Marlene (5 page)

My stomach rumbled. I was so exhausted and constantly hungry, I didn’t know what to feel anymore. I realized I should be grief-stricken—it seemed a requisite—for the death toll was immense; the lists grew longer every day, so many young men like those I’d seen marching down Schöneberg’s avenue perishing in terrible ways. To emphasize the gravity, Mutti had even embroidered and framed a needlework rendering of the poem by Freiligrath over our parlor mantel like a commandment:

O love, while it’s still yours to love!

O love, while love you still may keep!

The hour will come, the hour will come,

When you shall stand by graves and weep.

She murmured it to herself as she went about her work, a constant litany like the prayers with rosary beads I’d seen the cook engage in whenever I sneaked into the kitchen to find something to eat. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought Mutti
enjoyed
the upheaval that had turned the world against us and brought Germany to its knees.

I should be as resolute as she was to see us triumph. I should take pride in our sacrifices and the dogged defense of our blighted honor. But all I could think about when I had the energy was Mademoiselle. I wondered where she had gone. Back home to France, I supposed. There could be no dream of becoming an actress now.

By nightfall, we had to stop. Lamp oil was scarce and we relied on stinking tallow to illuminate our paltry meal before we trudged to bed, our sole refuge from the long winter night.

Liesel slept like a stone. Her fortitude astonished me. For a seventeen-year-old girl who was too delicate to attend school, she could sit for hours without wincing, wielding her needle as if her life depended on it. She
had made twice as many mittens and caps as I had, and not once had she complained.

I was too tired even to sleep. Shutting my eyes, I tried to recollect that magical evening when I’d sat beside Mademoiselle and beheld another tragedy unspooling before me. I desperately needed to conjure up the memory of her scent on my hands, to see her smile and hear her laughter, as she confided her aspiration.

Women with secrets must also be friends,
oui
?

But she had faded and become a memento—inanimate, sepia tinted. As lifeless as amber.

I had lost her.

All that remained was this endless drudgery and daily fear, and the fragile hope that somehow, someday, the war would finally come to an end and life would begin anew.

MUTTI DEPARTED FOR THE FRONT IN EARLY 1918
, after urgent word arrived that Colonel von Losch had been wounded. As promised, she dispatched Liesel and me to Berlin.

At last, I was back in the city I loved, though I’d only experienced it through outings with Mutti. But Berlin was not lively; it was no longer the fastest city in the world. Everywhere I looked it was deflated and grim, the streets deserted save for old people and black-clad widows clutching tattered shawls, scavenging in the trash heaps or trapping stray cats.

Oma was insulated from the suffering. Uncle Willi still turned a decent profit with his munitions factory, paid by the kaiser himself, and the upscale Felsing residence with its chandeliers and velvet drapes was much the same as I remembered from my childhood, a pantheon to our familial industriousness.

“When did you become so beautiful?” my grandmother asked, peering through her spectacles at me. “You look like no one else in our family,
mein Lieber
.”

“I look like Mutti,” I said. We were in her upstairs boudoir—she still
used the word “boudoir,” peppering her conversation with French phrases, though we were supposed to despise France and every other nation that wasn’t our ally. “I have her hair and eyes—”

“Not her eyes.” Oma’s smile hollowed her face, her bracelets chattering on her bony wrists. “You don’t have our eyes at all. Yours are more wide spaced and heavy lidded. No, much as I hate to say it, those are your father’s eyes. And his forehead. He was handsome, your father. You probably don’t remember him, but he was quite attractive in a robust manner. But a
Dietrich
—” She puffed out her sunken cheeks. “The name says it all. Skeleton key. He was like one, too, fitting every lock without opening a single door. He wasn’t right for Josephine. We tried to tell her, but charity and advice are two things she’s never been capable of accepting.”

I avoided the mention of my father. He was indeed a shadow, an icon whom Mutti had set on a permanent pedestal. His photograph had hung prominently in our flat, edged in gilded rococo homage, but I’d never seen anything but a florid man I didn’t know. I preferred instead to explore Oma’s private room, with its clutter of perfume bottles, enameled gewgaws, and faux Fabergé eggs. A full-length looking glass occupied a corner, festooned with scarves and hats. Looking into a mirror wasn’t something I’d done much of these days. Mutti had turned all the mirrors in Dessau to face the wall in honor of our dead.

