No time like the present.
I would live for the moment and deal with the future when it arrived.
IV
As ardent as she was in bed, outside of it Gerda could be as tyrannical as my mother. She had early access to the job advertisements and call sheets because of her newspaper contacts; every morning, she circled each potential prospect and forced me to wear out the soles of my shoes as I prowled smoke-filled theaters and music halls in search of a job.
No one would hire me without experience, but a few of the less distinguished revues expressed interest once they saw my legs, provided that I could give them evidence of my ability to carry a tune. I could do that; I had always liked to sing. Mutti had encouraged singing at home around the piano but not in public; she deemed it lower class unless one sang opera or hymns in church. But to me, singing was like the violin, only more personal and intimate; I could employ my voice as an instrument in ways I’d never been able to play my bow, and I had my training to inform me. I began practicing with songbooks bought at music shops, to learn the latest tunes, and Gerda saw to it that one of the boardinghouse tenants, a lively redhead named Camilla Horn, referred me to her voice instructor, Professor Daniels. Gerda also insisted that I must learn English, to assist in my pronunciation of popular American songs, and found a local woman named Elsie Grace who also taught actors. She was a frightful crone, with clotted eyeliner and a twisted back, who lived in a walk-up. But she was funny and very British; she made me repeat nursery rhymes, then regaled me over tea with stories of the sexual exploits of her youth.
“It’s certainly an effective way to learn the language”—Gerda laughed when I showed her how well I could recite “The cunt jumped over the moon.”
Gerda paid for my lessons, despite my protests. To reimburse her, I went to see Jolie and explained my circumstances. My uncle’s wife proclaimed it a splendid notion for me to explore acting—she spoke as if I was taking up knitting—and loaned me a fox stole and a sum of cash, which I promised to repay. I covered the rent for the month and bought groceries, this time over Gerda’s protests.
“We’re in this together,” I said. “I must do my share.”
“Yes, but I may never get what I want, while you can,” she replied. “You can be someone. I believe in you.”
She did, more than I believed in myself. Herr Daniels was one of the finest teachers in Berlin; he’d trained opera singers before the war, until economic straits compelled him to take on other students. He had an unorthodox method for loosening the voice, having us prance about the room, squawking and flapping our arms before we performed scales and vocal intonations at the piano until our throats were raw.
“You have an interesting voice,” he told me. “Not powerful—you’ll never be a recording artist—but with a certain style. You must practice using a lower key. Don’t force out those notes you can’t reach. There’s no need. Refine your register instead.”
At night, I’d perform what I’d learned for Gerda, singing popular scandalous songs by Brecht until she growled and yanked me to her. “I can’t stand it! You are devastating.”
Perhaps to her, but I wasn’t devastating to those I auditioned for. I heard “No. Next” so many times, I wondered at my own resolve. But Gerda refused to countenance misgivings.
“These things take time. Look.” She brandished the newspaper. “The Rudolf Nelson revue is holding auditions. You must go. You can sing, and”—she lowered her eyes suggestively—“the advertisement says all applicants must have good legs.”
“Well.” I exhaled smoke. I smoked too much; it helped curb the hunger, as Gerda and our current budget had me on a strict regimen. “If it’s legs they want, then legs I can give them.”
I didn’t expect to be hired. But I wore a short skirt just in case, with black stockings and a mangy wolf pelt I’d unearthed in a secondhand shop tossed around my shoulders. I performed a ditty that required kicks and twirls; I wasn’t a very good dancer, but I gave it my best. Each applicant was assigned a number, as in a lottery. When the manager called out the winning ones, he said mine. I had a job.
Gerda and I celebrated with cheap champagne, forgoing our allotment of meat for the week. “You see?” she said, raising her glass. “I told you. You’re on your way.”
“It’s only the chorus.” I sipped the champagne, which had no fizz. “And the pay is appalling. Rudolf Nelson obviously doesn’t think his girls need to eat.”
