Marlene: A Novel

by C. W. Gortner

  My cheek was bruised. I could feel it throbbing. I would have to ice it, as I had a makeup call early in the morning. “Go,” I retorted. “Start swimming to France. Now.”

  I herded Heidede into her bedroom and tried to calm her, assuring her I was fine, that it was just a fight and he was drunk. She was crying, however, and I was close to tears myself, a pit yawning inside me. The only man I’d ever struck before had been von Sternberg, and he would never have dared hit me back. I knew then that my relationship with Gabin had reached the end of its frayed tether. It had to stop, for both our sakes, and still I couldn’t find it in myself to blame him. I blamed the war, the Nazis, his terrible frustration. When I heard him leave without a word, not even attempting an apology, a wail clawed at the back of my throat.

  The next morning, I called in sick. Then I telephoned Jean Renoir and anyone else whom Gabin and I knew. He hadn’t reported to his set but he showed up later at Renoir’s apartment. Chastened and sober, he called me to beg my forgiveness, but said he would not move back in with me. He asked me to send over his belongings. I did, but I refused to part with his paintings and accordion. He chuckled sadly over the telephone. “My Grande. You must keep them. When we see each other again in a free Paris, you can return them to me.”

  To my horror, I heard myself whisper, “Please don’t leave me.”

  “No,” he said. “You don’t mean it. You think this is what you want, but it isn’t. We only hurt each other. I’m acting like my father, like a drunken brute. I was never a jealous man before. Not like this. I don’t like who I am with you.”

  I wept. I begged. I lost all pride, my dignity. But he was stronger than me, and in the vast emptiness he left in my heart, I finally understood why I wanted him so much.

  He was one of the few who could leave me.

  The end of 1941 felt like the end of the world for me. Gabin was no longer mine; I missed him so much, I didn’t even care that Manpower failed at the box office. Eddie nervously warned me that whatever I was offered next, I must carefully consider it, lest I ruined the waning glory of my performance in Destry. But I needed money; I’d spent too much on Gabin, was still supporting Remarque, Rudi, and Tamara, and after I’d asked her about her future plans for college, Heidede had informed me that she wanted to be an actress like me.

  I nearly lost my composure, bursting with the furious urge to regale her with the reminder of what being an actress entailed. Had she not witnessed it herself, with her very own eyes? Had she not grown up practically without me, watching me toil for endless hours on a set and sacrificing personal fulfillment for my name in lights on a marquee? Acting was the last career I could ever wish for her—but I held my tongue, remembering my own determination at her age and how my mother’s refusal to accommodate me had ended up alienating us from each other. I decided that if she was set on this path, let her experience some of its trials for herself. She would soon learn that acting was far more difficult than she envisioned. So I insisted she must study first to prepare, and enrolled her in the Jack Geller acting workshop and rented her a studio apartment nearby. Acting classes would dissuade her, I thought, teach her that nothing in this business was easy; but I now had to pay her expenses as well.

  I accepted a loan-out for the comedy The Lady Is Willing, playing a stage actress who finds an abandoned baby. While on set, I tripped on a pile of wires and fractured my ankle. I had to finish the shoot in a cast, draped in a diaphanous white gown while lying on a couch. The news of my mishap made headlines, but the picture itself did not.

  On December 7, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor—an act of unprecedented savagery that heralded the end of American apathy. It plunged me back into my childhood during the Great War, the tragedy and senseless loss, magnified now, spilling over everywhere to blacken the world. I couldn’t bear to look at a newspaper without wanting to scream, and I knew Gabin would not remain idle anymore, acting in pictures that meant nothing to him. I felt the same.

  To economize and escape the memory of his absence, I left my house in Brentwood to return to my hotel bungalow. Remarque haunted my doorstep, morosely pleased that Gabin was gone and advising me on scripts I received. He tried to rekindle our flame, to no avail. I found him unappealing as a lover. He eventually drifted away, to finish his novel and meet the actress Paulette Goddard, whom he’d marry.

