Marlene: A Novel Read online

  “Are you saying boys might tease me?” I said, with a deliberate lift of my eyes. She went rigid on her chair, betraying the fact that it was precisely what she was trying to say.

  “Do they?” she breathed.

  “No. Or at least not that I’ve noticed.” I paused. “Why? Should I—notice, that is?”

  “Never.” She was appalled. “If they ever tease you or say something improper, you must ignore them and tell Mutti at once.”

  “I will.” I caressed my bow across the strings. “I promise.”

  I wasn’t lying. No boy had paid me any mind. But today someone had. And I knew the way she’d made me feel wasn’t something I should admit to.

  Your secret is safe with me.

  I’d never had a secret before. I intended to keep it.

  MUTTI ARRIVED AT PRECISELY FIVE PAST SEVEN. We’d already cleared the table of Liesel’s study materials and set it with our chipped ceramic dishware, as the Meissen porcelain was reserved for special occasions. I was heating up a pot of weisse Bohnensuppe, a white-bean potage I’d prepared the day before. Mutti refused to let the maid do any cooking and had put me in charge of our daily supper. I enjoyed cooking and was better at it than Liesel, who always ended up with a scorched sauce or an underdone roast. Much like playing music, I found a soothing orderliness in following a recipe, from mixing specific ingredients just so to create a desired result. Mutti had trained me herself, but as with everything else, she did not trust anyone’s skills but her own, coming directly to the kitchen with her hat and gloves still on to peer into the pot.

  “More salt,” she pronounced. “And reduce the flame. Otherwise, it’ll turn to mush.” Turning away, she went to her bedroom. She emerged minutes later in her housedress and apron, her dark blond hair coiled at the nape of her neck. I’d never seen Mutti with her hair loose, not even when she used the washroom; unbound tresses were not something widows showed, it seemed.

  “How was school today?” she asked as she directed me to bring the potage to the table.

  “Good,” I replied. She nodded. I wondered whether she’d notice if I told her the school had burned to the ground. I didn’t think so. She made the daily inquiry only because it was the polite thing to do. My answer was superfluous.

  We ate in silence, idle conversation discouraged at the table. When I wiped my plate with my bread (I had a hearty appetite), she clucked, “Lena, what did I tell you?” I could have recited her litany by heart: “Girls of good breeding don’t sop up their food like peasants. If you want another helping, ask.”

  I never asked. If I did, she’d tell me that girls of good breeding didn’t require second helpings. An uncontrolled appetite displayed a lack of suitable refinement.

  We washed the plates and put them away in the cupboard. Before Papa died, this was the hour when we always made ourselves scarce so our parents could retire to the living room, where Mutti would play the fortepiano while he smoked his pipe and sipped an evening Weinbrand. But he was gone, and as we were of suitable age, my sister reclined on the sofa as Mutti oversaw my rendition of the Bach sonata.

  As always, I was nervous. Mutti might not be experienced with the violin, but she had an unerring ear and I wanted to prove I was practicing every afternoon as instructed. She was not a disciplinarian in the physical sense; she had slapped me only once. I was ten years old and at dance class, where I refused to partner with a boy whose breath stank of onion. I’d never forgotten how she strode across the floor in full view of the other children and their parents to deliver her humiliating blow, along with a stern: “We never display our feelings in public. It’s rude.” I’d taken pains since then to never incite her again. Though she might spare the proverbial rod, her tongue could be just as lacerating, and she had even less patience for sloth than she did for dirt or rudeness. “Tu etwas” was her motto: “Do something.” We’d learned that idleness was the worst sin of all, one we must avoid at any cost.

  I finished the sonata without errors. Mutti leaned back on the bench before the fortepiano. “That was excellent, Lena.” She spoke with an affection she never showed unless I had surpassed her expectations.

  Relief filled me. Her praise was so rare, it made me feel as if I’d accomplished a feat.

  “You’ve been practicing,” she went on. “It shows. You must continue. It shan’t be long before we must arrange a scholarship audition to the Weimar music conservatory.”