“Still, it’s work.” She paused. “I have a new assignment. In Hannover, covering a labor dispute. I start next week.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” I had started to kiss her when she averted her face. “I’ll be gone for a month,” she said. “You’ll have the room all to yourself.”
“I’ll miss you.” Why was she being so strange? “If you’re worried about the cats, I’ll take good care of them, I promise.” Oskar adored me; he slept at my side every night, while Fannie, the female, cleaved to Gerda, tolerating me but maintaining her distance. “I’ll be busy with the revue. It’s eleven shows a week, including matinees, but I’ll telephone you whenever I can.”
“Telephone?” She snorted. “Too expensive. And besides, that phone in Trude’s parlor never works half the time, unless it’s for Camilla. A carrier pigeon would be more reliable.”
“You sound upset. Aren’t you pleased about your assignment? A labor dispute sounds like the kind of event you’ve been wanting to cover.”
“All those girls.” Her voice was flat. “In the chorus. I’m certain you’ll be busy indeed.”
I went still. The sullenness on her face made me realize that possessiveness wasn’t an exclusively feline trait. “You don’t think I would . . . ? Gerda, that’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She set down her glass. “Don’t you ever think about being with other girls? I know you’ve also been with men. Should I be concerned about them, as well?”
“I’m not thinking about other girls or men right now. I haven’t decided if I prefer one or the other,” I said, “or if I just like certain people. I’m with you. But I don’t believe we have to own each other. You might meet a girl in Hannover; if you do, I wouldn’t mind.”
She gave me a troubled look. “You wouldn’t?”
“No. And if I’m interested in someone else, I’ll tell you.”
“I hope so,” she muttered. “I’m not jealous, just realistic.”
She sounded jealous to me. Instinct urged me to reassure her. It was our first parting for any length of time and I’d discovered she did not feel secure. The journalist who declared utter contempt for the values of our society wasn’t as contemptuous as she liked to think she was. And while we’d never said aloud that we were in love or discussed exclusivity, I could tell she was perturbed. But I had learned that desire can fade and trying to possess someone wasn’t wise. Better to love freely while it lasted, without staking any claims.
“Do you not trust me?” I asked her. “Because I trust you. I’m happy.”
“Are you?” She seemed so forlorn, so unlike her confident self, that I pulled her to me and whispered, “I am. Very happy. I’m not going anywhere.”
“And I am happy with you,” she murmured, nestling against me. “I just know this chorus job will lead to better things, you’ll see.”
It was typical of her, to flatter me and evade the uncomfortable, but as I embraced her, I felt a stab of doubt. She had not said she trusted me, and besides, she should be happy for herself. She, too, had dreams to fulfill. I didn’t want her to make sacrifices for my sake; it reminded me of my mother, and of the resentment it carried. Gerda and I lived together yet we were also apart. I didn’t know how to say this without hurting her, however, so I said nothing.
Still, I found myself wondering if I might actually be different after all.
NO SOONER DID GERDA DEPART FOR HANNOVER than Mutti arrived at my front door. She’d taken more time than I expected, and I was relieved I didn’t have to deal with introducin
g her to my alleged roommate, particularly when her appraisal of my room consisted of an audible sniff.
“You have cats.”
They were hiding under the bed, averse to strangers. But the room itself was immaculate; she’d trained me to cleanliness. I scrubbed the floors every week and cleaned out the box of dirt the cats used daily. I’d even polished the lackluster furnishings, packed away some of the clutter, and added potted plants. Mutti couldn’t find cause for complaint—not that it ever stopped her. “It’s also so small.” She eyed me. “Where do you practice your violin?”
The violin remained in its case, where I’d left it on the night I first slept with Gerda, now propping up a pile of books by the sofa. Mutti hadn’t seen it, so I stepped in front of it to hide the case from view. Even as I did, I wondered why I still felt the need to dissemble. She would find out everything soon enough. Lifting my chin, I said, “I’m not practicing at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“I—I sprained my wrist.” I cradled the alleged joint in question. “My instructor told me to take off a month to let it heal. But it still hurts.”
