Charlotte
Page 7
But what burns in her mind is a more personal question.
What about you?
What about me?
Have you been with many women, Alfred?
Oh, women …
Yes, I’ve known some.
That is how he answers her.
Evasively.
And then, suddenly, he becomes more explicit.
Yes, I’ve been with women.
I can’t tell you how many.
But all of them were important.
It can never be insignificant.
A woman naked in front of me.
A woman opening her mouth.
I respected every one of them.
Even the most fleeting.
9
Charlotte forgets the rest of the world.
Her family’s anxieties.
When she gets home, her father is waiting for her in the living room.
Is he relieved or furious?
Probably some combination of the two.
After a while, Albert starts yelling.
Where were you?!
Don’t you ever think about us?
Didn’t it occur to you that we’d be worried, desperate?
Charlotte lowers her head.
She knows that anything can happen at night.
If she’d been stopped, they might have deported her.
They might have beaten her, tortured her, raped her, killed her.
She apologizes, but she cannot manage to cry.
She merely stammers that she was daydreaming.
This is the first excuse that comes to mind.
Paula walks over to calm down the situation.
Never do that to us again, she says.
If you must daydream, come home to do it.
Charlotte promises to be careful.
But that is no kind of life for a young woman.
She is twenty-one years old and she wants to be free.
She can’t even breathe without planning it in advance.
All spontaneity is forbidden.
But ultimately, nothing else matters tonight.
She is happy.
She could live in prison, as long as he was there with her.
As she kisses her father, a smile appears.
Charlotte’s face lights up.
She tries to stop herself giggling.
Paula notices this, without understanding.
It is the first time she has seen Charlotte like this.
Usually, she is so enclosed.
Two minutes ago, she was on the verge of tears.
She apologized sincerely.
And now she can’t stop smiling.
Sorry.
Sorry, Charlotte repeats, as she runs to her room.
Paula and Albert stare at her, warily.
Disturbed, even.
After all, insanity runs in the family.
10
A few days later, they meet again in Wannsee.
A magical part of Berlin, with three lakes.
The gray sky has kept the crowds away.
At this moment, they are alone.
And Charlotte is free.
This time, she has warned her parents: I’ll be at Barbara’s house.
They sit on a bench where they are not allowed to sit.
Their bodies hide the sign.
NUR FÜR ARIER: only for Aryans.
With Alfred, Charlotte feels capable of daring.
I can’t stand our era anymore, she says.
This era that seems to go on forever.
A few yards from their bench is the Villa Marlier.
They admire the beauty and elegance of that building.
On January 20, 1942, high-ranking Nazis will meet here.
For a little work meeting organized by Reinhard Heydrich.
History knows it as the Wannsee Conference.
In two hours, they will put the finishing touches to the machinery of the Final Solution.
The methods of liquidation defined.
Good, it’s all sorted.
Excellent work, gentlemen.
Now let us relax in the lounge.
A very fine Cognac is served.
They sip it with the satisfaction of a duty accomplished.
Today, the men from that meeting are frozen in photographs.
They are immortal, or rather: they must never be forgotten.
The villa has become a place of memorial.
I visited it one gloriously sunny day in July 2004.
You can walk through the horror.
The long table used for the meeting is frightening.
As if the objects had taken part in the crime.
The place will forever be charged with terror.
So this is what it means, when a chill runs down your spine.
I had never understood that expression before.
The physical manifestation of an invisible icy finger.
Tracing the vertebrae in your back.
11
Alfred takes Charlotte’s hand.
Let’s go for a boat ride.
But it looks like it’s going to rain, she replies.
So?
Is rain really a danger in Germany?
They climb into the small boat.
And let it drift across the wide lake.
The sky darkens, like a room after sunset.
Charlotte lies down.
That way, she can take more pleasure in the movements of the water.
She could drift on like this forever.
Her position reminds Alfred of a work by Michelangelo.
A sculpture entitled Night.
There he sits, facing the ideal.
The storm begins to rumble.
The world is cleansed by thunder, he says.
He moves closer, to kiss her.
Lost in their kiss, they do not hear.
A man yelling at them to return.
They are crazy to stay out in the deluge.
Finally, they come back to reality.
The boat is full of water.
They must quickly row back to the shore.
With her hands, Charlotte tries to shovel the water from the boat.
While Alfred works the oars.
