I laughed. I was determined to ease the bitterness between us. As he appeared to be enamored of his Russian dancer, there was no reason for me to look the other way. I insisted on arranging a time to meet her, alone. It was the civilized thing to do. Moreover, she would have contact with our daughter and no doubt my mother, too. I had to get a sense of her character.
Tamara Matul was pretty, poised, and very thin, with a long face, red-gold hair, and hazel eyes. She was in dire need of a decent meal. I soon learned she hadn’t had much luck forging a career in Berlin. By now, we had Russian ballerinas by the dozens, all fleeing the Marxist bloodbath. I admired her candor as she related her trials—she confessed she didn’t have the talent to compete with Bolshoi-trained rivals—and admired even more her respect for me.
Over coffee and strudel, she told me she had no wish to usurp my place, and in a touching gesture, handed me a small package wrapped in tissue. When I opened it, I found an exquisite icon, the kind Russians revered, lacquered and beautifully detailed, fit to grace a church.
“Oh, no,” I said, trying to give it back to her. “This must be worth something. You should pawn it. Have you seen the price of shoes these days? Eight hundred thousand marks for a pair of simple black heels.” I laughed to offset the moment; I’d glanced at her feet when she first sat down and she was wearing soiled ballet flats. On the street in winter.
She smiled wanly. “It’s my gift to you.” She paused. “Have you seen the secondhand bazaars these days? Every Russian in Berlin is pawning their belongings. You could buy a dozen icons like this one—and for less than your simple black heels.”
I liked her. Destitution aside, she had class. “Then I will treasure it. And you mustn’t worry. Rudi and I have agreed to separate.”
“Not because of me?” she said in alarm.
I flicked my wrist, calling over the waiter. “More strudel,” I said, and then I leaned to her and pressed her little hand with its blunt cracked nails and visible chilblains from whatever garret she’d been holed up in. “Because of me.” I winked, bringing a flush to her pale cheeks.
She promptly moved in with Rudi, while I rented an apartment nearby so I could easily visit Heidede. Mutti expressed predictable dismay, haranguing me for throwing over a good man for “frivolities,” as she deemed my career. But Liesel had suffered a recent miscarriage and she was more concerned with nursing my sister back to health than with wagging her head over my deplorable modern ways.
I took some time off to devote to Heidede, who at first didn’t understand why I was no longer living at home. I couldn’t explain the reason to a child, so instead I tried to distract her with trips to the ice cream parlor and to the zoo, to buy new clothes and visit Uncle Willi and Jolie. She was now a sturdy four-year-old, lacking for nothing save my frequent presence, and guilt over my separation from her father made me overcompensate, lavishing her with kisses until she pushed me away with a headstrong pout.
“How can you be my Mutti?” she demanded. “No one has two Muttis”—reminding me of how much time she now spent with my mother, which didn’t please me. I resolved to be a better parent, but my pursuit of new opportunities subsumed my dedication, as my Vienna frolic with Willi Forst and all its attendant publicity had suddenly made my name recognizable.
Though I still had the ring on my finger, I was free to come and go. I danced at the nightclubs and had a few brief affairs; I might have enjoyed it more had I not found Berlin changed. The hedonism had adopted a darker edge. Drugs were everywhere, with new cabarets opening in bewildering succession, all catering to lethal predilections. Boulevard vamps like the famed Anita succumbed to overdoses only to be replaced within days by others of their ilk. Even at industry parties, cocaine was heaped in glass bowls on tables and opium smoke choked the air; it seemed almost everyone I knew was addicted to something. I’d never been comfortable with excessive drinking or drug taking. It clouded the senses, turned people into strangers; I avoided the fervor, and accepted a part in the picture melodrama, The Woman One Longs For, playing a femme fatale who ensnares a married man, replete with numerous headpieces and slinky lingerie. The picture was a success, snapped up for American distribution after a critic for international Variety praised me as “a rare Garbo-like beauty.” It was the first time my name had been linked with MGM’s queen and the comparison spurred me on in my quest for fame.
