Marlene: A Novel

by C. W. Gortner

Was he insulting me again? “I am told that I can act,” I said. “Directors do hire me.”

  “They might hire you, but your acting talent remains to be seen.” He motioned me to the piano, where an accompanist sat on the bench, looking as harried as everyone else I’d met. This von Sternberg was a tyrant, I thought, as I took my stance and the accompanist checked the score. I waited. And waited. Von Sternberg was fussing with the camera crank while signaling to his assistant to reposition the microphone. I smoked three cigarettes in a row, exhaling clouds of smoke, until he said, “Now.”

  With a frustrated sigh, I turned to the accompanist. “What am I singing?”

  At this point, I truly couldn’t have cared less. It was a setup, one I was bound to fail. Who would test an actress for a major supporting role without allowing her to know beforehand what she was supposed to do?

  “‘The Cream in my Coffee,’” blared von Sternberg from his contraption, where he had his head and arms submerged but clearly remained attuned to whatever was being said, despite the reduction in his ambient noise. “In English, if you please.”

  Irate at his demeanor, not to mention I barely knew the lyrics unrehearsed, I set my fourth unfiltered cigarette on the piano lid, picked stray tobacco from my tongue, and launched into an impertinent rendition of the American tune, or at least as much as I could remember of it.

  “‘You’re the cream in my coffee. You’re the salt in my stew. You will always be my necessity. I am lost without you . . .’”

  I canted my head and batted my eyes, affecting a mocking falsetto, as far from a waterfront tart’s husky range as I could manage. I wouldn’t win the part and I didn’t want it; it would be a torment to work for him, but when the accompanist stumbled over the keys, it angered me. I glared at him, puffing on my cigarette and flicking ash in his direction before I ordered him to start over. I might not win the role but I’d not be made a total fool. He began playing again. Yet as I warmed up to the ridiculous performance I created, fluting my hands about my chin like Henny Porten just to see how von Sternberg might react, the accompanist inexplicably began playing off key again. I heard von Sternberg chuckle from within his box, to no one in particular, “She sounds worse than I thought. Like a schoolgirl ringing a cowbell.”

  I’d had enough.

  Slamming my hand on the piano lid—“Are you doing that on purpose?” I hissed at the accompanist. “Don’t you know the right key? Is that music before you or a newspaper?”

  He glanced nervously at von Sternberg, who offered no comment, his head and shoulders inside that box.

  “Forget that stupid American song,” I said. “Play something German instead.”

  The accompanist returned his gaze to me. “German?” he said, as if it were unheard of.

  “‘Wer Wird Denn Weinen,’” I told him, and when he began playing, I stepped past him, climbing onto the bench and clanging my heel on a key with a discordant twang that I hoped von Sternberg captured on his microphone. Perching on the piano, I hiked the spangled frock high above my knees to expose my legs, cocked a hand on my hip like the transvestites at Das Silhouette, and gave the song everything I had. Von Sternberg thought I sounded like a schoolgirl? I’d show him what I could do. I’d give him a performance from the very pits of the Nollendorfplatz. I pitched my voice low, hoarse now from too many cigarettes, ripping the forlorn lyrics about life and love from my lips like shards.

  When I was done, and raking my fingers through my damp hair—I’d started to sweat under the lights—I looked up to see von Sternberg emerge from his box.

  He stood perfectly still.

  In that moment, I thought that while he was rude and conceited, he wasn’t unattractive. With his prepossessing nose and close-set pale eyes, his drooping inverted mustache over full lips and mop of silver-threaded dark hair swept to one side of his forehead, he was actually quite masculine, despite his stunted stature. Paternal, even, especially in that instant as his countenance seemed to soften, as if he’d just heard a recital by his favorite niece.

  “Fetch Jannings,” he told his assistant.

  “But he—he’s not here,” quavered the fidgety man. “He’s not due on set until—”

  “He’s arrived in Berlin by now, hasn’t he? Fetch him.”

  I was left waiting for hours, changing back into my frock and chain-smoking in the office as both the assistant and von Sternberg vanished. I was about to leave myself, thinking they’d forgotten about me, when they reappeared, this time with Emil Jannings in tow.

