Marlene: A Novel Read online

  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

  Marlene, 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?”

  “Imprisoned Soul!” cried out one of the girls, before Bertha, who knew all my tricks, could. I adjusted the sheet into a shroud and assumed a forlorn expression. “I must die for my honor.”

  “Anna Bolena,” said Bertha. She gave me a snide look. “That was too easy, Marlene. Do another—and make it less obvious this time.”

  As I twined the sheet about my waist, considering which of Porten’s male lovers to evoke, I didn’t hear the footsteps coming down the corridor until they were at the door.

  “Hausmutter!” I hissed.

  The girls scrambled in a panic, waving their hands frantically in the air to dispel the smoke. Then they raced to the armoire by the wall. In our haste to eat cake, we’d forgotten to push it against the door as we usually did.

  “What in heaven is this abominable racket?” boomed Frau Arnoldi. She was so fat, she could usually be heard coming from a distance, only this time she must have made an effort to tiptoe up the stairs. The door cracked open just as the girls slid the armoire into place, blocking her entry. With only her eyes and her beak of a nose visible, she spat out, “Remove that furnishing at once. I can see you, Marlene Dietrich. I know what you are about. You are a disgrace to my house.”

  It was so absurd, I started to laugh, helplessly entangled in my sheet.

  Bertha guffawed, too, until Frau Arnoldi cried, “And you, Bertha Schiller. You are as much to blame.” She banged on the door. “Let me in this instant.”

  My laughter faded. The others looked horrified. Our housemother was notorious for searching our rooms while we were in class, confiscating our caches of sweets and cigarettes, and anything else she deemed indecent, but she had never actually caught us in the act.

  With the sheet yanked to my chin, I retrieved my discarded nightgown. The girls hauled back the armoire to reveal Frau Arnoldi on the threshold, her multiple chins quivering and her large bosom heaving with indignation.

  She raked her stare over me. “So. This is how you repay your mother’s hard work and concern, the private teacher she has hired for you, all her hopes for your future—by parading about your room in front of everyone like—like . . .”

  “Henny Porten,” muttered Bertha. “She was doing imitations of Henny Porten for us.” As soon as she spoke, she tried and failed to stifle her giggle.

  Frau Arnoldi glared. “I’ll not stand for it.” She wagged her finger. “I shall write to both your mothers. Telephone them, if I must.” She swerved from Bertha to me. “You think you’re so clever, fräulein, so sly—but I know what I know. And now so shall Frau von Losch. I’ve held my tongue for too long.”

  The girls cowered. Bertha shot me a strange look. Ignoring Frau Arnoldi’s gasp, I dropped the sheet and, as naked as the day I was born, slipped into my nightgown. As I buttoned it up, I said, “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “You don’t?” Frau Arnoldi’s tone turned malignant. From the moment I’d arrived, she had taken an inexplicable antipathy to me. I once heard her comment to another matron who came to visit, as I flew past them on my way to class, “That one. You should see her eyes. Such eyes. Salome herself could not be more brazen.”

  But Mutti footed my bill. I was a paying guest and a student at the conservatory. Whether she liked me or not was of no concern. Until now.

  I forced myself to remain calm. In my experience, Frau Arnoldi was mostly bombast. She often flew into tirades if too much butter was served at breakfast—it was expensive, she never tired of chiding the maid, and Germany had a fat shortage—but she couldn’t afford to scold too much. She relied on the income generated by her so-called house. Without us, her boarders, there would be no butter to waste or maid to serve it.

  “If I’ve offended, you must allow me to make amends,” I finally said, as the silence grew taut. “There’s no reason to involve my mother in a simple misunderstanding—”

  Frau Arnoldi snorted. “I daresay Frau Reitz would not call it that.”

  I went still. “Frau Reitz? I’ve never even met her.”

  “She might wish she could say the same about you and her husband.” Frau Arnoldi suddenly looked very pleased with herself.

  Her insinuation alarmed me. “What are you saying?” I demanded.

  She laughed. “Don’t play the virgin with me. All those high marks on your last report card! Do you think the entire faculty is stupid? Do you think this entire town is blind? I’m not the only one who’s seen you leaving this house, dressed in chiffon with your hem hiked to here, and enough rouge to make Henny Porten herself blush. I’ve seen a hundred girls just like you, fräulein. And let me assure you, girls like you never come to any good.”

  If she’d struck a blow to my face, I couldn’t have been more enraged. It was true that I dressed with flair, but only because I had better clothes. And the professor—was she insane? He was married, with children. And at least twenty years older than me. He gave me high marks because I worked hard. Never once had he—

  That one. You should see her eyes. Such eyes!

  Frau Arnoldi’s smile cut across her mouth. “It seems you’re not entirely without shame. That is as it should be. Men may do as they please when their wives look the other way, but when an unmarried girl does the same, it is another matter entirely.”

  I took a furious step toward her, even as Bertha hissed, “Marlene, no.”

  Meeting Frau Arnoldi’s glare, I said slowly, with deliberate menace, “You must not worry my mother. She will think that you, Hausmutter, have been remiss or tell lies. She’ll resort to compensation from the conservatory itself.”

  That did the trick. The last thing Frau Arnoldi wanted was the conservatory inquiring about her premises. She got a stipend from them for her boarders, in addition to our weekly rate.

  Her jaw clenched. “Sweets,” she said through her teeth. “You bring sweets into this house. And tobacco. And heaven knows what else. It is verboten.”

  “Then I won’
t do it again.”

  “No. You will not.” Turning about, she barked at the others: “Out. Now.” Throwing another glare at me over her shoulder as she herded the girls out, she left me with no doubt that financial concerns aside, she had set her eye on me and I was now on probation.

  Bertha and I set the room to rights and sat facing each other on our twin beds. We should have laughed. Frau Arnoldi couldn’t do any harm. Her purse strings didn’t allow it. But it wasn’t funny. I was so disturbed that I eventually said, “Is it true? Do they talk about me and the professor?”

  Bertha sighed. “Of course they do. You’re the only one who doesn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  She went quiet, kneading her hands.

  “What?” I persisted. “What don’t I know?”

  “How you are. How you look. How you move. There is something about you, Marlene. You are different.”

  “I am not,” I declared, bristling at once. Different meant bad, as Mutti would have informed me. Different meant I was not being a well-bred girl from an upstanding family, and I did not want to be that. “How can you say that? I’m not different. I’m just like everyone else.”

  “That’s only what you want to think.” She tried to smile. “Some girls just have it, like a flame inside them. It’s not your fault. You can’t help it. You attract attention.” She paused, her voice lowering. “Have you truly never . . . ?”

  I didn’t know what to reply. I recalled my passion for Mademoiselle. She, too, had told me I wasn’t like other girls, and though I’d been too young at the time to understand, as I grew older I began to wonder if perhaps I might prefer women. I wasn’t ignorant. Mutti had never instructed me on the facts of sex, but her warning had stayed with me, and living in the boardinghouse provided ample education. I’d heard stories of girls who’d been sent home in disgrace and knew some of the girls here were more than friends, their giggling and sharing of clothes turning into furtive explorations. It didn’t bother me. But neither had it incited me to join them. Oh, I liked to dress up and sway my hips. I liked the way my body had bloomed and enjoyed admiring myself in the mirror, cupping my breasts and extending the length of my legs. I knew I was pretty. I could see it. But I avoided entanglements because I feared the repercussions.