Marlene (6 page)

“It seems we are not the only stupid girls in this family,” she said, lifting her eyes to me. “Josephine has married her colonel on the Russian front even as he received his last rites. My daughter went to war a widow and she will return as one—the Widow von Losch.”

VI

M
utti brought with her the colonel’s corpse for burial. She also claimed his death benefit, which allowed us to settle into a rented flat near the Felsing residence, from where she took up her housekeeping again. I found myself begrudgingly admiring her; Oma might have declared her stupid, but Mutti’s arrangement with the late colonel had yielded its due. She had regained her independence and now we could live in Berlin.

The end of the war came in November 1918, sealed by a humiliating armistice and treaty hammered out in Paris by the allied powers. The kaiser was exiled and Germany sequestered under a blockade. Riots broke out, people taking to the streets to protest everything from food shortages to spiraling inflation and unemployment. There was no longer an emperor or an empire, and as the provisional government struggled to assert itself, Berlin descended into lawlessness. Uncle Willi lost his imperial patent and had to cajole bankers for loans to finance the business, as looters smashed store windows up and down Unter den Linden, grabbing goods before the police arrived to thrash them and drag them off to the overcrowded prisons.

After consulting with Oma, Mutti decided that Liesel and I must com
plete our education in the less chaotic environs of Weimar. As expected, neither my sister nor I was asked; most unexpectedly, however, when informed of our destination, Liesel refused.

“I want to stay here and complete my certification to be a schoolteacher,” she informed them while I sat there, astonished. “The conservatory only offers training in the musical arts and I’m not a musician. The expense would be wasted.”

She had a point. While I’d returned to public school and resumed my private violin lessons, paid for by Oma, Liesel had stayed at home, studying under a new governess, also furnished by Oma. This new governess had apparently instilled in her her life’s ambition.

Mutti said, “A schoolteacher? But you are a Felsing. Surely, you can aspire to higher—”

Oma cut her off with an imperious lift of her hand. It never failed to send a thrill through me to watch my mother defer to her, much as we were expected to defer in turn.

“The child is sensible,” said Oma. “With the situation as it is, a schoolteacher is a perfectly acceptable occupation. Lest you need reminding, Josephine, your daughters must find the means to support themselves. We can no longer stand on our pride. Being a Felsing means little anymore. And Marlene is the musical talent in our family. She will do us proud.”

Despite Oma’s confidence, I wanted to follow Liesel’s example. I’d grown used to racing to the house after school for my violin classes, after which Oma invariably let me stay for supper. Despite the disorder in the streets, evenings at the Felsing residence were always lively. Food and luxuries might be scarce, but conversation was not. Uncle Willi had many friends, some of whom worked in the theater and brought gossip about backstage mishaps or criticisms of our country, where a slice of beef now cost more than a ticket to a play. The urgent need to discard the past and create the future, revitalizing our bereaved nation, was a favored topic. I sat wide eyed in the parlor as playwrights, actors, and artists congregated around me, flushed with cheap wine as they expounded on the idea that in the midst of disaster, art must flourish. I found it all incredibly exciting,
even if most of what they discussed went over my head. Still, their vibrant enthusiasm permeated me; I sensed something marvelous brewing. It made me think that surely there was a place for me here in Berlin, where I could become part of their bold vision.

Oma now fixed her spectacled gaze on me. “You are the future. You and every other young person who survived this calamity. Germany depends on you for her survival.”

She’d grown frail, unable to rise from her settee; I didn’t want to disappoint her, even as I asked, “But can’t we find a music academy here?” and Mutti snapped, “Nothing in Berlin can possibly compare to Weimar. The conservatory is renowned for its teaching skill.”

AFTER WEEKS OF GRUELING PRACTICE
, I traveled with Mutti to Weimar to audition for the scholarship. I had to play a Bach sonata selected by the committee; I was nervous, and while I knew the piece, I did not play as well as I hoped. The scholarship was denied. The committee expressed regret that they had many worthy applicants for few spots, but were willing to enroll me, if the tuition was forthcoming. I could start classes next year, upon my seventeenth birthday.