  I’d not seen Jannings since 1923 when we’d filmed my second picture together. He had left for Hollywood soon after, and it had evidently agreed with him. He’d gained weight and was now portly and dignified, sporting a goatee that accentuated his sneer. After von Sternberg had me sing again—now I sounded like I was spitting gravel, my throat chafed—Jannings shrugged, as if he’d never heard or seen me before.

  “We should test Lucie,” he said. “No one knows this one’s name. She brings nothing of substance to the marquee. Who knows how she’ll come across?”

  I was about to remind him that he certainly knew my name. American laurels notwithstanding, both of us had started out doing casting calls and he had worked with me before.

  Von Sternberg preempted me. “I don’t want an insipid lady with perfect diction. I want raw. Uninhibited. I told the accompanist to flub her song. Another would have started crying or become flustered. She got angry. That is what I want. You cannot buy what she has. She is Lola-Lola.”

  I half-rose from my stool, so enraged I barely heeded the announcement that I’d just won the part. He’d instructed the accompanist to deliberately flub the song? Was he insane?

  “Herr von Sternberg, begging your pardon,” said Jannings, drawing himself to full pompous height, “but I am the lead in this picture and you—”

  “I am the director!” Von Sternberg thumped his chest in a gesture worthy of Jannings himself in his most torrid role. “This is my picture. My script. My decision. Paramount loaned me to the UFA to make it. You are no one to me. Don’t dare contradict me or go running to the producers, for I will resign and then we’ll see how well any of you come across. Must I remind you of how your recent foray into sound went? You sounded like an elephant with a head cold. Try me and I’ll find ten other actors in a minute to take your place.”

  Silence fell. I might have gloated at seeing Jannings tumbled from his lofty perch, until with a sidelong glance at me, Jannings groused, “I rather think she is too raw. She’ll steal the entire picture with those legs. You will rue the day.”

  “Not if everyone does their job.” Von Sternberg jabbed his finger at me. “Fräulein Dietrich, I wish to cast you as my female lead—the cabaret singer, Lola-Lola, who brings Professor Rath here to perdition.” He didn’t wait for me to respond, as if my acceptance was a given, turning again to his assistant. “She needs the most recent version of the script. Fräulein, come with me.”

  I followed him out, sidling past Jannings, who offered me a grimace. “Congratulations, Marlene,” he muttered. “Welcome to purgatory.”

  So, he did remember me. I allowed myself a pert nod before von Sternberg brayed from the corridor, “Today. I’m a very busy man.”

  On the soundstage, where I stood dazed by the sudden turn of events, unsure about how I should feel but aware that if I took the part I’d be handing myself over to a despot, von Sternberg commandeered a ladder and scaled it. He turned on an overhead bank of lights, blinding me.

  “Stand still,” he said when I lifted a hand to block the glare.

  He turned the other lights away, repositioning one to slash its light directly upon me.

  “A mirror,” he yelled to no one in particular, clambering back down the ladder. Someone hurried over with a compact; he lifted the lid, shedding powder, and held it to my face. “See that little butterfly-shaped shadow under your nose? It should always be there. Your nose has an upturned tip that mars your profile. No one should shoot
you without this shadow; it means the key light is at the perfect height.”

  I peered at my reflection, turning my face to either side. I did see the shadow, and the effect was astonishing. That single light narrowed my features, hollowing out my cheekbones and sculpting my eyelids, reducing the problematic width of my nose.

  “Mein Gott,” I whispered. I looked up at him.

  “You can have your nose corrected later,” he said. “For now, the key light will suffice.” His smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth. “And your films, Marlene,” he said, using my name for the first time, rolling it in his mouth like hard candy, “do you no justice. I’ve seen them and they are terrible. You are terrible in them. But I can change that. If you listen to me, if you do exactly as you are told, I will make you famous.”

  I found myself nodding, mesmerized by his lighting and his bewildering, contradictory confidence in me. Only moments before, I’d been ready to toss the part in his face. Now I wanted only for him to turn that magic light upon me so I could bask in the hypnotic visage I hadn’t known I possessed.