Thankfully, they make it to the banks of the lake.
And climb out, laughing.
The boat owner staring at them aghast.
Then they run through the park to the exit.
The rain turning them into fugitives.
12
She agrees to go to his place.
Soaked to the bone, they enter the hovel.
The décor doesn’t matter.
There are piles of books on the floor.
He tells her to get undressed so she doesn’t catch cold.
She obeys without even thinking.
She thought she would be afraid, but the opposite is true.
As her desire grows, so does her boldness.
He pronounces her name: Charlotte.
Several times.
She likes her name in his mouth.
Charlotte again.
She stands naked.
He kisses her all over her body.
A promenade lost between sweetness and torture.
And yet his crazy wanderings are so precise.
Already they are touching the sensual consecration.
Charlotte breathes yes yes yes and arches her back.
Alfred, my love.
It is his turn to strip.
And they move toward the bed.
They have passed from one world to another.
Without the slightest transition.
Some uncertainties end as inevitabilities.
They embrace and it burns.
Desire almost biting.
He observes the young woman, naked and open.
A proof of life, a hard slap in the face.
He can speak, dream, sing, write, create, die.
But this is the only instan
t that is worth all the suffering.
Vice in the guise of innocence.
Nothing else matters.
Alfred is doubly aware of this.
He is an artist, and he is a man.
Just as she was feeling strong, it is devastation.
Charlotte’s body starts to tremble.
There are shadows on her face.
It’s the past, fleeing.
Frightened away by the total hegemony of now.
She abandons herself, with even greater strength.
So speaks her happiness.
Part Five
1
Nineteen thirty-eight is the year of the disintegration.
Charlotte’s final hopes will be smashed to pieces.
A terrible humiliation awaits her.
Every spring, there is a contest at the Academy.
The students each produce one work, based on a specified subject.
It is the highlight of the year.
The moment when the prizes and honors are distributed.
Ludwig Bartning’s admiration of Charlotte is increasing.
He is glad that he fought for her acceptance.
During the past few months, her progress has been meteoric.
It is not a question of technique.
Though of course her drawing is becoming more refined, more precise.
What strikes him is the assuredness of his protégée.
She uses every exercise to develop her voice.
Singular, strange, poetic, feverish.
Her drawing expresses who she is.
Her strength is not obvious at first glance.
Her distinctiveness is hidden somewhere, beneath an array of colors.
Ludwig sees it, though.
Something he hasn’t seen in years.
Nobody knows, except him.
There is a genius in their midst.
The contest is always anonymous.
Only once the prizes have been assigned are their authors revealed.
The professors sit around a table.
Unanimously, they choose one picture.
For once, the decision is made quickly.
This is always an exciting moment.
Each teacher hazards a guess.
A few names are uttered.
But deep down, nobody really knows.
The victor has covered their tracks.
No one recognizes it as the work of any student.
Now the time has come to discover the artist’s identity.
Next to the drawing is an envelope.
The professor who opens it says nothing.
The others lean toward him: so?
He looks at his colleagues, as if timing a dramatic pause.
Before making the announcement in a hollow voice.
The first prize is awarded to Charlotte Salomon.
Instantly the room becomes tense.
It is impossible that she should receive this prize.
The ceremony attracts too much attention.
People would talk about the Jewification of the art school.
The prizewinner herself would be too exposed.
She would immediately become a target.
She might be imprisoned.
Ludwig Bartning understands the gravity of the situation.
Someone suggests: why don’t we vote again?
No, that would be too unfair.
We can deprive her of her prize, but not of her victory.
So says her ardent defender.
He fights for her, as best he can.
His support for Charlotte could prove fatal for him.
Everything comes out in the end; nothing remains secret.
But his courage is rewarded.
Because he succeeds in getting the prize validated.
One hour later, he waits for Charlotte in the lobby.
He signals to her with his hand.
She approaches, shy as always.
He doesn’t know how to begin.
This should be a joyous moment.
And yet he looks distraught.
Finally, he tells her that she won the contest.
But doesn’t give her time to express her happiness.
He undercuts the news with the professors’ decision.
She will not be allowed to receive her trophy.
Charlotte is shaken by two contradictory emotions.
Joy and pain.
She accepts that she cannot show herself.
For two years now, she has been a shadow.
But today, it is so unjust.
He explains that her work will be rewarded.