  “Yes, Mutti,” I said. The prestigious conservatory in Weimar was her ambition, not mine; she believed my talent could pave the way to a career as a concert soloist and had not solicited my opinion. Girls of good breeding did what their mothers told them to do.

  “And you, my dear?” She glanced at Liesel, who had applauded at the end of my performance. “Would you like to play something on the piano for us?”

  Apparently, I thought resentfully, my sister’s opinion did matter, for when she demurred, “Forgive me, but I have a headache,” Mutti sighed and closed the lid on the keys. “You must go to bed, then. It’s getting late and we have to rise early tomorrow.”

  Earlier than usual? I groaned inside. It meant she had chores we must do before I left for school and she went to work. As I set my violin in its case, I wondered why we kept a maid at all. Between our daily chores and Mutti’s nightly ritual—I could tell she was eager to see us to bed so she could attack the foyer parquet—surely paying a maid was another needless expense.

  Then Mutti said, “Before we retire, I have important news.”

  I paused in surprise. News?

  We waited as she glanced at her chafed hands, which no amount of lotion could relieve, visible proof that Wilhelmina Josephine Felsing, known in the community as the Widow Dietrich, had come down in the world. She still wore her gold wedding band, tight around her swollen knuckle. She fingered it. Something about her gesture made me nervous.

  “I am getting married again.”

  Liesel sat frozen. Incredulous, I said, “Married? To whom?”

  She frowned. As I braced for her retort that children did not question their elders, she replied, “To Herr von Losch. As you know, he is a widower, with no children; after careful consideration, I have decided to accept his proposal.”

  “Herr von Losch?” I was aghast. “The man whose house you clean?”

  “I do not clean it.” Though she didn’t raise her voice, her tone turned sharp. “I oversee its upkeep. I am his Haushälterin. His maids do the cleaning and I supervise. Are you quite finished with your questions, Lena?”

  I wasn’t. A hundred more clamored in my mind but all I said was, “Yes, Mutti,” and stepped toward my sister, thinking I had just earned my second slap.

  “The wedding will take place next year.” Mutti stood, smoothing her hands over her apron. “I’ve asked for sufficient time to prepare and he has granted it. I want to inform your grandmother and Uncle Willi first of course, as they must give their approval and present me at the altar. That is why we must rise extra early tomorrow. I’ve invited them to visit; before they arrive, we’ve much to do if we’re to set this house in order.”

  Unless she intended us to switch out the furniture, I couldn’t see what else needed doing. Every Saturday after market we scrubbed the entire flat, addressing each nook and cranny the maid had neglected. And no matter how much we cleaned, anyone could see that, unlike Oma and Uncle Willi, we lived in a rented flat that, while not mean, was hardly luxurious. But I didn’t dare say another word, too shocked by her unexpected news.

  She would marry again. Liesel and I would have a new stepfather—a man we did not know, who we’d be expected to respect and obey.

  “We’ve not yet decided our living arrangements, but I assume after the wedding, we’ll move to his house in Dessau. I’m going there next week to see if it’s suitable. In the meantime, you are not to say a word to anyone. I don’t want the neighbors gossiping out of turn or advising the landlord that we intend to give notice. Is that understood?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, Mutti,” Liesel and I said in unison.

  “Good.” She tried to smile, but it was such an infrequent occurrence for her, it came out as a grimace. “Now, wash your faces and say your prayers.” As we turned to leave, she called out, “Lena, make sure you wash behind your ears.”

  Liesel didn’t speak as we took our turns in the cramped washroom, undressed, and slipped into our narrow twin beds. A nightstand separated us; I could have reached across and touched her, but I didn’t, lying on my back to stare up at the ceiling. When I heard Mutti in the foyer, on her knees with her rags and wax, I whispered, “Why would she do this, at her age?”

  My sister sighed. “She’s only thirty-eight. It’s not so old. Herr von Losch is also a colonel in the Imperial Grenadiers, as Papa was. He must be an honest man.”