Yet even as I sought out parts that could broaden my appeal, something menacing began to taint my city—a political movement calling itself the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, commonly referred to as Brownshirts or Nazis. It was headed by an Austrian zealot, Adolf Hitler, who’d served time in prison in 1923 for inciting a failed coup in Munich.
Few took him seriously—in fact, most scoffed at his diatribes—but his party had gained momentum, winning twelve parliamentary seats in the recent elections. His followers wore distinctive swastika-emblazoned armbands, marching down the boulevards and handing out crude pamphlets on corners, extolling a rabid nationalistic agenda that I found contemptible.
While out with Leni one day to audition at the Berliner Theater, we came across a group of these rubicund Nazi youths. They stopped us; one thrust his ideology into my hand as his circle of brown-shirted cronies contemplated us with infuriating presumption.
“We must stop the Marxist Jews from destroying Germany,” the youth declared. “They’ve succeeded in Russia. Now, they threaten our fatherland. Read Mein Kampf. Save our nation by voting for Hitler as chancellor.”
I glanced at the pamphlet: When I am chancellor, I promise to provide Lebensraum for our people. We must annihilate the Jewish Marxist conspiracy that has stolen our dignity. Vote for me, Adolf Hitler, and I’ll restore Germany to its rightful glory.
Confident little Austrian, wasn’t he? I thought. The illustration on the pamphlet, a caricature of a Jew with a hooked nose and a prayer shawl, herding schoolchildren into a synagogue over which hung a banner of the Communist sickle, turned my stomach.
I tossed it aside. “Don’t you have anything better to do than harass citizens?” I snarled and strode past them, ignoring their catcalls of “Jüdischen Hure!”
Leni hurried after me. “Why did you do that?” she said, nervously glancing over her shoulder at the shouting youths. “They didn’t insult us.”
“No?” I gave her a disgusted look. “Isn’t being called a Jewish whore insulting enough for you?”
“They didn’t insult us at first, not until you threw their paper away.”
I paused, eyeing her. I’d heard plenty of remarks against Jews; anti-Semitism was rife, running like a virulent sewer through Germany. Mutti had never been fond of them and often complained about some Jewish seamstress down the street who always overcharged her. Yet Jews patronized our Felsing store and ran luxurious emporiums themselves; Berlin had a large Jewish presence, particularly in the arts. Meinhardt and Bauer, who’d hired me for their theater, and Max Reinhardt, founder of the academy, were Jews. I’d also worked with Jewish directors, stagehands, costume people, and actors. I had found them no different from anyone else.
“Do you agree with them?” I asked, though I was certain that she did. Leni was always keen on anything that reeked of popularity, forever chasing the latest fad. It wouldn’t surprise me if she supported these ugly Nazis. Next week, it would be something else.
“Many people think Hitler is right,” she replied. “We lost the war because of the Jews. They forced us to surrender because they are in league with the Marxists, preying on us to—”
I laughed, cutting her off. This, I knew something about. I hadn’t lived with Gerda without absorbing some of her socialist inclinations. “Have you ever read history, Leni? Jews have fled Russia for centuries because of the pogroms. Do you think they’d support their own exile or slaughter? The Marxists are no more friends to them than the czars were.”
Leni shrugged, revealing, as I’d suspected, that she’d not read any history. “And why do you care about w
hat Hitler says, anyway?” I went on. “He’s not even German.”
She squared her shoulders. “I heard him speak at a rally once. He’s an excellent orator. He cares deeply about Germany. He says the Jews hoard so much wealth because they are an inferior race, and a hundred of them cannot equal one purebred Aryan.”
“Does he? Then he’s a purebred idiot.”
“Marlene, I don’t think that’s fair. His party is—”
I interrupted her again. “Every time we attend a casting call or audition, as we are today, someone looking to hire us will be Jewish. Can you tell?” I turned my hands into claws about my face, as Gerda had done for me in the café at our first meeting. “Do they have pointy ears and snouts like that ridiculous pamphlet? Do they hand us scripts of Bolshevik propaganda?”
She pouted. “That’s not the point.”
“I think it is entirely the point. Your excellent orator is the one making all the noise.”
