Marlene (12 page)

If she was trying to shock me, it didn’t work. I’d seen plenty of prostitutes as I’d dashed to and from my auditions. Just beyond the Kurfürstendamm, the alleys seethed with them, men and women alike, beckoning from doorways or cruising the grimy cafés.

“Trude also reads tarot cards for money,” Gerda went on. “She’s quite good. She once foretold that a girl here would get a part, and the very next week, she did.”

“She sounds interesting.” As I reached for my cup, Oskar leaped from my lap, leaving fur all over my skirt. I smiled, brushing at it. “Mutti will be furious. Cat hair in the house.”

“She sounds like a tyrant. How do you stand it?”

I sighed. “I didn’t think it would be for much longer. I was saving whatever I could to rent my own place, but now . . .”

“Yes?” Her gaze was now fixed on me.

I hated to admit it. “I suppose I’ll have to clean houses.”

“Why don’t you try acting?”

I laughed. “Acting? I have no talent whatsoever for the stage.”

“You have those.” She pointed at my legs. “Legs like yours—”

“Can make fortunes. That’s what my Oma once told me.”

“She was right.” Greta lit a cigarette. “I’ve seen girls with far less than you do quite well for themselves. You should consider it.”

I sipped my coffee; it was mostly chicory and as bitter as failure.

“You said you can imitate Henny Porten,” she said. “Show me.”

“Now?”

She nodded. “I’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

I assumed the pose, arching my arms above my head as I’d done so many times for my friends in Weimar. Affecting an anguished tone, I recited, “Why do you forsake me, Curt? Can’t you see I am spellbound by the baron?”

She sat still, a pall of smoke drifting about her. I shrugged. “See? No talent whatsoever.”

“But we proved our point. Porten is definitely overrated. With some dramatic training and voice lessons, I see no reason why you couldn’t do better.”

“Better than Porten? She’s famous. I don’t think I could ever be like her.”

“You don’t want to, remember? You want to be your own creation.” She dragged on her cigarette before extending it across the table. As I smoked, coughing slightly from the harshness of it, she returned the tray to the kitchenette, her cats winding at her heels. I finished the cigarette and looked around for an ashtray; the room was filled with bric-a-brac, and I didn’t see one anywhere until she said, “On the table. The pot.”

Leaning over a chipped ceramic pot, I saw it contained an inch or two of filthy water, with sodden butts floating in it. “It helps with the smell,” she said, coming back toward me.

I dropped the butt in. It didn’t help; her entire room reeked of tobacco. I reached for my coat. During the walk here, I’d felt a chill in the air. Autumn approached, heralding another frigid winter. I had a long trek home, unless I could catch a tram at this hour. But I didn’t want to leave. She made me feel safe, welcome. I thought we might be friends and she must have thought the same, for before I could thank her and say good night, she said quietly, “If things get bad at home, you could always stay
here on the couch. Trude wouldn’t mind and I could use extra help with the rent once you find work. It’s not expensive. I travel now and then for assignments, so you’d have the room to yourself sometimes. But when I’m here, I’d enjoy the company.”

I turned to her. Her eyes shone. “Company?” I said.

“Why, yes.” Her words quickened. “I’ll introduce you to the other tenants; the girls here know all the voice instructors and drama coaches. You could train for the theater, perhaps audition for the academy. I’ll help you select roles. I have a lot of books with plays here.”

Her voice held a slight tremor. In the room, with her one lamp casting more shadow than light, she looked different—prettier. Just a girl like me, like so many of us trying to survive. I remembered Mademoiselle, how I’d yearned to caress stray hairs from her cheek, and then Reitz, when I’d taken his hand and he clasped it. Would this be any different? I had always wondered about my affinity for women, and I felt an inexplicable kinship with Gerda, not like with a sibling, as Liesel and I were, but as I imagined true sisterhood might be.

“I could stay now,” I offered, and she nodded.

“You could,” she said. “Do you want to?”

I smiled. “I could try. I’ve never done this before. But I have thought of it.” As I spoke, I tentatively reached out to caress her cheek. Her skin was dry. She didn’t use any cream, not even the ubiquitous bargain lotions found in the drugstores, which always left a palpable film. My curiosity made me feel naive, exposed; I heard myself say haltingly, “Will you show me how?”