On our way back to Berlin, Mutti sighed. “How will we afford it?”

I swallowed. Though disappointed, somewhere within me, I was also relieved. I would not have to leave Berlin, though my last year of school approached, and becoming a musician was so ingrained in me, I couldn’t think of an alternative.

Finally I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t try to afford it, if I’m not good enough.”

“Not good enough?” said Mutti. “Why ever would you say that? You’ve been playing the violin all your life; it is your God-given gift. They selected that sonata to challenge you; of course you made mistakes. But the conservatory did not say you lack talent, only that it doesn’t have sufficient resources to finance every student. After the war, no one has sufficient resources. We must find another way.”

I looked her in the eye. “If I have a God-given gift, wouldn’t they have found a way?”

I thought she might chastise me. She regarded me as if expressing doubt were anathema, but then she said quietly, with a candor that went right through me, “We all doubt when we are young. Why take the difficult path when there are easier routes? But we must push past the doubt, because nothing worthwhile is achieved in this world unless we work hard for it.” She met my stare. “You have no idea yet of what life can do. But with a talent to rely upon, you can survive almost anything. Don’t make the mistake of throwing it away because you must make an effort. Do you want a life you choose or the one life chooses for you? Only you can decide.”

Remembering how she’d been willing to surrender to what had no doubt been a loveless arrangement with her colonel, I realized, with some apprehension, what my mother was trying to say. She had unfulfilled aspirations of her own; a talented pianist herself, she had forsaken her gift to do the expected thing for a woman of her class: She married my father instead, thinking she’d be content as a wife and mother. Yet he had died prematurely, compelling her to do housekeeping out of necessity. She worked because she had no choice—or none that she could see—and she wanted more for me. All along, despite her coddling of Liesel, I was the one on whom she depended to justify her sacrifice. It was why she refused to admit defeat.

I remained quiet for the rest of the trip. But in the following days, I could not stop ruminating. Was being a musician the path I should choose? I played the violin because it was what Mutti wanted me to do. I loved it, yes, but did I love it enough to define my life? It frightened me that I did not know, that all of a sudden, I faced the end of my childhood and a looming decision about my future that I felt I could not make.

Shortly before Christmas, the decision was made for me.

Oma passed away in her sleep. I was grief stricken, though she’d been ill for some time and her death was expected. Her share in the family business went to Mutti—a significant investment, if Uncle Willi could
revive the store’s profits. Oma had also left a separate amount to cover my first year of tuition at Weimar. Following the funeral, as snow swirled over Berlin, Mutti announced that I must honor my grandmother’s wishes.

“And you will excel,” she assured me. “If you study hard, the conservatory will prepare you for a career. You will indeed do us proud, as Oma said.”

I glanced at Uncle Willi. He gave me an odd, almost reluctant, smile. “Is this what you want, Lena?” he asked, even as Mutti pursed her lips, as though my opinion were of no account. “To become a concert violinist must be something you want more than anything else.”

I was startled that my uncle had somehow sensed my uncertainty. Oma had indeed believed in me, and Mutti’s belief was unassailable, but until this moment no one had asked me if I shared it. I forced back that surge of doubt which had assailed me after my audition, but could not evade it. If my mother had taught me anything, it was that a passionate conviction in one’s self was required. And much as I wanted to say I had that conviction, if only for Mutti’s sake, I wasn’t sure that I did.

“I suppose I could try,” I managed to say. “I’ll never know otherwise.”

Uncle Willi nodded. Before he could say anything else, Mutti declared, “Do not try.
Do,
Lena. Do and you will succeed.” She motioned. “Now, come upstairs with me. We must look over Oma’s things and see what you can take with you.”

As promised, Oma had also bequeathed me her wardrobe. Mutti packed my suitcase with the least ostentatious outfits (carefully selected and altered by her) and accompanied me back to Weimar and a boardinghouse for girls studying at the conservatory, run by a redoubtable matron named Frau Arnoldi. The boardinghouse had a storied repute. In the eighteenth century, the platonic muse of Goethe, Germany’s heroic writer and statesman, whose works had formed the basis of my literary education, once resided there. Advising me to be on my best behavior and not forget to wash behind my ears, Mutti handed me an envelope with enough money for my monthly expenses. Then, just as I drew back from kissing her cheek good-bye, she seized my arm and said, “No scandals. You will study hard
and make friends, but do not cause me any shame. Remember who you are. A Felsing must be above reproach. Do you understand?”

