Free Gilgi by Irmgard Keun

rain—there’s a sun far, far away in the sky—with each hand you grab a sunbeam, wrap them around your wrists, quite tightly, let yourself be drawn upwards—how heavy you are! The sunbeams could tear—you’re getting closer and closer to the sun’s hot orange-red ball—it’s getting warmer and warmer … And somehow Martin Bruck’s fingers brush Gilgi’s hand, quite by chance—and even more by chance Gilgi’s hand moves past the cups and the little milk-jugs, and now it’s lying right there … lying well within reach of—after all, your hand has to be lying somewhere. And Olga’s eyes are shrouded in memory, she’s thinking of Franzi—Gilgi likes Olga very much, she doesn’t know Franzi, but she’s pleased that he exists.
    You have to show your relatives the city. Frau Kron has so little time. On the next day, Gilgi is picked up at the office by Aunt Hetty and the two silly cows. They inspect the Ringstrasse. “But the Jungfernstieg in Hamburg is nicer.” Church of the Apostles, Hohestrasse, Wallraf-Richartz Museum. That doesn’t interest them in the least, but if you come back from a visit to a strange town, you want to be able to say: we went to the museum.
    Gilgi parts from these three delightful people at eight o’clock.
    Kaiser Wilhelm Crescent. Greif. Magdalene Greif, née Kreil. Once more, Gilgi climbs a staircase. There’s no bad smell here. Behind the doors, it’s quiet. No yelling, no cursing, no stinking, twice-breathed air paralyzing your chest. Shameless, arrogant banisters—No Access For Messengers and Deliverymen!—a building for the upper crust. Sticky fried potatoes—lady without internal organs. For a few seconds, I believed that Täschler was my mother. Because I believed it, she was it, whether for a few seconds, two, three, four—days—weeks—doesn’t matter a damn. Magdalene Greif, née Kreil. High-class building—disgustingly high-class building. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in Thieboldstrasse, either, but the stinking room there—that had something to do with me. Why? Dear God in heaven—Olga, Pit, mother—help me, I don’t want to think. So you wrap two sunbeams around your wrists—You, the one with the cheeky strong teeth, with the lively hands, the upright, unbowed neck—God, dear, dear, dear God, I’ve already been standing here for ten minutes in front of this ridiculous stained-glass window, I know that I’m standing here, I’m not crazy! There’s something wrong with me—wrong with me—wrong with me. You think in hit songs, feel with their rhythms, submerge yourself in them—tam-tam-tam-ta—those songs: help you run away and towards.
    Gilgi climbs slowly—step by step. She doesn’t know yet what she’ll say, has made no plan at all. It’ll have to be whatever the moment suggests. Her hand presses the white doorbell calmly and firmly: a thin ringing. Sure to be one of those disgustingly fat little dogs. A maid: “Can I help you???”
    “Like to speak to Frau Greif.”
    “Madam is traveling.” Of course, it’s one of those unfriendly buildings where the maids get such a weird idea of their own social status, one which reflects their employers’ incomes rather than their own wages.
    “When is she returning?”
    “Not for at least two months.”
    “So where is she?”
    “In St. Moritz, and from there to Nice. Your name?”
    “Isn’t so important.—I’ll come back in two months.”
    Gilgi feels hostility welling up inside her. One woman in the gray dirt—one in the bright light—one is no less valuable than the other. Gilgi leans over the banister. With some people, they can’t lean over bridges or banisters—without spitting. Gilgi spits.—It goes Click! when it splashes on the cold marble down below. Gilgi is pleased. That was a kind of tiny gesture for Täschler, a small expression of solidarity—not yet conscious—a Yes and a No. Again: … Click.
    Gilgi is sitting in her room. Now it’s time to work. It