Her eyes dilated, like a cat’s. “Tell me,” she said thickly, “what you want to learn.”

I let my hand linger on her face. “Everything.”

Desire flamed up in her. I’d seen it before, on the afternoon I had seduced Reitz. But she was not like him; she did not hide her need in shame or deceit. It was on her face, young and brash; she burned as if she might melt. It excited me. It was conquest and surrender; we were women, equals, with nothing between us but our hesitation.

I abruptly kissed her. She tasted of stale tobacco; and when she returned my kiss, I felt her shudder. I liked the sensation, her vulnerability wavering under her flesh like an elusive pool.

As she guided me to the tiny bedroom off the living area, I warmed to her touch. She had done this before, perhaps not often, but often enough that her kisses turned pliant, her hands sliding within my clothes, unfastening, tugging, until I stood naked before her and she breathed, “
Mein Gott.
You are beautiful. Like a goddess.”

I could see that she meant it. She herself was small breasted, with heavy thighs; her long skirt and shirtwaist had concealed a pear-shaped body that made her self-conscious, another vulnerability that endeared her to me. She wanted to be taken seriously as a journalist, to effect change in the world, but like everyone else, she must yearn to be loved. I understood. I, too, longed for it, and her sudden gasp as I kneeled to clasp her was like being in an elevator going down very fast. She strained against my mouth, moaning aloud, and then we were tumbling onto the rumpled bed, tangled and gasping as palms and tongues merged. I soaked into her; I wanted to please her, and when I did, her cry shattered in my ear. Her breath was husky as she whispered incredulously, “You’ve never done this before?”

“Never,” I said, and then she rose over me, holding my arms over my head as she lapped at my nipples, moving down slowly, teasing, until she parted me and then, with a sly grin as she raised her gaze to my face, she said, “If I do this, I might never let you go.”

“Do it,” I said. “Please . . .”

She sipped me as if I were a delicacy, peeling me like fruit, piece by supple piece, until I was panting as she reached my searing core.

I thought I’d had a lover before. How wrong I had been.

I DRIFTED HOME THE NEXT DAY
, a Saturday, feeling fragrant and boneless as oleander petals, and packed my suitcase while Mutti sat stone-faced at the table and Liesel gaped in disbelief.

“It’s a respectable boardinghouse,” I said. “For girls. Frau Trude runs it
and insists on her tenants having proper employment. I’m sharing a room with a writer.”

It was a lie of course. I no longer had a job, proper or otherwise, and when we’d happened on Trude as I left the boardinghouse and Gerda introduced me, I beheld a floozy of a woman in a faded housecoat, gray roots threading her dyed red hair. She was as sweet and absentminded as Gerda had described, smiling vaguely when told I was moving in. “Oh, how lovely. You’ve found a new friend, Gerda. I hope she likes cats. Welcome, dear.”

Mutti didn’t know any of this yet, but she had an unerring ear for falsehood. “Frau Trude?” She frowned. “You don’t even know the proprietor’s last name?”

“Handelmann,” I said. “Or Herbert. I’m not sure. I only just met her, but she’s very strict.” I kept emphasizing the propriety of the situation, even though nothing I said would convince her and images of Gerda lifting a cigarette to my lips as we lay together, arms and legs entwined, flashed behind my eyes. Unmarried girls lived at home: That was the only propriety Mutti knew. Anything else was unacceptable. But I was about to turn twenty-one. She couldn’t stop me, and even if she had tried, I would not have let her.

She did not try. She accepted my kiss good-bye and let Liesel see me to the door. Unexpectedly, my sister said, “I admire you, Marlene. You’re doing what you want.”

It was the nicest thing she’d ever said to me, and it eased my anxiety. Mutti would come around. She wouldn’t be able to resist. She’d want to see this boardinghouse and roommate of mine for herself. Even if she no longer had me under her thumb, she must ensure that I didn’t make a spectacle of myself. How she’d react when she discovered I wasn’t playing the violin but was living with a lesbian and training to be an actress—I couldn’t dwell on that now.

No time like the present.

I would live for the moment and deal with the future when it arrived.

IV

A
s ardent as she was in bed, outside of it Gerda could be as tyrannical as my mother. She had early access to the job advertisements and call sheets because of her newspaper contacts; every morning, she circled each potential prospect and forced me to wear out the soles of my shoes as I prowled smoke-filled theaters and music halls in search of a job.

