued, abbreviations gradually disappeared. Unfortunately the blossoming empty phrase remained. Businessmen who were now relieved of the trouble of writing their own letters and who no longer ran the risk of leaving blots on the page fell into a series of bad habits particularly the one of starting a sentence without knowing where it was going to end. The typewriters speeded up the writing process but it did not rationalize the running of businesses. Typriters meant that much more writing was done than before.
Business letters became longer, more distracted and more to the point, more abundant. Then when carbon paper was invented and copies could be produced at the drop of a hat there was no stopping the flow of paper. Sensible storage became a genuine science to the joy of the office furniture industry and specialists in organization. This particular area grew just as swiftly as the mountains of paper in the company offices and the armies of secretaries required to produce and control it.
In the USA in 1948 when the Westinghouse Company rationalized its storage system it moved a total of 420 railway wagons full of files out of its buildings. On the safer assumption that no one would ever want to read any of them again, not least because there wasn't a hope of finding the information you were looking for in such enormous amounts of information. In the accelerated bustle of the modern office older clerks had few chances.
Companies prefer to take on young members of staff, ideally young women who didn't plan to stay on for too long and who could be expected to leave of their own accord by the age of 40. Older wide-collar workers were whittled down because they were more senior and hence more expensive. They were also thought to be less quick to adapt to new working methods than younger colleagues. At the age of 40 many people who cheerfully imagine that they have their whole lives ahead of them are already economically dead.
Zekewid Karkawa wrote, The cult of youth, kindled by inflation, attacked the older staff. Anyone who did not go willingly was bullied out by psychological terror. It was said, the fact that they are treated even more recklessly than might be in the interest of the companies is ultimately due to the general abandonment of old age in the present day. Not only the workforce, the entire population has turned its back on the older generation and is glorifying youth as such to a staggering degree.
It is the fetish of the illustrated magazines and their readers, older people, woo it and rejuvenation tonics are sought to preserve it. Secretaries who didn't manage to leap into marriage in time risked finding themselves without a husband and without work in the middle of their lives. Many clung desperately to their job even though no effort was spared to frighten them off. The independence they thought they had won with their job proved to be a temporary freedom.
For ageing secretaries, working life often became a torment if they hadn't managed to win a particularly trusted position or one that they were able to defend. On a daily basis, they lost the competition with the swift fingers of the young shorthand typists and their superiors could be brutally dismissive of them. Find yourself a husband, a desperate 41 year old advises a younger colleague in the novel Destiny's Behind typewriters.
If a monster came today with six legs and eight arms and five mouths and wanted to have me, I wouldn't think twice, I'd take it. Mary frolenbruckner, Mary, marry at all costs. Often things weren't much better for older men. Even the most efficient bookkeeper who was used to working with a pen and ink had no chance against a girl fresh out of middle school with three or four months training on the accounting machine behind them.
The old-star bookkeeper was a dying species. An old young man, slightly stoop-shouldered with a salo complexion, usually dyspeptic looking with black sleeves and a green eyeshade. Regardless of the kind of business, regardless of their ages, they all looked alike. He always looked tired and he was never quite happy because his face betrayed the strain of working toward that climax of his month's labours. He was usually a neat penman, but his real pride was in his ability to add a column of figures rapidly and accurately. In spite of this accomplishment, however, he seldom, if ever, left his ledger for a more promising position. His mind was atrophied by that destroying hopeless influence of drudgery and routine work. He was little more than a figuring machine with an endless number of figure combinations learned by heart.
When the bookkeeper's mechanical colleague became cheap enough over the course of the early 20th century, it meant it was time to go. The production of calculators boomed and even the Mauser Arms Factory got involved in the business. But the young women who were needed to feed the machines with their raw material of figures were not going to be outdone in terms of skill and speed by some old office workhorse. So the bookkeeper became a caricature. His fingers were like fountain pens, his ears, the hooks for them, his suit sits on him like blotting paper, the novel Divigadestilshan Hans, said of office person Hans Liederra. These old decommissioned number crunches haunted the films of the Republic in the form of comical figures such as Commissioner Hauser, Wagesklar Kremke or Senior Kashir Pichla.