  I was about to turn forty. Dietrich, carnal yet detached, whom I’d converted into a raucous dame with a tendency to rile up the boys, taunted me like a negative on the cutting-room floor. She could not save me—not from the realities of aging in a system that thrived on youth, or from wretched pictures, lackluster notices, and public indifference. Once again, I found myself treading the edge of an abyss, unsure of where to turn.

  I heard Rudi, Growing old alone is a punishment I’d never wish on anyone, especially you—and I knew despair then as I never had before.

  On New Year’s Eve, I telephoned my husband in New York and wept. Rudi kept saying he loved me, over and over, but I couldn’t feel it. I was hollow. Emptied. I could not look back and I dared not look ahead.

  Loneliness was something I had never anticipated.

  II

  She had protuberant blue-gray eyes, sour nicotine breath, and the temperament of a dervish. I knew her by repute, though we’d not met until now. Thrusting out her hand, pumping my fingers as if I were a cash register, she said in her trademark clipped-glass voice, “I’m Bette Davis. I hear you hate the Krauts as much as I do. Is it true?”

  It was 1942. I was on the set of Pittsburgh, my third picture with John Wayne, playing a woman caught between two coal miners, one of whom was Cary Grant’s lover, my friend Randolph Scott. I’d taken the part to work with John, whose fame was skyrocketing, and also because the picture gave me the chance to do something patriotic, its plot highlighting Pittsburgh’s steel production, part of America’s war effort in the wake of Pearl Harbor.

  My sorrow had not abated. Gabin had finally left for France by way of Morocco, to join the resistance. He took his Hollywood earnings. When he called to tell me, I asked to accompany him to New York. We had a week together, visiting the city and sharing a hotel room before I saw him off on his ship. I then went to cry on Rudi’s shoulder. I still couldn’t admit I was in love—I refused—but Rudi’s lack of any inquiry made me think that, like Remarque, he was relieved. He might not ask, but my despair was enough for him to see that my infatuation might threaten our marriage, even if I already knew in my heart that Gabin and I weren’t meant to be anything more. Tamara tiptoed around us, so as to not disturb, but I cut short my stay. She’d been suffering from anxiety again and I didn’t want to aggravate her by monopolizing Rudi’s attention.

  By the time I returned to Los Angeles, Hollywood was in mourning for the actress Carole Lombard, wife of Clark Gable; she’d been killed in a plane crash during a war-bond tour. I’d met Carole at studio events and enjoyed her brash beauty, making a pass at her that she laughed off. “If I wanted a broad,” she said, “you’d be my first choice.” Gable was devastated; and as our first war casualty, her death proved that not even stars were immune to the cataclysm.

  Now, here was Bette Davis, leading dramatic lady and first female president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, whose highly publicized lawsuit to rid herself of her Warner Bros. contract, which she lost, had made her a beacon of hope to actresses everywhere and whose radical notions of equality churned corporate stomachs.

  “I’m also a Kraut,” I said. “I don’t hate all my countrymen. Not all of us are Nazis.”

  She considered this, lighting her sixth cigarette in as many minutes. We sat in a fog of smoke; as I watched her puff away, I remembered hearing that when Bette had signed her first contract, she had to overcome the studio’s assertion that she’d never be a leading lady. With her piquant features and bony figure, her incessant smoking—she made my own habit seem abstemious—parching her skin, she defied the idea of glamour as I knew it. But in her c
ase, glamour was redundant. She had a quality many sought but few had: irresistible magnetism. Six years younger than me, she’d already won two Academy Awards. Her entire being was malleable, and she’d proved astute at avoiding typecasting, championing herself for challenging roles that I would never have dared test for.

  “But you do hate the Nazis,” she said at length, blinking rapidly. She spit out some tobacco from between her teeth. Definitely not a lady. I admired that. “I heard mein führer tried to entice you back to Germany with a huge salary and your choice of any director. You said no.”

  “He didn’t offer,” I said, succumbing to my own urge to smoke. Before I could reach for my Cartier lighter, a monogrammed gift from John, she snapped it up and lit my cigarette for me. “His propaganda minister did. And I did choose a director. They were not amused.”

  She guffawed. She had a raw laugh, husky from smoking and as strident as a gong. “Von Sternberg, I suppose?”

