WHEN a career counselor in the East German town of Luckenwalde asked Ilka Bessin what she wanted to be when she grew up, the teenager answered that she had always wanted to be a clown. “Cook” was also a creative job, the counselor suggested, and a lot more realistic.
It was still a few years before the fall of the Berlin Wall, and Ms. Bessin (pronounced bess-EEN) ended up an apprentice chef at a state-owned enterprise, preparing breakfast and lunch every day for more than 1,000 workers. She never could have guessed that two decades later she would be a comedy superstar in a reunified Germany, making millions of her compatriots laugh in clubs and theaters across the land, with television stations fighting over her appearances.
Audiences know Ms. Bessin, 41, as Cindy from Marzahn, her louder, ruder and more profane alter ego. With her curly peroxide wig and swathes of hot-pink eye shadow, Cindy hails from the notorious East Berlin neighborhood of Marzahn, synonymous with the enormous Communist high-rise housing estates.
An overweight 6-foot-2-inch Valkyrie of a woman in a pink velour sweatsuit, Cindy plays up the worst stereotypes of Germany’s contemporary version of the welfare queen. She wakes up at 2 o’clock in the afternoon and begins drinking. Her dream man, Enrico, stands 4-foot-10, weighs 375 pounds and works as a bouncer.
“No neck, no hair and no brain,” she says approvingly.
IN October, Ms. Bessin was named Germany’s female comedian of the year for the fourth time in a row. The daily newspaper Tagesspiegel recently called her “a phenomenon,” under the headline “Princess of the Plattenbau,” the prefabricated housing blocs built in the former East. She hosts her own television series and recently began appearing on “Wetten Dass,” the long-running variety show whose name translates loosely as “Wanna Bet?”
Yet when asked in a recent interview how it felt to be an established star, Ms. Bessin quickly replied, “As far as I’m concerned, I’m really not there yet.” Quieter than Cindy and extremely considerate, Ms. Bessin is hardly recognizable out of costume, just one of the facts that helps keep her grounded.
“I drink absolutely no Champagne, and I don’t fit in Jean Paul Gaultier’s clothes,” she said, with a toned-down version of the self-deprecation she shares with Cindy.
Germany may have more money than its neighbors on the whole, but the middle class is shrinking and much of its recent gains in economic competitiveness came from labor-market changes that cut jobless benefits and pressured people to work, sometimes for as little as an additional $1.30 an hour. Cindy brought the low-paying jobs and the secondhand stores onstage, with songs as well as monologues.
It was a language Ms. Bessin spoke fluently, having herself lived on Hartz IV welfare payments for several years. “You sleep a lot, because you don’t see the point in getting up, and you eat what’s around you,” Ms. Bessin recalled. “You go to the employment office because you have appointments, but generally you go home even more demoralized.”
Out of the crucible of humiliation emerged Cindy, crass and cagey, driven by appetites. She hides a bratwurst in a banana peel and asks the audience for chocolate, then eats what they throw onstage. “I have Alzheimer’s bulimia,” Cindy likes to say, stomach bulging under her pink sweatshirt, tiara perched atop her wig. “I eat everything in sight and then forget to throw up.”
Critics call her act offensive, lowbrow and worse, mixing high-minded attacks on her with patronizing depictions of her supposedly benighted fans. Those fans answer by buying her concert videos and turning out to her shows in droves, where they scream and applaud like mad, many wearing their own tiaras and pink sweatshirts emblazoned with the words “Alzheimer’s bulimia” on the front.
Cindy regales them with tales of her time as a member of the Socialist Children’s Television Ballet or her efforts to get adopted by Zsa Zsa Gabor’s husband Frédéric Prinz von Anhalt. Her performances are marathons with musical numbers. Fans often bring her presents and handmade cards. She is a star but also a hero, one of them, one who made it.
“I win,” Cindy sings in one of her songs, “although I’m not a winner.”
Ms. Bessin said in the interview that her act was not about East and West, which are outdated concepts in her view. Cindy happened to come from the East because Ms. Bessin did too. Her memory of the end of Communism was typically understated. “My mother was in the living room. I was in the kitchen washing dishes. She said, ‘The Wall fell,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, O.K.,’ and went back to washing dishes.”
Over the next decade she worked a dozen jobs at hotels and restaurants, including Planet Hollywood Berlin, and even did a stint on a cruise ship. She was working as a restaurant manager in 2001 and went on sick leave. When she came back she had been fired and her job had been given to someone else.
A long, demoralizing stretch on welfare followed. Between her hundreds of job applications Ms. Bessin said she ate, lay in bed and watched television, gaining weight and losing motivation. She was slowly sliding into a growing German underclass best known to the rest of the country from talk shows about paternity tests and plastic surgery. Unbeknown to Ms. Bessin, she was researching a character that had not yet found her outlet. Ms. Bessin’s break was not just lucky, it was accidental. In 2004, she called up the Quatsch Comedy Club in Berlin looking for a job as a waitress. After listening to her for a while the man on the other end of the line announced that he was not the person responsible for hiring service personnel. He was in charge of booking the acts.
“Do you have any interest in doing stand-up?” she recalled him asking. He told her about a talent competition the club was hosting. She agreed and began writing a few minutes of material. When she read through her jokes at rehearsal, people told her there was no way her act was going to work.
She decided she had nothing to lose; the wig and the costume were like a disguise and a suit of armor all at once. “No one is going to recognize me anyway, I thought,” Ms. Bessin said. On stage during the actual performance, the crowd responded immediately. Ms. Bessin talks about the similarities between her stage persona and herself, saying Cindy is “80 percent me,” but she talks about the character in the third person. Donning the costume unlocks something impish and ferocious in Ms. Bessin. She won the grueling competition, and eventually earned an appearance on the popular late-night show “TV total” in March 2006.
More offers to perform quickly followed. In 2007, Ms. Bessin won the German Comedy Prize for newcomer of the year. She has a comedy showcase, “Cindy and the Young Wild Ones,” on the private television network RTL.
The set for her first comedy special, “Schizophrenic: I Wanted to Be a Princess,” was a Communist housing bloc. The second, “Not Every Prince Comes on Horseback,” was a pink fairy castle, a home fit for Barbie.
The former welfare queen stood onstage, soaking up the audience’s applause, surrounded by men with guts, a few of them bald, but all wearing skimpy shorts and shaking pink and black pom-poms. Maybe none of them was Enrico, but it was certainly a dream come true.