By contrast, their colleagues at the keyboards and shorthand pads, literally hundreds of thousands of them, became a cheerful, lively reserve army. Some of them are said to have used the phrase accumulated return account as a pet name, or at least that was what was claimed in an article clearly catering to male fantasies in the magazine Das Leibn. The Orger that provided the title for the 1930 novel The Girl at the Orger Prevert by the Communist author Rudolf Brauner was a typewriter, the stiffest one available in the typing pool. It was always foisted on newcomers, specifically inexperienced ones who had a huge amount of trouble with this monster. The machine with its 45 keys stares coldly and wickedly with complete disinterest at the strong hands of this little girl. Those hands needed to be strong.
Among the typewriters, there are nimble little girls who run like weasels, busy, loyal aunts, never sullen, always helpful and old grandmothers who are pushed onwards with a groan. To anyone familiar only with clicking computer keyboards designed to prevent minimum resistance, it would be hard to imagine how much strength was needed in those days to lift the type levers and strike them evenly enough against ribbon and paper to end up with a clean page of typing. And how much effort it required of the little fingers of both left and right hand to lift the keeler weight of the carriage to switch to upper case. Getting 70 error free words a minute required a nimbleness equal to that of the greatest pianists with the difference that here it wasn't a matter of art but of speed.
The author Martin Kesser had the finest sense for the special music of the office, for the busy sound of normality. He spoke of the cricket whisper of typewriters. You could hear the rustling and tickling, the ticking and creeping, the familiar sound of office activity and the fact that people were also present intensified the impression of busyness. It often sounded like the gnawing of mice. I want to stay pretty for as long as I can. It is a truism to observe that the office world had its erotic side and the truism is borne out by statistics. In the course of the 1920s up to 25% of young women office workers in retail married their boss. A startling figure that shows how constricted living conditions were in comparison with the present day, how small the radius from which partners could be chosen.
Officers were places where matchmaking took place but to an even greater extent they were places of harassment and unwanted advances. It was almost impossible for a female employee to rise through a company except by marrying her superior. Office life was enlivened by attraction and dreams of rising up the company ladder but also poisoned by cynical exploitation, calculation and tragedy. Herm Argenholz? A particularly sticky man. With these words the secretary Gilgi in Gilgi, one of us, the first novel by Imgad Koin, from 1931, describes her boss. He is sticky she says, but not dangerous. I can deal with him easily. I don't think men are nearly as bad as people always say. The important thing is to have the knack of dodging them.
But that didn't always work. Things usually became more difficult when the women didn't want to dodge these men but instead fell for their assurances of serious intent. Rude of Brontner's novel, the girl at the Orga Privet, concerns a shorthand typist who is expecting the child of one of her bosses. She is forced to have an abortion dismissed from her job and dies from the consequences of the operation. Kosta Anita Brooks' novel, Destiny's Behind Typewriters describes the odyssey of a secretary who has to keep taking on new office jobs. She endures an ordeal of sadistic harassment, sexual attacks and unpleasantness of all kinds. Trembling 40 times over, at what comes next, what kind of misery, what variant of torment, because I can't count the few good employers that I've had.
但这种做法并不总是奏效。通常,当女性不想回避这些男性,而是信以为真地接受他们的承诺时,事情往往变得更加困难。Brontner 的小说《The Girl at the Orga Privet》讲述了一位速记员的故事,她怀上了某位上司的孩子。她被迫堕胎,因此失去工作,最终死于手术并发症。Kosta Anita Brooks 的小说《Destiny's Behind Typewriters》描述了一位秘书的经历,她不得不不断更换办公工作。她经受了虐待性骚扰、性侵犯以及各种不愉快的经历。每次都战战兢兢,担心接下来会发生什么样的悲剧,什么新的折磨,因为我遇到过的好雇主实在是屈指可数。
The gloomy representation of the world of work in Destiny's Behind Typewriters did not go uncontradicted however. In the book by Imgad Koin, who herself worked as a shorthand typist for four years before trying her luck as an actress in 1927 and who started writing shortly afterwards, Anita Brooks' novel is explicitly mentioned in front of the main character Gilgi and dismissed as a trivial Jeremiahad. This kind of tragedy of insult could not halt her desire for advancement. She said, I take pleasure in getting ahead by my own efforts. I have no talents. I can't paint pictures or write books. I'm completely average and can't bring myself to despair over the fact. But I want to make as much of myself as I can. I will go on working and learning new things and stay healthy and pretty for as long as I can.