I recoiled from the vehemence on her face. “Yes, Mutti,” I whispered.

Her fingers tightened on my arm. “You are a very pretty girl. It will be tempting. But boys can ruin a reputation,” she said. “And some things they do, you can never recover from.”

“Yes,” I said again, for she was starting to frighten me. “I promise.”

She released me. With a narrow-eyed look, she nodded and departed for the station and her train back to Berlin.

For the first time in my life, I was suddenly on my own.

SCENE TWO

VIOLIN LESSONS

1919–1921

“I NEVER THINK ABOUT THE FUTURE.”

I

M
arlene, do your harem-girl imitation. It’s so hilarious!”

The girls sat in the bedroom I shared with my roommate, Bertha, all of us wearing our nightgowns and with our hair loose, the tinsel wrappings of our illicit feast scattered about. Smoke hovered in the air; several were smoking, a habit I’d started to pick up. Both cigarettes and sweets were verboten in the boardinghouse, but I’d organized a plan in which we set aside a certain amount of our weekly allowances, and once we had enough, I hiked into town to the local shops. Then I sneaked in the box of pastries, pouch of tobacco, and wrapping papers so we could indulge in my room after Frau Arnoldi retired.

I removed my nightgown—my silhouette worked better without it—and posed naked behind the sheet we’d slung on a clothesline in front of the lamp, arching my arms to imitate a dancer. Then I slowly gyrated, making the sound of drumbeats through my lips.

With their hands over their sticky mouths to muffle their laughter, the girls squealed.

My first year of studies in Weimar had been diligent; I had strived to excel, yet when my first grade report reached Mutti, citing that I’d failed to show the exceptional talent she’d believed I had, she promptly hired the
best violin teacher in the conservatory for weekly after-hours lessons. My Thursday classes with Professor Reitz were an additional expense that I knew she could ill afford and I’d dedicated myself to my practice, hoping to advance. But not all was toil. I’d discovered in the boardinghouse something I’d never had: friends. Like me, most of the girls came from upstanding families who’d made sacrifices to place them in the conservatory; not one I’d met had a scholarship but all hoped to be musicians, or so they said. Already, in the first year, a few had given up, either from lack of dedication or boredom, returning home to marry the boy next door. My popularity had soared, however, when the girls saw my dresses, severely adjusted by Mutti but still made of fine fabrics that I innately knew how to mix and match. They begged to borrow items and I obliged; I’d shared clothes with Liesel all my life and was not possessive. Then one night, bored, with nothing to do except recite poetry or practice our instruments, I agreed to participate in their guessing game, which involved imitating diverse things. I improvised the harem (with my nightgown on) and the girls declared me a natural. I soon found they liked me for myself. It wasn’t just because of my clothes or because I had a private instructor, though they envied these. They liked me because I liked them.

Bertha, my roommate and a plump girl who played the clarinet, clapped her hands. “More, more. Do Henny Porten.”

We were obsessed with Henny Porten. She was Germany’s premier picture actress, her flickers shown in the local kinos—the new cinema houses overtaking the country. With her perfect oval face, white complexion, and large dramatic eyes, she had a presence of seductive nobility, often playing doomed heroines who suffered for love. She inspired us to style our hair in rippling waves like hers, paint our lips in her signature red pout, and poise our hands at our breasts in her martyrlike suffering. We’d seen every picture of hers that reached Weimar, crowding the aisles on the weekends with our forbidden sweets in our laps and sighing in adoration as she pined, flailed, and pursued her faithless lovers on the screen.

Coiling the sheet into a turban and draping the edges over my breasts, I lifted a hand to my collarbone and stretched out my other arm, bleating,
“Why do you forsake me, Curt? Can’t you see I am spellbound by the baron?”