Now, I beheld my reflection: thin, with my dress drooping like a misshapen sack on my diminished frame, but taller than I seemed to recall, and . . .

I inched closer.

Was I beautiful? I saw the face I’d always known, shaped by the deprivation of war: my cheeks drawn, my skin pale, and my lips chapped. I hadn’t worn my hair loose during the day since the war began—another sign of respect which Mutti insisted on—and at night, I was often too weary to unwind it. Now, I reached up and loosened my braids, letting my hair fall, lank and in dire need of a wash, but with a more pronounced coppery tint than in my childhood.

“Do you really think I’m . . . ?” I met my grandmother’s gaze in the
glass. She had been beautiful once. Everyone said so. The portraits on the staircase landing attested to it. One of the most beautiful women in Berlin. The vestiges of her beauty lingered under her crepelike skin, in the glow of her plum-colored eyes and immaculate coiffure, now streaked with silver. When I was a child, Oma had been the most sublime being I knew, an apparition of elegance in her appliquéd coats and dresses from Paris; her feathered hats from Vienna; and her Italian gloves made to measure, fastened by tiny mother-of-pearl buttons—with everything saturated in her lilac
parfum.

“You are,” she said. “A beautiful young girl. Lift your skirt for me.”

Though her request was odd, we were alone. Why not? She surveyed me with frank appraisal, her gaze roving behind her spectacles. “You have my legs.” She chortled. “Or my legs when I was your age. Legs like ours can make fortunes,
Liebchen
.”

“You never showed off your legs, Oma!”

“Not where anyone but my admirer could see,” she replied. “I think it’s time I showed you what you would look like if Josephine, bless her heart, wasn’t so preoccupied with propriety and this tedious war.”

Liesel was napping. From the moment we’d arrived at our grandmother’s house, my sister had collapsed, betraying the fact that her fortitude had been for Mutti’s sake. Surely, there could be no harm in a little fun?

“Go to my closet.” She gestured to the carpeted area separating her dressing area from her bedroom, where racks of garments in silk and satin, velvet, wool, linen, and cloth of gold hung over bureaus crammed with Brussels lace undergarments—chemises, petticoats, corsets, and stockings. “Go on,” she urged when I hesitated. “Choose something. You are right that you have our Felsing blood. You are almost the same height and weight as I was at sixteen.”

“Not the same weight,” I countered. “I’ve lost too much.”

“Just enough.” She sniffed. “You were getting rather fat, if I recall. All those cream cakes from the
confiserie
. This new diet of sawdust and turnips might be the cure for our overweight matrons. Look at me. Though I’m almost sixty-three, I’ve not gained an ounce.”

“Not because you subsist on turnips.” I laughed.

I selected an evening gown of gray silk chiffon draped over blue silk, with a fitted bodice, pleated cap sleeves, and a long skirt embroidered with beads. As I turned to her with the dress in hand, she sighed. “Ah. My Worth. He hand-fitted it for me at his Paris atelier. What a perfectionist. He oversaw every detail—and he charged for it, too. Try it on.”

As I turned my back to her, she said irritably, “What is this prudishness? Are you in my home or Josephine’s? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your body is a gift from God, not something you must be ashamed of.”

Having undressed before my sister all my life, I decided this was much the same. I unhooked my worn-out dress and let it slip to my ankles.

“What are you wearing?” Oma might require spectacles, but her horror was unfeigned. “What is that . . .
hideous
thing?”

I glanced down at my all-in-one knit underwear. “Drawers,” I said.

She shuddered. “No, no. You cannot wear your first Worth over those ghastly bloomers. It’ll ruin the line. Fetch a chemise and corset from the drawer, and stockings as well.”

Once I managed to position the corset, I had to return to her on her settee and stand still while she laced me up. It was so tight, I could barely breathe.

“I’m not sure—”

“If you feel as if you might faint, it’s perfect,” she said. “Fetch the dress.”

As I stepped past the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself—svelte, my skin chalky under the sheer chemise, the satin corset with its rosebud motif pushing my breasts up until the nipples peeped out. My legs resembled pilasters sheathed in her silk stockings, tightened at midthigh by blue garters. The image was so arresting, so unlike anything I’d seen, that I paused.