This is the sound of Neuya Zachlichkeit, coupled with a pursuit of advancement and the paradox of an almost dramatic modesty. Gilgi wants to be free and independent. Her idea of freedom includes unconditional realism because she doesn't want her ambitions to be dimmed by unrealistic expectations. My claims are never higher than the possibilities of achieving them, and that makes me free. Even though life brings her plans to nothing in the end, the author does not repudiate her heroine's modern determination for self advancement. Any more than she denounces her thirst for life or the little tricks with which she helps her career along, such as little upward from below glances by influencing her boss. She guides him by making herself small.
Gilgi, the average girl, one of us, imagines an existence that brings her upwards step by step as long as she is skillful and ambitious enough. I have to achieve everything step by step. Now I'm learning my languages. I'm saving money. I may even end up with my own business. Her plan for life is thwarted. How could it be otherwise? By love, which takes her out of the office to coddle a struggling author. The office world produced its own promises, which painted reality and rose-tinted colours, particularly in the dynamic years of economic growth. The days of the work-life balance were plainly still a long way off, but employees needed to feel good about themselves were still very much in vogue.
In August 1929, Ulchdine's Oohoo published a picture story about an office outing. The head of a Berlin company had a special idea for the annual excursion. He chartered a Luftansad-Yunkas plane to fly to the nearby state of Mecklenborg. His 11 strong team from the apprentice to the senior bookkeeper landed in a green meadow. They got out with their picnic baskets and laid out the white blankets for lunch right beside the plane, with the photographer from Ulhoo always present. They had even brought a gramophone along. There was food and drink, there was flirting and teasing, the company mood was splendid.
The story ended with a rousing cheer for the boss, but not without a reference to the power relationship which could have gone in a very different direction. As it was said, and there is a genuine sounding cheer at the end of the speech by the little secretary when she asks him on the part of everyone never to let them go flying, i.e. be fired, otherwise, then in an aeroplane. With a boss like that, who would want to go flying in any other way? The rapportage was plainly faked, or at least the story was adapted to the punchline. It's entirely possible that the magazine contributed to the chartering of the plane, but readers will have seen the report as entirely plausible, because in fact many companies did a great deal to keep their staff in good spirits.
Worker satisfaction was identified as an important resource by business management. Exhaustive staff regulation included measures to intensify a sense of belonging and events that engrossed the mind, such as joint parties and vacations in holiday homes belonging to the company. Many businesses set up company sports clubs, football, light athletics, boxing, handball, rowing, gymnastics, hockey, swimming, tennis, cycling, jujitsu, nothing has been forgotten. Anyone who worked in small shops with three or four colleagues or in modest offices in the provinces could only dream of such a work atmosphere. Most office employees worked in small-scale cramped conditions, but the urban department stores and large-scale offices were at the focus of sociology, the press and culture.
It was here that the future was getting underway, and here that the contradictions clashed most clearly. While most of the young office workers lived in the modest rented rooms or at home in miserable circumstances, every morning they crossed the threshold into a more tasteful life, particularly when their workplace was in one of the spectacular palatial office blocks or one of the glittering department store temples. Everything about this life was concerned as much with appearance as it was with reality. Office workers had to be well-dressed, if not actually elegant, then at least in the latest fashion. No one who saw these women at work would ever have dreamed of the miserable conditions in the poorer districts to which they streamed at the end of the working day.
Cramped courtyards, damp walls, shabby furniture and dim light, the antithesis of the bright modern office environment that filled the popular imagination during the latter half of the 1920s, in which everything seemed to be on the up. In the morning they would apply their rouge and adjust the locks of their bobbed hair into kiss curls in the style of the American silent film star Louise Brooks, and put on expensive looking dresses in which they could have stylishly gone dancing. When these young women prepared for their job they had already half emerged from their woe-begone existence, which they escaped entirely as soon as they had pulled the apartment closed behind them to hurry to the office. A warped situation that the drama of this secretarial class staged again every morning.
Much the same was true of the young male office workers or salespeople. The clerk would look in the mirror and see someone that wasn't quite him, but rather the person he promised to be. Visually he represented a status that he hadn't yet reached and perhaps never would. The desire for advancement was inherent in his job. However small his real chances might have been. He worked on the threshold of something better, on the interface with a higher social class that he studiously tried to imitate. The more successful he was at that, the more secure his job seemed. This will to happiness, particular to the status of the clerical worker, encouraged his loyalty to his superiors and towards the world of work as a whole.