  “This picture is very important,” he said. “The UFA has invested a significant sum to have me shoot it in German and English. American pictures are starting to swamp the European market. The UFA must compete; they hired me to do it. Do you understand?” he asked, and I caught my first glimpse of the cruel humor under his gruff facade, an impish grin lighting his face. “Jannings can call himself the lead all he wants, and in the novel, he is. Professor Unrat is the book’s title. But my picture is called The Blue Angel and Lola-Lola is my star.”

  Again, I nodded, speechless.

  “You must lose five kilos before we start next month,” he said, as his assistant rushed to his side with the script. “And roughen your German. Your accent is too refined. I expect you to forget your Berliner air. Lola-Lola is not a good girl; she’s not well bred or sophisticated. She’s a whore who makes her living off men. She doesn’t sip champagne or discuss art at parties. You must talk like her. Know her lines. But above all else, be her. Inside and out. Live and breathe her. Everything you feel and do until we wrap must give her substance; nothing can interfere. Can you do it? Or should I schedule a test for that insufferable Lucie Mannheim?”

  “No. I . . . I can do it.” I took the script he handed me, reduced to abject flesh. I couldn’t comprehend it. I had no explanation, when I’d never let anyone dominate me before, but I was prepared to submit to him. Utterly. I believed everything he said. I recognized the moment for what it was: the chance I had waited for, to become what I’d always dreamed of being.

  He nodded. “That will be all. I’ll send for you next week to be fitted for your costumes; they’ll be too small, but you say you can do this, so that extra weight must come off. Good afternoon, fräulein. I must now go convince the UFA idiots that you’re my only choice. And stop Jannings before he tells them you are not.” He gave me a stern look. “I believe we can prove them wrong. But whatever we do, do not ever disappoint me.”

  ON THE TRAM RIDE HOME, I read the script. I read it again in my apartment before I rushed over to Rudi’s flat, interrupting his evening with Tamara, Mutti having taken Heidede out to the zoological gardens.

  “Read this,” I said, taut with excitement. “Read it and tell me if this isn’t the most magnificent part I’ve ever been offered.”

  Before he could, Tamara took the pages and after a silent query, to which I nodded, retreated to the sofa. When she was finished, she said, “It’s unlike anything else I’ve read.”

  I sagged on my chair, smoke from my cigarettes drifting about us. “You really think so? It’s not too crude?” Trepidation overcame me. “She’s a whore. It might be too much for me.”

  Tamara smiled, emptying my overflowing ashtray and serving me a cup of tea, while Rudi perused the script. When Tamara started to cut a slice of strudel for me, I held up my hand. “No. I have to lose five kilos.”

  “Five?” She looked taken aback. “In how long?”

  “A month. Less, if I can manage it.” I sipped the tea, glancing at Rudi, his brow furrowed as he turned the pages. Tamara sat opposite me as we waited for his verdict.

  “It’s the role of a lifetime,” he said. “But you are right: It’s also a risk. She’s not nice. She’s practically immoral. Rath’s obsession with her kills him in the end. I don’t know, Marlene.”

  “Don’t know?” I edged forward on my seat. “But it’s his obsession, not hers. He comes to see her at this cabaret, the Blue Angel, and is besotted with her. She never pretends to be anything other than what she is. He gives up his life for her.”

  “And she gives nothing in return. He leaves his school, his students; he wrecks himself for her. He ends up degraded, working in her act as a buffoon until she throws him over for another man and he dies of grief. I think audiences and the censors might object. It’s too . . .”

  “Real?” I said.

  He chuckled. “Among other things.”

  “Then it’s perfect,” I declared. “Real is what I want, what I’ve been looking for. It’s as if Lola-Lola was waiting for me. There are musical numbers, too. Did you see? Songs I’ll perform in the cabaret. I don’t know which ones yet, but von Sternberg made some notes in the margins, mentioning Friedrich Hollaender. He’s one of our best composers.”

  “He is. And you certainly can sing and perform. But in English?”