“See?” said Oma. “There it is. Vanity,
mein Lieber
. You must be wary of it. It can seduce even its own reflection.”

I hastened for the dress. She stood, wobbling. Her legs were weak from poor circulation, and from being encased in a corset all her life, I surmised. She hooked the fastenings, tucking the gown in at the sides and clucking,
“It’s too large here and too loose there; you have long legs and a short waist, Marlene. Remember that when you go for a fitting.” With her ringed hands on my bare shoulders and the cap sleeves slipping down my arms, she turned me to the mirror. “Voilà! A Felsing at last.”

I couldn’t believe it was me. I no longer saw a haggard girl but someone entirely different—enticing and mature. Elegant.

Dangerous.

My grandmother must have felt me recoil, for she patted my shoulder. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Beauty is fleeting. We must enjoy what we have before time steals it away. I told you, you were beautiful. Now you can see for yourself that indeed you are.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “I . . . I don’t know her.”

“Yes, you do. She is you. With better accessories.” She smiled, revealing stained teeth, for she was a proper lady who drank only tea. “When I die, I’ll leave you my wardrobe. You can use it as you wish, refashion it to fit the times. I’ll never wear any of it again. A dress outlives its occupant; it might lose its appeal eventually, but never as quickly as we do.”

“Oma.” I hugged her. “
Ich liebe dich
.” It came out, a spontaneous declaration of the heart, though I’d been taught that such emotional displays must be avoided.

“I love you, too.” She kissed me and drew back. “You must attend supper tonight like this. We both shall, yes? We’ll parade downstairs like queens, and won’t Willi be delighted. He loves to see a lady well dressed; he’s been complaining for months that since the war, every woman in Berlin looks like a hausfrau.” She paused, with a malicious smile. “And your sister. Just imagine
her
reaction.”

I could imagine it. And the temptation was too great.

That night, we appeared in our regalia, diamond combs from her jewelry coffer in our upswept hair, our lips rouged and feet shoved into low-heeled satin slippers that hurt like pincers, but I was determined to endure it, even if I had to adopt the mincing gait of a geisha.

Uncle Willi, dapper in an evening frock coat, with his mustache waxed
to points and one of his endless black cigarettes between his fingers, cried out, “
Les dames sont arrivées
.”

Liesel’s mouth hung open as I smiled, dipped my head, and said, “
Merci,
monsieur.” I asked him for a cigarette. He chuckled, lighting it for me. I didn’t inhale; I didn’t know how to, and the smoke tasted acrid, tickling my nostrils. Choking back a cough, I reveled in the effect of smoke trailing from my mouth as I drifted to where my sister sat, immobile, on the parlor sofa.

“What—what are you doing?” She spoke as if she feared I had lost my mind.

“It was Oma’s idea. Why? Do you like it? Isn’t it beautiful?” I twirled to show off the flowing train of my dress but the slippers cut into my toes, making me stumble.

“It . . . it is immoral.” Liesel was trembling. “Mutti is at the front. Herr von Losch could be dying at this very moment, and you—you play dress-up like a stupid girl.”

From her place by our uncle, Oma sighed. “Now, now. There’s no need to be impolite, Liesel. We merely seek to liven up a dreary evening at home.”

“Liven up?” Liesel rose angrily to her feet. “Dreary?” And then she burst into tears, fleeing the parlor and charging up the staircase. The slam of her bedroom door reverberated throughout the house.

“Well.” Oma arched a plucked eyebrow.

I saw the forlorn expression on Uncle Willi’s face. Unable to endure the pinch of the shoes another second, I removed them and limped to him. “What is wrong with her?”

He made a sad moue. “A telegram came when you were upstairs. Liesel answered the door, unfortunately, and read it first. I didn’t want to spoil our evening yet, seeing as you’re both so enchanting, but under the circumstances . . .”

“What? What circumstances?” I felt sick. Not only men were dying at the front; women were, too. Nurses and volunteers in the makeshift infirmaries, caught up in the savagery.

“It’s not your Mutti,” he quickly reassured me, and I sagged in relief. “But I fear her gallant colonel is indeed not long for this earth.” He removed the crinkled paper from his vest. I couldn’t take it with my shoes in hand, so Oma did, adjusting her spectacles to read it.