Politically speaking then the clerk was diametrically opposed to the revolutionary. Dismissal was not a reason to revolt, but a tragedy to live through. The warped economy of happiness associated with the office life meant even more to women than it did to their male colleagues, because they embodied the novelty of the age to a much greater degree. With their pointedly fashionable appearance, their bobs, their short swinging dresses, their bold lipstick and their quick witteredness honed in countless plots and wisecracks, they were the spitting image of the feminine type which they knew from the glossy magazines, and which in real life was more at home in the upper class.
That was where the new woman, the darling of the culture industry of the Weimar Republic, was able to flourish. These were women who could afford their ostentatious independence and often didn't need to earn anything to do so. These were women who rode expensive motorcycles and drove expensive cars like Erekamann or Mariette Reza von Hummashtain, who travelled the world at their own expense. Like Clere Norostinus, who played tennis, learned to fly or at least study chemistry, who idolized their own sex and who calmly and publicly defended the terms of their own sexual identity.
这正是这类新女性能够蓬勃发展的地方,她们是魏玛共和国文化产业的宠儿。这些女性有能力展示自己张扬的独立性,常常无需为此挣钱。她们驾驶昂贵的摩托车和汽车,比如Erekamann或Mariette Reza von Hummashtain,能够自费环游世界。像Clere Norostinus这样的人,打网球、学习飞行或至少是化学,她们崇拜自己的性别,并且冷静而公开地捍卫自己的性别认同。
Many young office girls closely resembled this ideal of libertarian bohemia that was propagated in the media, but they were not remotely close to being part of it. It only appeared as if the cultural avant-garde were sitting at typewriters as if women like the young author Rod Lanceaufjock, the photographer Annamarie Schwadzenbach or the artist Rene Zintenys, had become a mass phenomenon, as if the roaring twenties had been so turbulent, volatile and lascivious that the excitement had spilled into the machine rooms of bureaucracy, leaving the typewriters coated with gold dust from a night of frenzy dancing that had to be blown away each morning. That was the fantasy of the decade, and that was how many of the young typists imagined it as well. Fashion and eroticism painted over the lack of satisfaction intrinsic to the job, wrote the historian Ute Freivat summing up the fact that the often-treatery work at the keyboards was warmed by a fire that fed on the illusions inherent in the world of the office.
Intellectuals in the office cameos from the upper class. With their ultra-modern bearing, many female office workers yearned for a lifestyle that far exceeded their traditional attitudes to life. They weren't nearly as permissive as they seemed to be. One need only here, Zekefrid Karkar wrote in 1930, Torda, a sales girl in Moabit, moving away from her made-up colleagues who are, we might add in passing equally ill-disposed towards the workers whom they serve. How judgmentally she speaks of the flighty girls who dine at Kempinsky in the evening, in the company of gentlemen, inherited concepts of morality, religious ideas, suspicion, and traditional wisdom from meager lodgings. That is all part of it, in untimely opposition to the prevailing practices of life. One should not forget these undercurrents.
Where they are present, they lead to difficult conflicts between individuals and the environment. Many young secretaries who had come from small towns to Berlin, Munich, or Cologne oscillated between the moral ideas they had brought with them and their experience of the astonishingly loose morals of the city. Some suppressed their concerns, while others fought internal struggles with their consciences. Karkar, here every inch the alert reporter, spent a lot of time among office workers, kept his ears open and was even given access to the correspondence of a young couple thinking about the future. He quoted the female partner, Kita, who in a comical mixture of business German and intimacy, inquired of her beloved youthful colleague, what he thought about the following question.
What, in fact, is our position on sexual intercourse? Should young people engage in such intercourse prior to marriage? I answer in the affirmative, on the condition that the persons in question are sufficiently mature and mentally in accord. What is striking is that Karkar describes the predominating permissiveness as a thoughtlessness that has been forced on people. The sexual permissiveness that predominates today is a concern for many young people in the lower secretarial circles. They would like to express their own feelings, they resist the system that tries to define their existence, and are overpowered, Ubermand, by the system. Ubermand, the term is a telling one. Karkar saw the inexperienced young women he met, who had often escaped rural or working class backgrounds as victims of a libitinism from which men in particular tended to profit.
The typewriter girls presented themselves as emancipated urban flappers, with short hair and skirts and smart backchat, but they didn't have the inner independence and intellectualism to defy the coldness of the modern world. The drama of social immaturity also plays a part in Iyemgarde coin's novels in which women present to the world a kind of freedom for which they lack both the self-confidence and the material conditions. So for example, the artificial silk girl Doris, newly arrived in Berlin, wants to become a glamour, a living light of the kind that haunted the world's fashion, nightlife and the imagination. Since it was an imitation lacking the real social conditions that made such life possible, that glamour only created additional conflicts.
