ROUGH WOOLENS--THE LATEST STYLE
Silent, morose, with wrinkled brow Herr Habietnik walked through
the luxurious salesrooms of the great department store in the
Kärtnerstrasse--the store that had once been called Zwieback, but now
bore the name of Wilhelm Habietnik. Herr Habietnik had been the head
salesman in the ladies’ tailoring department, and during the great
expulsion of the Jews he had succeeded, with the assistance of the
Central German Savings Bank, in acquiring the business. Now, as we have
said, Herr Habietnik wandered from room to room, exchanging a few words
with every aisle manager; his countenance became more and more gloomy,
and angry snorts escaped him. He paced without stopping through the
pink and white infants’ wear department; he threw a furious glance into
the beautiful but entirely deserted pastry shop; and then, rushing into
his private office, he summoned his manager, Smetana.
“Look here, Herr Smetana, things can’t go on this way--something has
to be done! Easter’s almost here; this used to be our busiest season,
the store used to be so crowded that it was impossible to walk through
it--and on my rounds today I found three old women, two of whom were
hunting together for a chenille scarf that died out long ago, and the
third for a cotton petticoat. If this is the best we can do we might as
well shut up shop. Tell me, what’s the amount of our deficit since I’ve
taken over the firm?”
The manager smiled wryly:
“Oh, I’d say about a billion--that should be fairly close to it.”
Herr Habietnik walked about the room in great agitation. “I don’t
understand it! When the Jews were still here we had a lot of Christian
customers, too! What’s become of them?”
Again Smetana, who had formerly occupied a desk in the bookkeeping
department, where he had made out the bills, smiled.
“Our Christian trade never was anything to brag about, Herr Habietnik;
and there always was a catch to those of our customers who really were
Christians. They were either the wives or the mistresses of Jews. Let
me remind you of the beautiful Countess Wurmdorf, the one who, at the
very end, ordered a masquerade costume from us for a million and a
half. Very good; but who paid it? Her husband, perhaps? Nothing of the
sort! It was the wealthy Eisler, of Eisler and Breisler! And Manoni
of the Opera, who’s the daughter of an honest-to-goodness Christian
washwoman, and who left a hundred million in cold cash with us every
year? Why, the entire Hebrew community had to contribute there! Then
there’s....”
Herr Habietnik stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Nevertheless
there were plenty of ladies who had no lovers and still bought quite
a good deal. I know more about this for I was the head of the ladies’
tailoring department.”
“Yes. But you see, Herr Habietnik, even when they weren’t Jewish it was
the competition of the Jewish women that helped us. When the Jewesses
wore good, stylish clothes the Christian society women did not want to
lag behind.”
“You may be right there,” the head admitted thoughtfully. “The other
day I myself heard Frau Artander objecting to our prices, and saying,
as she left without placing an order: ‘Oh, well--thank God we don’t
need to dress up so much any more, or to take up every fashionable
craze. I’ll simply have my old things made over.’”
The memory made Herr Habietnik’s blood boil--he brought down his fist
on the table. “See here, I didn’t call you in for a friendly chat, but
for advice! That’s what you get your high salary for!”
Smetana bowed. “I can give you an idea, Herr von Habietnik. People
are going in for coarse woolens and other durable stuffs nowadays--as
you saw yourself, there’s even a demand for cotton goods. What do you
say to filling up a few show-windows with woolens, rough wool skirts,
cotton and flannel underwear? And a nice poster to go with it, and a
lot of advertisements announcing: Rough Woolens, Cotton, Muslin, and
Flannel--the Latest Paris Fashion!”
Seized with a hysterical fit of laughter, Herr Habietnik roared until
the tears ran down his cheeks. “Flannels and woolens--the rage in
Paris! See here, if Frau Ella Zwieback, who’s living in Brussels now,
ever hears of this, she’ll think we’ve all gone crazy in Vienna! But
all right--I’m sick of this business, and I get scared stiff when I
walk through the empty house! Go ahead, make your wool displays! And
don’t forget the Alpine hats and hobnailed shoes! As for the pastry
shop, it’ll gradually be converted into a standing bar with hot
frankfurters. It’s all the same to me, whether we smash this way or
that!”
Ten days later one show-window actually displayed red, blue, and
printed flannel petticoats, drawers and knitted vests, another showed
cotton stockings and durable shoes, while a third revealed high piles
of rough woolens in brown, gray, and black. And the salesrooms were
filled until everybody’s needs had been supplied, and the salesgirls
again yawned or surreptitiously read Engelhorn’s novels behind their
black silk aprons.