  “I’ll learn. I’ll take up lessons again.” I looked eagerly at Tamara for reassurance; she nodded. “I can do this. I know I can. And the way he lit me. He has the eye of a painter. Wide distribution, he said. He’s here from Paramount. What if they distribute the picture in America? It could change everything for us.”

  “It could.” Rudi still appeared hesitant, which puzzled me. As though she sensed our need for privacy, Tamara gathered up the cups and plates to retreat into the kitchen.

  “What is it?” I sat beside him.

  He tried to smile. “I’m just surprised. The lead in a von Sternberg picture, the first UFA-produced talkie, opposite Emil Jannings—it’s incredible.”

  Detecting the undertone in his voice, I set my hand on his. “If you miss working, I’ll ask him to hire you. He must need professionals and you know your way around a UFA set.”

  “No.” His smile faded. “I’ve accepted a job with Terra Productions for three pictures as a script assistant. Tamara is here now, to look after Heidede,” he added, dampening my enthusiasm. “It’s not much paywise, but I must start doing something besides selling pigeons.”

  “You do. You raise our daughter so I can work.” My euphoria over my newfound fortune allowed me to be benevolent. I never could begrudge him for long.

  “I meant later. When you are gone.”

  “Gone? I haven’t started shooting yet.”

  “No, but it will happen. I always knew it would.” He leaned over to me, kissing me. “Von Sternberg is no fool,” he murmured against my lips. “He only sees what I saw from the start.”

  I kissed him back.

  It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me.

  II

  I went on a strict regimen. I exercised so much and ate so little, I almost fainted over my sparse meals of lean chicken and steamed carrots, without any bread, butter, or potatoes. I took up lessons again in English, too, determined to perfect it. When I returned to the studio for my fittings, I felt svelte and eager, until the efficient but harried costume matron, Resi, whom von Sternberg had obviously been nagging, along with everyone else he hired, presented the outfits for Lola-Lola.

  I stared at them in dismay. “Beads and sequins? Feathered headpieces? But she’s a waterfront tart. That’s what he told me. This will make her look like an heiress.”

  “Herr von Sternberg oversaw these costumes himself. He was very specific,” said Resi, with a sniff. “She may be a tart but she’s a glamorous one. Now, please. I have the entire cast to fit today. If you would undress and try on—”

  “No,” I said
. “Where is he?”

  “No?” She regarded me as if she’d never heard the word before.

  “I want to see him.” I met her offended stare. “None of this is right. Had I known, I could have just as easily used my costumes from the Berliner. Lola-Lola can’t afford these gewgaws. She has to dress like—like . . .” My voice faded into uncomfortable silence. I hadn’t considered what she might wear, assuming von Sternberg and his wardrobe experts had.

  “Yes?” Resi gave me the condescending look of an older professional, whose sole interest was to keep her job and had no patience for upstart actresses with opinions. “Please do enlighten me, Fräulein Dietrich. Seeing as you have met Herr von Sternberg, I’m sure you’ll wish to state your preferences to me first, before you inform our director.”

  “I don’t know,” I retorted, stung by her supercilious tone. “But none of this is right.”

  “Then by all means, you must wait for Herr von Sternberg. He’s at the UFA offices this morning for a meeting but is due back here by the afternoon. Shall I fetch you a stool?”

  She spoke as if she relished the upcoming confrontation between me and von Sternberg over my costumes, which made me realize I should indeed have my preferences ready. Not just my preferences, I decided, taking up my handbag and coat, but the very garments themselves.

  I had an idea of where to look.

  Returning to the city, I went to see Rudi. He was on the rooftop, tending to his caged pigeons, a leather apron tied about his person to protect his suit. I had to smile. No one else but Rudi would feed birds while wearing a jacket, shirt, and onyx cuff links.

  “Marlene.” He gave me a disconcerted look. “Back so soon? How did the fitting go? It must have gone well, if it only took—” He checked his wristwatch. “Less than an hour.”

  “Is my theater trunk still in your closet?” I asked.

  He nodded. “With everything from your various places of employment that you forgot to return. Do you want help? After this, I was going to take Heidede to the park but if you need me?”