I began walking briskly toward the theater. She hastened to follow me. “I had no idea you cared so much about Jews,” she said, with an undertone of resentment.
“I don’t,” I retorted. “I don’t care much about politics, either. But I don’t like being told what to think. And neither should you.”
I paid no mind to the incident after that. Unlike Leni, I was hired for the new play at the Berliner. Called Two Bow Ties, it was a lavish musical modeled on hit American shows like Broadway, which I’d performed in Vienna and had thus won me the part. Cast as Mabel, a jazz-crazed American heiress, I sang in English and German, wore a cross-dressing tweed suit, sultry evening gowns, and enough fake jewels to make me shimmer as far as those seated in the back row. The libretto was scintillating, written by Georg Kaiser, a successful Expressionist playwright, and the production values oversized, with fifty chorus girls and revolving sets that included a luxury ocean liner. It proved to be the hottest ticket in Berlin, selling out weeks in advance, but my salary was only one thousand marks. I was in no position to quibble.
I was also unaware that the play was about to change my life.
SCENE FOUR
THE BLUE ANGEL
1930
“AND IF THEIR WINGS BURN, I KNOW I AM NOT TO BLAME.”
I
Fräulein, can you try to appear less bovine? You’re not modeling cheap underwear.”
The director’s drawl was as caustic as his demeanor, though I couldn’t accuse him of being ordinary. On the contrary, I found him bizarre, which was saying something in Berlin.
He stood no taller than five feet five, a few inches shorter than me—and in those riding boots with thick soles that I suspected contained lifts. He was finely made, however, from what I could see, though costumed in a poison green velvet frock coat; jodhpurs, which added girth to his thighs; white gloves; and a fringed scarf. On his head an aviator’s cap sat like an afterthought. In one hand, he clutched an officer’s wand—an affectation that gave him an aristocratic air that had gone out with the empire. He slashed about with this wand, jabbing it toward where I stood, regarding him with feigned boredom.
He did not bore me. Not in the slightest. He could insult me to his heart’s content, for I knew how important he was, how elevating his attention could be, regardless of his eccentricity.
Everyone knew Josef von Sternberg.
At first, I hadn’t believed it. When his card was delivered backstage after my evening performance at the Berliner, summoning me to the UFA’s Babelsberg Studio, I ignored it. I was tired from six nightly performances and matinees, and in no humor for jokes. But then Rosa Valetti, the cabaret-star-turned-actress, whose pugnacious mug and raspy voice had charmed our audiences, came into our shared dressing room to scold me.
“Von Sternberg is here from Hollywood. He can make a career. Look at Emil Jannings: His role in von Sternberg’s The Last Command won him America’s first Academy Award for a male actor. Jannings is the lead in this new picture of his—our first UFA talkie, based on Mann’s novel Professor Unrat. I’ve been cast in a supporting role. If he wants to test you for a part, any part, Marlene, you must go. Everyone is desperate to work with him.”
Rudi echoed the sentiment. Now ensconced in domesticity with Tamara, he’d regained his interest in my work. “Von Sternberg is indeed renowned. His Underworld and The Docks of New York are heralded for their unique way of using light and shadow. And you’ve worked with Jannings before, in Tragedy of Love. Maybe he put in a good word for you.”
“Jannings?” I made a rude sound. “He went to Hollywood to be a star. Why would he remember me at all, much less recommend me? We made one picture years ago.”
“Well, clearly you impressed someone,” countered Rudi. “But I’ve heard von Sternberg has no respect for actors. Rumor has it, he thinks actors should only do as they’re told.”
“Then he sounds like every director,” I replied, but I was intrigued enough to cancel my morning off and make the trek across the city to the studio. I had no doubt that he only sought extras or supporting players. But my thousand marks had been spent on my expenses, as well as on Rudi, Tamara, and Heidede. A few days of work on a picture, no matter how insignificant the part, would supplement my income. Adding von Sternberg to my résumé couldn’t hurt, either.