“Not the instructor I found you. He told me he hasn’t seen you in months.”
“A new one.” Why was I lying? I felt like a schoolgirl again, justifying my own insubordination. “Professor Oskar Daniels. He . . . he also teaches voice.”
She stared at me, unblinking. It would take a few inquiries from her to discover that Professor Daniels’s expertise didn’t include violin lessons. “Voice? Whatever for?”
“To sing. I’m training to . . .” As I saw her face harden, I blurted out, “I’m going to be an actress. I have a job in the chorus of the Nelson revue. But I plan to audition for the Max Reinhardt academy as soon as I save enough for my dramatic lessons.”
She might have chuckled, were she capable of it. “Such a waste. You have a God-given talent for the violin, yet you insist on pursuing absurdities.”
“It may be an absurdity. But it’s what I want.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t been certain it was. I needed to support myself. Unable to bear another round of auditions as a musician, I’d followed Gerda’s advice. But it hadn’t felt like my choice, just the path of least resistance—and that wasn’t saying it was easy. Yet the supercilious disapproval now etching Mutti’s forehead cemented it for me.
I would be an actress if it killed me, if only to prove her wrong.
“An actress,” she said. “My daughter. Maria Magdalene Dietrich, child of a Felsing and a distinguished lieutenant who once served in the kaiser’s grenadiers. On the stage.”
“Papa was a Schöneberg policeman,” I said.
Her gaze narrowed. “Would you insult the memory of your own father?”
“No. But I’ll not pretend he was more than what he was. None of us are more than who we are, Mutti. Not even you. This is my life. If I succeed or fail, I must do it on my terms.”
She drew herself erect, squaring her shoulders under her coat. “You’ll only bring shame upon yourself and the family. You’ll be a laughingstock, an embarrassment to us all.”
“Not all. Uncle Willi supports me. So does his wife. They think it’s a splendid idea. Even Liesel told me before I left home that she admires me. You’re the only one who thinks making a living at anything besides cleaning floors is a disgrace.”
“Do not mention that woman Jolie,” she said. “Or your sister—I’ll not abide it. Like you, Liesel has lost her mind. She carries on with some cabaret manager, Georg Wills, who’s as oily as a salesman. She says they will marry. I’m beyond outrage that both my daughters have succumbed to the disorder and socialist fervor that destroys our nation’s honor.”
Liesel, with a cabaret man? I wanted to applaud. Who’d have thought she had it in her?
“I’m sorry, Mutti. But this is what I must do. If it doesn’t work out, well—there’s always the mop and broom to fall back on.”
She clenched her jaw. “Not a mark. Don’t come asking when you fall back, as you say, because I shall not give it. Not unless you apologize and return to your violin.”
“I won’t,” I retorted. “I’d rather starve.”
She stormed out, alerting everyone to her departure when she slammed the building’s front door. Within seconds, both Camilla and Trude were at my threshold.
“Dear, dear,” clucked Trude, as Camilla lit a cigarette and lounged against the door frame, her face already painted for our evening show. She, too, had been hired by the revue but for fewer performances, as she’d also been accepted at the Reinhardt academy as an ingénue. She’d been urging me to assume her vacant spot with her drama coach, but I still didn’t have enough money to pay for the lessons.
“That must have been the Dragon,” Camilla remarked. She had a flagrant nonchalance that I admired. Nothing ever troubled her too much; it was very “Berliner Luft.”
“She cut me off,” I fumed. “Not that she ever gave me anything to start with.” Even as I spoke, I winced at my own lie. Mutti had given plenty, even if I was too upset to admit it. She’d instilled in me self-discipline and a work ethic; she had paid for my lessons in Weimar and provided, in her way, the strength I needed to pursue my life. But everything she gave me came at a price—her price. And I had found it too steep to pay.
“Zu schlecht,” drawled Camilla, as Trude wrung her hands. “Too bad. I guess this means you must become an actress after all.”