But someone else must receive the prize.
Who? asks Charlotte.
I don’t know, Ludwig replies.
Barbara.
That is who Charlotte proposes.
Barbara.
Barbara, are you sure? he asks.
I’m certain.
Why her?
She already has everything, says Charlotte, so she must be given even more.
…
Three days later, Barbara is on the stage.
Three days of tears for Charlotte.
The blonde prizewinner is all smiles.
She accepts this prize, which is not hers.
Without any apparent embarrassment.
She looks as if she really believes she is the winner.
She thanks her parents and her friends.
She should also thank her country, thinks Charlotte.
Humiliated, watching this charade.
In the middle of the ceremony, she runs off.
Ludwig watches her leave.
He wants to catch her, give her more support.
But she is gone so fast.
She barely hears the applause ring out.
As she is leaving the Academy.
She runs all the way to her apartment.
In her room, she lies motionless on the bed.
Then gets to her feet and crumples up her drawings.
Some of them she rips to shreds.
Drawn by the noise, Paula enters the room.
But what are you doing?
What’s going on?
I am never going back to the Academy, she says coldly.
2
Charlotte spends whole days sitting on her bed.
Alfred is at the center of her thoughts.
It is becoming an obsession.
Later, she will draw his face over and over again.
Hundreds of sketches of her love.
She will also remember all his words.
The present begins to take the form of always.
After their first night, he disappeared again.
No news at all.
And he is no longer giving lessons to her stepmother.
Charlotte must accept his silence.
You must never expect anything from me, he said.
But it’s so hard.
It’s beyond her endurance.
She dresses to go out.
And tells her stepmother that she’s leaving to see a friend.
It is always dangerous to go out late at night.
She could have her papers checked, of course.
But the risk is not so great.
Sometimes a smile will do instead of papers.
Particularly when you look like an Aryan.
Which is true for Charlotte.
Her chestnut hair is pale, and so are her eyes.
Without this bad blood, she would be free to live.
She walks through the black night.
Until she finds herself outside his apartment.
She hides in the darkness, heart pounding feverishly.
She doesn’t want to go up, just to see him.
Anyway, she knows he wouldn’t forgive her for forcing herself on him.
She has promised never to do that.
To respect his freedom completely.
But why does she never hear from h
im?
Maybe he lied about his feelings?
The night with her was awful and disappointing.
And he doesn’t dare tell her so.
That must be it.
Has to be.
Maybe he’s even forgotten her name.
Though he loved saying it so much: Charlotte.
At that moment, she sees him through the window.
The mere sight of his shadow overwhelms her.
The room is lit by a candle.
Alfred appears and disappears in time with its flickerings.
This makes reality seem as improbable as a dream.
And then a figure interrupts the scene.
A woman seems to wander into the living room.
She is doggedly searching for something.
Then, suddenly, she rushes toward Alfred.
Charlotte has stopped breathing.
And yet she knows that Alfred is free.
He never promised to belong to her.
They are not a couple.
These are moments outside everyday life.
It starts to rain again.
It’s always like this: whenever they come close, it rains.
The sky clouds over for their meetings.
Charlotte cannot move, to protect herself from the rain.
Alfred looks extremely annoyed.
He grabs the woman firmly by her arms.
And ushers her to the front door.
They are outside now, a few yards from Charlotte.
The girl is begging him, but for what?
Probably she is saying that it’s impossible to leave in such rain.
Alfred insists, pushing her away angrily.
She gives up, head lowered.
He stays there unmoving, probably relieved.
After a while, Alfred turns.
And sees Charlotte.
He signals her over.
She walks slowly across the empty street.
What are you doing there? he asks coldly.
He knows the answer.
I wanted to see you, I hadn’t heard anything.
I was going to write, you shouldn’t rush me.
He hesitates for an instant before asking her up.
Charlotte’s heart races.
She is about to re-enter her kingdom.
The floor of this seedy room.
Where he will perhaps make love to her again.
For the moment, she sits on the edge of a chair.
Frozen with embarrassment.
She apologizes for having broken their rule.
She can tell he is very annoyed.
She should never have come.
It’s all over, and it’s her fault.
Any time she’s happy, she has to ruin it all.
So why does she keep digging by asking:
Who was that woman?
Don’t ask me questions, Charlotte.
Never, do you hear me?
Never.