  I smiled. “Who else?”

  “Bastards. Between them and the Japs, we’ll be wearing kimonos and kissing Hitler’s ass if we don’t get involved soon. Roosevelt has his hands full, but he can’t ignore the war in Europe much longer. We’ve lost France, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Norway, Greece, and Holland. The Nazis are bombing London and those Fascists in Italy and Spain are cooperating with them. Have you heard about the Jews?” she asked abruptly.

  I swallowed. “I heard they were being deported to ghettoes.”

  “Not just ghettoes.” Bette crushed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. “There are rumors of camps. But not like the ones we’ve set up to hold Japanese-Americans here, though that’s bad enough.” She scowled. “Theirs are actual work camps, where they use Jews as slave labor. The Free French have been broadcasting about it, trying to get word out, but no one’s paying attention. Meanwhile, thousands are disappearing. It’s an outrage.”

  I found myself biting my lower lip. “It is.”

  “You must do something.” She hit her little fist on my dressing room table, making my makeup jars rattle. In the corner, Betsy muffled a laugh. She never ceased to find mirth in the grandiloquence of celebrities who came to visit me. “You’re a German-American now. If we had you on our team, it would send a powerful message, show the world that Hollywood cares.”

  “Does Hollywood care?” I asked.

  “Of course not. None of the studios will lift a finger to save a bunch of Jews. They’re hiring those who make it here, to score pictures, to edit, write, or direct, but they’re running their own kind of camp: Camp Get-A-Hebrew Cheap.”

  I had to chuckle. “And what would I do on your team, exactly?”

  “Join our effort. I’ve organized a USO affiliate, the Hollywood Canteen, to entertain servicemen before they ship out. You could help us. Dorothy Lamour and Norma Shearer are doing it, so is that priss Claudette Colbert. Why don’t you?” She paused, eyeing my lighter, which she still held. “Unless you’re too busy making lousy pictures with that moron.”

  “John is hardly a—”

  She waved her hand, spraying ashes. “Please. He can barely read a script. Everyone knows he’s as dumb as an ox. But,” she added lasciviously, “I hear he’s hung like one, too.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I demurred. “Should we ask him?”

  She crowed again. “I like you. Hemingway said you were good stuff. I don’t care who you screw—I should probably screw more of my leading men myself—but I want you on my team. What do I have to do to convince you?” Suddenly, her short-nailed hand with its smoldering cigarette was on my knee. “I’ll do anything,” she crooned.

  I glanced at her fingers, then slowly lifted my gaze back to hers. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Just tell me where and when.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. I’m no Garbo. But I’d have done you anyway.”

  I had no doubt. And if she’d been my type, I was sure she’d have been my best lover yet.

  I REASONED THAT HELPING OUT at a celebrity canteen was safe enough. Many stars were doing it, either out of genuine concern or because the studios ordered them to (we couldn’t appear to be oblivious) for extra publicity. I thought about telephoning Rudi to consult with him, then thought again. I didn’t need permission to do what felt right.

  Dressed in slacks and a plain white shirt, my hair under a scarf, and carrying grocery bags filled with hams and fresh-baked strudel from my bungalow oven, I arrived at the Hollywood Canteen at 1451 Cahuenga Boulevard.

  Bette chortled. “Planning on a juggling act?”

  “No,” I said. “But I can play the musical saw. Will that do?”

  “Go at it,” she said, and I joined the others in the kitchens to cook meals.

  The boys in uniform—for they were boys, so fresh faced and young I couldn’t imagine them doing anything but chasing girls or one another—and servicewomen, as well, were so grateful and astonished to see me, Bette, Dorothy, Norma, Claudette, Mae West, and others serving at the tables that they lightened my heart. John joined us; so did Gary, Randolph, and Cary, and other top male stars. Bette had stormed the highest echelons, recruiting the most famous, her relentless optimism—“Go get ’em, boys!”—and consummate dedication making her heroic in my eyes. It was the role of a lifetime and she never wavered, working long hours to ensure our troops didn’t leave without some love and glitz. Signed pictures of us were required; she distributed these so that every serviceman who came through the doors would have one.