  “Thirty-eight seems old enough to me,” I retorted. “And how do we know he’s honest? She supervises his maids. What can she know about him, besides how much starch to use on his shirts?” My voice hardened. “And Dessau is so far away that I’ll have to leave my school.”

  “Lena.” Liesel turned to me, her eyes like two pinched holes in the gloom. “You mustn’t try her. She only does what is best for us.”

  Somehow, I doubted that. Marrying a stranger and upending our existence didn’t seem like what was best for anyone, save for her and Herr von Losch.

  “A woman alone is a terrible thing,” Liesel went on. “You cannot understand, but to be a widow with two daughters to raise—it’s a test of perseverance.” She turned away, pulling her sheet to her chin. Within minutes, she was snoring. Liesel would not protest. Whatever Mutti said or did, she always complied. A parlor here or there: It was all the same to her.

  While I had other interests. I had my secret.

  With my sheets bunched in my fists, I did not fall asleep for a long time.

  III

  I trudged through the weekend. Mutti couldn’t help but notice, especially when Liesel whispered, “Stop glowering!” But she refrained from any chastisement, first having us clean the entire apartment, floors and windows included, before she received word that Uncle Willi couldn’t visit. Instead, to my delight, Mutti said we would go see him in Berlin.

  I loved Unter den Linden in the city, that sweeping boulevard with its luxurious shopping emporia; here, we visited the Felsing Clock and Watch Company run by Uncle Willi. Delighted to see us, he took us to a confiserie for vanilla cakes and marzipan, and then on to the Café Bauer on the Friedrichstrasse for hot chocolate to go with our cakes. I had an insatiable sweet tooth, and Mutti, for all her rigidity at the table, indulged my vice, as a girl with flesh on her bones proved she came from an upstanding family. I ate my share but also surreptitiously wrapped several marzipans in my handkerchief, pocketing them while Uncle Willi paid the bill, even as my sister eyed me in dismay.

  Mutti did not mention her upcoming marriage again, at least not with us, though I assumed at some point she informed Uncle Willi. She didn’t believe in debating her decisions with us, and of course we were in no position to challenge them. But rebelliousness seethed in me. By the following week, I felt so helpless before this momentous change in my life, I stopped pretending in class and vied openly for Mademoiselle’s attention. I was the first to present my flawless assignments, the first to raise my hand and answer any question she posed, oblivious to the others’ glares when she commended me for my diligence.

  “Let Maria be an example,” she told the class, giving me her coveted smile. “She has shown that with the proper attitude and diligence, anyone can learn to speak French.”

  As almost everyone suspected I had started out with an advantage they lacked, I didn’t endear myself to my classmates and I didn’t care. I wanted only to endear myself to her. The marzipan I’d taken became little gifts wrapped in scraps of lace, adorned with a single poppy, which I deposited on her desk every day before I left, my eyes downcast as she exclaimed, “How thoughtful of you,” and I murmured, “De rien, Mademoiselle.” That the marzipan was misshapen, soggy from being stored in my pocket, made no difference; it was my gesture of appreciation that mattered.

  The very next week when Mutti went to Dessau to determine if the von Losch house would suit as our new residence, which meant she’d return home later than usual, Mademoiselle invited me to a stroll after school. Although I’d promised to go straight home to help Liesel with chores and supper—as predicted, our maid had been sacked—I waited for Mademoiselle outside the gates. She emerged with her satchel stuffed with books and a straw boater on her head.

  “Shall we?” she said, and I found myself walking beside her to the boulevard, passing laced-up ladies with parasols and dogs on leashes, gentlemen in bowler hats and gold fob chains slung from vests, and tired governesses with protesting charges in tow. Any of them might know Mutti. Despite its proximity to Berlin, Schöneberg was still a garrison town, where the kaiser barracked his troops. Everyone knew everyone else. I kept my face lowered under my cap, hoping my uniform would hide my identity. To my relief, no one paid us particular mind, the men doffing their hats and the ladies murmuring their guten Tags.