“Or perish in the attempt.” Seizing my coat, I left Trude to fuss over the cats and departed with Camilla for the revue.
On the way there, as we stood on the crowded tram and Camilla held my compact while I applied lipstick, I told her about Mutti, of how antagonistic and demanding she was, embellishing my inability to ever please her. When I was done, more irate than when I’d started, she checked her own maquillage before she said, “Your sister’s friend Georg Wills manages the Theater des Westens. It’s an upscale vaudeville house. I’ve heard UFA executives go there in search of new faces.” She slid her gaze at me. “You should get to know him. He might have important connections.”
“So he can tell Liesel that I came begging and she can tell Mutti?” I said. “I don’t think so. Besides, the UFA hired me as a violinist and fired me after a month. I’ll not beg anyone for work, connections or not. I will do this on my own.”
“Suit yourself.” She dabbed a spot of rouge on her cheek. “But connections are how girls like us get ahead. The Nelson revue will give you nothing but sore ankles. Trust me. If you want to succeed, you’ll have to beg someone. This is Berlin. We all must get on our knees.”
The Rudolf Nelson revue did give me sore ankles. And sore feet and calves, and a sore jaw from smiling through performances clad in a spangled garment with more feathers than an ostrich (which we were responsible for replacing, never mind that the glue affixing them to our headdresses was so cheap, we bathed the stage in plumes), cavorting with nine other girls and often ignored by the audience, who drank, chattered, and suffocated us with cigarette smoke.
The revue traveled among three variety halls in Berlin, but every show was the same—garish and loud, designed to exalt our attributes, our talent or lack thereof incidental. Legs were the draw. Legs were what customers came to see and what we were paid to deliver.
I saved every mark I could. I ate as little as possible, offered to substitute for any of the girls who fell sick, sprained a toe, or quit. I also took odd modeling jobs, scouring the papers and applying to advertise stockings and other products, posing with a coy demeanor and visible garters. Some of the photographers offered to take extra pictures for my portfolio; in exchange, I let them see more than my legs. Within a few months, I had a decent collection of head shots and enough money to start drama lessons, with Gerda, back from Hannover but due to depart for another assignment in Munich, footing the bills at home.
Our relationship became strained. Camilla had taken to assisting me on occasion with my drama instruction, helping me improve my el
ocution and rhythmic movement for the academy’s upcoming auditions. I had tried to explain that Camilla knew what the academy expected, seeing as she studied there, but Gerda replied that Camilla never gave away anything for free.
“True,” I said. “She got a referral fee from Herr Daniels when I took her spot.”
Gerda snarled, “I’m not talking about money.”
It was futile to reassure her that all Camilla and I shared was mutual self-interest. I welcomed the extra tutelage, haphazard as it was, and Camilla in turn deigned to provide it because it would make her look good if I was accepted at the academy, as she could claim she’d referred me. Moreover, her interest in lovers was reserved solely for those who could forward her career, and I wasn’t attracted to her. She reminded me of myself, with her too-wide nose and Slavic-boned face, though I was in awe of her flair for the apathetic, which had men and women chasing her all over town. The less she cared, the more they did: It was remarkable to see.
Gerda noticed my admiration. She saw how I perked up whenever Camilla dashed in for a quick cup of tea laced with gossip about her latest amour or drug-fueled escapade at the cabaret. She was forever arriving from or preparing to depart for a party or after-hours club; the telephone in Trude’s parlor indeed rang more for her than anyone else. She danced at the revue, too, but it never interfered with her whirlwind social calendar. Once when we were at work on the same night and I complained about how few tips I got, compared with the other girls, she remarked, “What do you expect? You look like a schoolgirl. No customer wants to tip their daughter.” I was so dismayed that I started emulating her style, draping ratty boas over sheer blouses and not wearing a bra or panties so my frocks would adhere to my curves. I even donned a monocle like an old general because Camilla assured me that it made me look “decadent.”
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