  One night after a performance by Rosalind Russell, the servicemen started banging their cutlery on the tables and chanting, “Marlene! Marlene!”

  I was in the back, scrubbing pots with a breathtaking new contract player named Ava Gardner, whose green-eyed beauty was matched by her sailor’s mouth. We were chuckling over MGM’s choice for her first part, an unbilled socialite. “Now, they want to put me in a fucking musical, like Judy Garland. I can’t sing like you gals,” she said, unfazed. “I guess they’ll have to dub me to make it look like I do. Pretty is as pretty does, right?” Then she paused. “Hey. Sounds like they’re calling for you.”

  I went still, listening. Bette burst into the kitchen. “Take off that hairnet and get your ass out there. They want ‘Falling in Love Again.’”

  Ava rolled her eyes at me. “Can’t escape that little ditty, can you?”

  Jabbing her in the ribs as she laughed, I wrenched off my net and followed Bette. The explosion of shouts and applause brought me to a halt. From the stage, clad in a silver gown that revealed her stellar legs, Rosalind crooked a finger at me and said into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, your cook, Marlene Dietrich.”

  As I walked onto the stage with the yowls of servicemen deafening me, Rosalind said into my ear, “I’ve cued the band.” She left me standing there, shirtsleeves rolled to my elbows and wispy curls flattened from my hairnet.

  “Marlene! Marlene!”

  “Hush, Liebchens,” I whispered into the microphone. “You make a girl nervous.” Then, as the music began, I called for a chair and one of the boys in the first row fell over his own feet to bring it to me. Straddling it, I pulled up my slacks to expose my calves. In the hush that fell, as their shining faces blurred into sudden tears I held back, I sang my heart out for them, following my signature number from The Blue Angel with songs from Morocco, The Devil Is a Woman, Blonde Venus, Destry Rides Again, and Seven Sinners. I used my scarf as my sole accessory, draping it about my head, shimmying it like a boa about my shoulders, and feeling as if I were bathed in glitter. When I was done, breathless and sweating, I paused, gazing out from beneath my lids at the multitude and spoke my favorite line from Seven Sinners: “‘Oh, look. The navy. Will someone please give me an American . . . cigarette?’”

  The boys went wild. Dozens of cigarettes flew through the air to fall around me.

  As I retrieved one, every man at the first twelve tables lunged forward with their lighters, flicking flames in the low-lit salon illuminating their ecstatic faces
.

  “God bless you, Miss Dietrich,” I heard one whisper.

  That night after the canteen closed and Bette held me, I wept. I didn’t know why. Yes, I’d been moved by all those young men, all that ardent life, soon to be shipped off to fight and die just as German boys were. But I also wept for something else, an inchoate sundering inside me for which I had no name. It came flooding like a tide—the years of hope and disappointment, the highs and lows, Gabin and the entire silly carousel, as von Sternberg had called it.

  “There now.” Bette cradled me in her arms. “I had no idea you were such a natural. Those come-hither films of yours don’t do you justice. You belong on the stage.”

  “You think so?” I looked up at her. It had been so long since I’d entertained like that, without costumes or accompaniment, without cameras or artifice, that I’d wondered if I sounded like Dietrich or a middle-aged Kraut with ham on her breath.

  “Don’t be coy. You heard their applause. No one could take their eyes off you.” She chuckled. “Not even Rosalind, and believe me, she’s not easily impressed.” She paused. “Why don’t you apply for a USO permit? Forget this racket. Go give our boys what they need. If I had what you do, I’d go,” she added, lifting her skirt. “But who wants to see these chicken legs?”

  It was my apotheosis. Though I was scheduled to be loaned out to MGM for an Arabian-themed extravaganza, from that moment I had only one ambition:

  To support my adopted nation in whichever way I could.

  III

  Though it had taken Pearl Harbor to rally the nation, America had been providing military aid and reconnaissance since 1941, when Germany declared war on us. As part of the Allied strategy with Britain and Russia, the plans to defeat Hitler were as secret and dangerous as the mounting casualties, without any certainty if we would prevail.