  “Let’s have a coffee.” Mademoiselle stopped at a corner café, taking one of the outdoor marble-topped tables. As I perched opposite her, I realized that in daylight, she was even lovelier than in the classroom, her hazel eyes flecked with green, her lips as pink as the ribbon on her hat. A few stray hairs from her chignon clung to her cheek. I had to clench my hands in my lap to stop myself from reaching over to peel them off her skin.

  She ordered. The waiter frowned. “Coffee for the fräulein?”

  “How silly of me.” She laughed. “Marlene, would you prefer a chocolate or a lemonade?”

  “No, thank you.” I straightened my back. “Coffee is fine.”

  I’d never had coffee. Mutti drank tea. Proper ladies only drank tea. Regardless of its popularity, according to Mutti, coffee was a foreign predilection that soured one’s breath.

  While we waited to be served, Mademoiselle sighed and removed her boater, running her fingers through her hair, causing more strands to unravel about her face. Then without warning, she said, “Now, you must tell me what troubles you.”

  I was startled. “Troubles me? Nothing, Mademoiselle.” Except that I was sitting at a café on the boulevard with her and was afraid someone who knew Mutti might see us.

  “Oh, no.” She wagged her finger. “I’ve sufficient experience to know when a student tries to hide something.”

  “Experience?”

  “Yes.” She nodded as the waiter set two cups of dark liquid before us, pouring cream from the pitcher into hers. She extended the pitcher. “It’s less bitter this way. Add sugar, too.” As I did, she went on, “Before I took this job, I worked as a governess in a large house. I had three charges. I know when a girl fears saying what’s on her mind.”

  For a paralyzing instant, I thought she’d seen through me, my gifts of marzipan and eagerness for attention betraying me. But then I realized she didn’t appear angry or upset, her candid gaze on me as she said, “I promise whatever you tell me will stay between us.”

  “Like . . . a secret?” I asked. I sipped the coffee; it tasted like sweet molten velvet.

  “If you like. Un secret entre nous.”

  My French might be good, but not good enough to describe my surge of emotion. I didn’t want to impose on her astonishing informality, exciting as it was. No one had ever asked me what I felt, much less my innermost thoughts. As if Mutti were at my side, a sibilant shadow in my ear, I heard: We never display our feelings in public.

  I tore my gaze from her face. “It really is nothing,” I muttered.

  Her hand slid over mine. Her fingers were so warm, the sensation speared all the way to my toes. “Please. I want to help you, if I can.”

  Was I so transparent? Or was it rather that until this moment, no one had ever deigned to see me as someone with feelings worth noting?

  “It’s . . . my mother. She�
��s getting married again.”

  “Is that all? But I had the impression it must be something else.”

  “Such as?” I was terrified to learn what else she’d divined, prepared to be told that my affection, while flattering, was hardly appropriate between a student and her teacher.

  Instead she said, “I thought there might be a boy you liked, perhaps, or some female trouble?”

  I understood the euphemism and shook my head. I’d had my first menses three months before.

  “Then it is only your mother getting married? But why? Do you not like her suitor?”

  “I don’t know him. My father died when I was six. Until now, it’s just been Mutti, my sister, and me. . . .” Before I knew it, I was telling her all about Herr von Losch and the threatening move to Dessau, about my talent for the violin and Mutti’s ambition to see me enter the conservatory. I curbed my outburst only when I was about to confess that she also troubled me, as I had no words to explain what she made me feel, but that I didn’t want to go anywhere that might take me away from her.

  She sipped her coffee. “I understand how frightening change can be,” she said at length. “Mon Dieu, how I understand. But it doesn’t seem as if you’ve reason to worry. Your mother sounds like a decent woman who has found a husband to care for her. You want her to be happy, don’t you? And Dessau isn’t too far away. I’m certain there are schools there, with other girls.” She paused. “You’ve not made friends here. That dark-haired girl who sits next to you in class, Hilde—she’s always trying to catch your attention but you behave as if she’s invisible.”