No one would hire me without experience, but a few of the less distinguished revues expressed interest once they saw my legs, provided that I could give them evidence of my ability to carry a tune. I could do that; I had always liked to sing. Mutti had encouraged singing at home around the piano but not in public; she deemed it lower class unless one sang opera or hymns in church. But to me, singing was like the violin, only more personal and intimate; I could employ my voice as an instrument in ways I’d never been able to play my bow, and I had my training to inform me. I began practicing with songbooks bought at music shops, to learn the latest tunes, and Gerda saw to it that one of the boardinghouse tenants, a lively redhead named Camilla Horn, referred me to her voice instructor, Professor Daniels. Gerda also insisted that I must learn English, to assist in my pronunciation of popular American songs, and found a local woman named Elsie Grace who also taught actors. She was a frightful crone, with
clotted eyeliner and a twisted back, who lived in a walk-up. But she was funny and very British; she made me repeat nursery rhymes, then regaled me over tea with stories of the sexual exploits of her youth.

“It’s certainly an effective way to learn the language”—Gerda laughed when I showed her how well I could recite “The cunt jumped over the moon.”

Gerda paid for my lessons, despite my protests. To reimburse her, I went to see Jolie and explained my circumstances. My uncle’s wife proclaimed it a splendid notion for me to explore acting—she spoke as if I was taking up knitting—and loaned me a fox stole and a sum of cash, which I promised to repay. I covered the rent for the month and bought groceries, this time over Gerda’s protests.

“We’re in this together,” I said. “I must do my share.”

“Yes, but I may never get what I want, while you can,” she replied. “You
can
be someone. I believe in you.”

She did, more than I believed in myself. Herr Daniels was one of the finest teachers in Berlin; he’d trained opera singers before the war, until economic straits compelled him to take on other students. He had an unorthodox method for loosening the voice, having us prance about the room, squawking and flapping our arms before we performed scales and vocal intonations at the piano until our throats were raw.

“You have an interesting voice,” he told me. “Not powerful—you’ll never be a recording artist—but with a certain style. You must practice using a lower key. Don’t force out those notes you can’t reach. There’s no need. Refine your register instead.”

At night, I’d perform what I’d learned for Gerda, singing popular scandalous songs by Brecht until she growled and yanked me to her. “I can’t stand it! You are devastating.”

Perhaps to her, but I wasn’t devastating to those I auditioned for. I heard “No. Next” so many times, I wondered at my own resolve. But Gerda refused to countenance misgivings.

“These things take time. Look.” She brandished the newspaper. “The Rudolf Nelson revue is holding auditions. You must go. You can sing,
and”—she lowered her eyes suggestively—“the advertisement says all applicants must have good legs.”

“Well.” I exhaled smoke. I smoked too much; it helped curb the hunger, as Gerda and our current budget had me on a strict regimen. “If it’s legs they want, then legs I can give them.”

I didn’t expect to be hired. But I wore a short skirt just in case, with black stockings and a mangy wolf pelt I’d unearthed in a secondhand shop tossed around my shoulders. I performed a ditty that required kicks and twirls; I wasn’t a very good dancer, but I gave it my best. Each applicant was assigned a number, as in a lottery. When the manager called out the winning ones, he said mine. I had a job.

Gerda and I celebrated with cheap champagne, forgoing our allotment of meat for the week. “You see?” she said, raising her glass. “I told you. You’re on your way.”

“It’s only the chorus.” I sipped the champagne, which had no fizz. “And the pay is appalling. Rudolf Nelson obviously doesn’t think his girls need to eat.”

“Still, it’s work.” She paused. “I have a new assignment. In Hannover, covering a labor dispute. I start next week.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” I had started to kiss her when she averted her face. “I’ll be gone for a month,” she said. “You’ll have the room all to yourself.”

“I’ll miss you.” Why was she being so strange? “If you’re worried about the cats, I’ll take good care of them, I promise.” Oskar adored me; he slept at my side every night, while Fannie, the female, cleaved to Gerda, tolerating me but maintaining her distance. “I’ll be busy with the revue. It’s eleven shows a week, including matinees, but I’ll telephone you whenever I can.”