He wasn’t friendly when we were introduced, no more than any other director. He seemed indifferent, and had only one other person with him in his office, a fidgety man holding a single sheet of paper. There was no camera, no lights or makeup people. It was an audition, not a screen test, and I felt deceived when his assistant handed me the page and von Sternberg said, “Read.”
“Which lines?” I asked him.
“Any,” he replied, peeling off his gloves to insert a cigarette into a long white holder that might have come from my props in Two Bow Ties. I noticed his hands—delicate, with slim fingers, as delicate as a child’s. Then I looked up and found his gaze fixed on me.
I looked down at the page. “Lola-Lola?” I didn’t remember much about Mann’s novel but had no recollection of anyone by that name. There was a waterfront tart named Rosa, whose capricious sexuality brings about the ruin of Professor Unrat, the novel’s titular character. Was this Lola-Lola an invented colleague of Rosa’s for von Sternberg’s adaptation?
“Any,” he repeated, but there was only dialogue for Lola-Lola. I’d uttered one line—“So you didn’t come to see me?”—when he interrupted, “Again. This time in English.”
I translated the lines into my stilted English, which I could sing well enough, but rarely used in conversation. He cut me off with a flip of his wand. “Now, walk.”
The office wasn’t large. Trudging back and forth before him, plucking up my hem to expose my garters—this Lola-Lola character must be saucy, not unlike the heiress in my play, which he must have seen and which had prompted him to call for me—I was rewarded with a severe “Enough,” followed by his bovine comment.
I now stood regarding him, anticipating his dismissal. While I was willing to tolerate his deprecation because of who he was, for the life of me I had no idea why he’d asked to see me. Judging by his behavior, I assumed that whatever reason he’d had, I had not impressed him.
His assistant leaned to him, murmuring.
“No, no,” he said impatiently, the only emotion he seemed to express. “I already told you, I’ll not have Jannings dictate to me. Lucie Mannheim isn’t right. She’s too polished. I want to hear this one sing.”
That gave me pause. Lucie Mannheim was a popular film actress; she wouldn’t be considered for just any part. Was I being auditioned for a major supporting role?
He shifted his gaze back to me. “Fräulein? Can you?”
I pressed my hands against my thighs. I hadn’t thought the call would amount to anything, so I hadn’t prepared. I didn’t have any music with me.
“Do you have a particular song in mind?” I asked, and he flung his wand upward, retorting, “Any song will do. I asked if you can sing. You do know how, I presume
? You sing often enough in both languages in that dreadful concoction at the Berliner.”
I was starting to dislike him. “Yes. I can sing.”
He greeted my insolent answer with leaden silence before he barked at his assistant, without taking his eyes from me, “Get the accompanist. And do something with her hair and wardrobe.”
Before I could react to these imperious dictates, the assistant whisked me away into a nearby cubicle, where a disgruntled woman applied a curling iron to my hair, frizzing it into curls and leaving a scorched stink in the air. Then she gestured at me, saying, “Off,” and as I removed my dress, she brought over a gauzy black frock. It was too large. As I tugged at the excess fabric, she clucked her tongue, and with a few safety pins, adjusted the frock to my body, bypassing the side buttons and pricking my skin through my slip.
“There. That ought to do, as long as you don’t move around too much,” and she pointed me out to the waiting assistant, who led me back through the office, down a passageway and into a windowless room with a piano and felt cloth tacked to the walls to muffle sound.
Von Sternberg was fiddling with a strange contraption that resembled a wood box on stilts. Despite myself, I edged toward him. “What is that?”
He stared at me as if he’d forgotten I existed. “What does it look like?” he said, but he lifted the curtain over the cabinetlike structure’s opening to reveal a camera ensconced inside. “It reduces ambient noise. It’s required for sound,” he said, pointing to a large microphone hanging overhead. “Not that you care.”
“I care,” I said, bristling at his tone. “Herr von Sternberg, I may not have made a picture with sound, but I’ve been on film sets before. You must know that. You asked to test me and—”
“Yes, yes. I know all about your immense experience. But I wonder, have you ever actually watched yourself in one of your so-called pictures?”
Marlene: A Novel Page 18