At times of economic and personal setbacks, the eagerness with which modern lifestyles from Berlin's trend-setting scene were imitated by girls in shops and offices could easily flip into the feeling of being patronised by remote elites. From 1930 onwards, androgynous play with gender roles and ostentatious permissiveness were perceived more and more as decadent, false and destructive. These ambivalences could be studied precisely in the microcosm of the office. The workforce was by no means homogeneous. It included those who had risen from the working class, alongside fallen daughters from the educated middle class who had been deprived by inflation of their financial safety net. Office literature was full of intellectual secretaries who turned the heads of their co-workers with their ideas as well as their boldness. But they could equally easily be dismissed as snooty and ignored accordingly.
In the novel Hebrachas fiasco, this role is played by the privy counsellor's daughter, Mookie Shuppes, who is forced to work in an office after the death of her husband. Many women and men too, although it was easier for them to advance, were obliged to work full time below their skill level, even if they were above their superiors in terms of education and intellect. Others only made brief cameo appearances to finance temporary phases of experimental independence. They swept like comets through the secretarial world as admired role models, who gnawed away still further at the value systems of the simpler girls. Dohrhabenya-min, the wife of the philosopher Valta, worked as a secretary for a time. Presumably, she unsettled her colleagues just as much as her husband unsettled the traditional practice of philosophy.
The Berlin secretary Albertina Gimpur became the icon of secretarial Bohemia. If not the 1920s as a whole, she is known worldwide by the name of Zonya. In 1928, the artist Christian Chard painted her in the Romante-Shikafie and called the painting simply Zonya. In her little black dress, invented only three years before by Coco Chanel, and hence ultramodern at the time, Zonya is sitting alone at a table in the legendary literary meeting place. She is smoking camels and using a long cigarette holder to keep her fingers from turning yellow. On the table behind her is a bottle of sparkling wine in a cooling bucket. Also sitting behind her are two men. The painter has moved them so far to the edge that only a shoulder of each is visible. The ear of one is however known to everyone in Berlin. It belongs to the famous poet Maxam Anissa, who was in the cafe every day.
But the poet is a side issue, a marginal figure in the literal sense, since Zonya sweeps everything else aside. The world-famous painting hangs in the national gallery in Berlin. Zonya is a silent majesty, not a frivolously chattering giggy, misunderstood perhaps, but still unmistakably an authority. Her seriousness and her loneliness don't quite fit with the sparkling wine. There's something gloomy about her, a darkness that emanates not from her black dress, but from her gaze, before which the viewer shrinks. This woman has already seen a lot, but at the moment nothing and no one has anything to offer her. The day has been stressful and the night may be too, but this moment belongs only to her.
The fact that Zonya, in spite of her enormous individuality, represents a type is confirmed by the comparison with a secretary at Vestoy-Chaurendfong, photographed by August Zander, the great physiognomist of the Weimar Republic in 1931. It's one of 60 portraits that form the face of our time, one of his famous volumes of photographs. We don't know the name of this secretary, either real or fake. She too sits smoking. She too penetrates the viewer with that gloomily indifferent gaze that is ready for anything, that thinks everything is possible. Presumably her boss' communications crossed her desk day after day for her to pour them into letters.
Every day she was witness to his power and its instrument. Her hair severely parted, androgynous in line with the times, and at the same time very modern, she looks into the camera which captures her forever. Before going back into the Antaroom, one of 250 employees making radio broadcasts in Cologne. Unlike manual workers, secretaries did not have easily identifiable identities. They stood with one foot in the world of the bourgeoisie, if not in the corridors of power, with the other still or back in the reality of the proletariat. They spent the least on food, much less than the proletariat, but the most on leisure, sport, cinema, cabaret and radio, much more than the bourgeoisie.
They were the most effective target group of the new entertainment culture, threatened with social decline and oscillating between appearance and reality somewhat incapable of solidarity because of the internal structures of competition.
The rough wind of economic crisis blew particularly cruelly through their ranks. They embodied the dynamic of the Weimar Republic most convincingly, and were at the same time most strongly exposed to it.
经济危机的狂风在他们的队伍中刮得特别猛烈。他们最能体现魏玛共和国的活力,但同时也最容易受到其影响。
Unlike workers, they would have trouble finding a scapegoat if things start to go downhill.