Marlene (48 page)

From Munich to Frankfurt, Dresden, and Cologne, I sang beside ditches and in bombed-out movie palaces, on decrepit stages in rubble-strewn halls. I played my musical saw, that oddity I’d learned in Vienna, sitting on a stool with the blade between my legs and coaxing Roma refrains from it, old beer-garden tunes, and other relics from our imploded past. I always finished my performances with “Lili Marleen,” rousing the boys to sing along with me, to lend them strength as they navigated a decimated land where sudden death by a buried mine or toppling building, by a lone sniper clinging to his Nazi armband, were now as much a reality as our lost millions, vanished without a gravestone to mark their passage.

Finally, my strength gave out. The infection in my jaw, never fully cured, surged anew. In blinding pain, I submitted to hasty medical intervention in Paris before taking flight to New York. I’d outstayed my USO
engagement by three months. I had left as a star, eager to show my patriotism, but also eager for the attention it brought. I returned as someone different—forged in fire, in the blood of the battlefield, and by the specter of a ravaged nation I’d resolved to disown.

Photographers and reporters thronged my arrival; this time, I gave no interviews. Customs confiscated my revolvers, despite my protest that they were a gift from General Patton. Looking grayer and more stooped, Rudi collected me in a car and rushed me to the hospital, where I remained for two weeks while my jaw was hollowed out, treated, and repaired.

I convalesced in his apartment. Maria wasn’t there; she’d followed my example and departed on her own USO tour, though she stayed out of Germany at Rudi’s request. Our daughter was too obvious a target, even with the Reich destroyed.

When I felt human again, the swelling in my jaw having eased enough that I could talk, I called my agent. I had no intention of staying in my husband’s home any longer than necessary. I needed money for a hotel suite and, if possible, a job. Sooner rather than later. The Ritz in Paris had footed my tab, waving aside my assurance of future payment, but I owed them. I also had an enormous hospital bill and didn’t like leaving debts in my wake.

Eddie did not mince words. “You left on a soldier’s salary, which isn’t much. The rent on Rudi’s flat, Maria’s tuition, storage for your belongings from the bungalow, not to mention installments on your back taxes—it’s eaten up whatever savings you had. I’m still owed my commission on your last two pictures. And I’m sorry to say this, but the studios have gotten used to you being away. I’ll make the rounds, but I can’t guarantee anyone will take my calls.”

“But MGM held the option on my contract,” I said, dismayed. “When I was last there, you told me I looked terrific. You were sure they’d line up another picture for me.”

“That option expired. And you did look terrific. Do you still look terrific now? Because you sound awful.”

I glanced into the bedroom mirror, the phone crooked at my ear. I
looked . . . old. Exhausted. Thin and unkempt, my jaw bruised and still misshapen. I looked like what I was—a forty-three-year-old former movie star who’d trudged through hell. I could get it all back, I had no doubt. But I needed time. And the bills wouldn’t wait.

“I left some jewelry in a deposit box in Switzerland,” I said. “My emeralds and diamonds. I can have it appraised and sell whatever I need to.”

“Sure, but hold off on the emeralds, okay? I’ll do my best to get your name out there. It’s changing here, you know. Since the war, there are new opportunities, independent producers and directors. Stars are beginning to challenge the system, and you’re getting a ton of fan mail. I’ve a pile of cards and letters from wives and sweethearts of GIs who saw you at the front, all thanking you for helping their men. America loves you, Marlene. I just need to prove it to the studios.”

I didn’t like the idea of him wielding fan mail as my entrée back into the very world I’d deserted. Unlike other stars, who’d done what they must to support the effort but never at the risk of their bankability on-screen, I’d walked away to plunge into the only cause that mattered to me. And although I’d not seen much since my return, I did not find America changed. That was the most disconcerting part; to my eyes, not much had changed at all. The war seemed distant here, among the skyscrapers and bustle, its tragedies reduced to newspaper headlines. Soldiers were being shipped home in body bags or clinging to life without limbs, blinded by tear gas and deaf from the bombings. No one seemed to care. The bars and restaurants were overflowing. Plays were still being staged on Broadway. Movies were still being made, even as Europe moaned under the wreckage and Japan cowered in the atomic fallout of Hiroshima.

On August 15, 1945, Japan surrendered. The Second World War came to its crushing finale. New York exploded with streamers, champagne, and jubilation in the streets. From Rudi’s apartment terrace, I stood in my bathrobe and thought it looked like a scene from one of my pictures with von Sternberg—a celebratory rampage, careening into an all-week-long debauchery, without anyone having the faintest idea of the toll this war had taken.

I realized then that my own personal battle had just begun.

As I’d felt that day in Paris when Rudi confronted me, I didn’t know who I was.

“You should go back for a visit,” Rudi advised. I’d been finagling my way into beauty parlors, plying my name in lieu of cash. Eddie had not exaggerated my appeal. I found a host of experts more than willing to tone and groom me back into Dietrich. I’d gained a few pounds, which I needed, submitted to rigorous tonic cleansings and countless facials. I was starting to look like myself again, despite the crow’s-feet at my eyes and the new lines on my forehead. Makeup could disguise that. A face-lift could eliminate it. A cosmetic surgeon in New York, referred by my jaw doctor, had offered to perform the lift for free, asking in return that I provide his name to other Hollywood women. At the moment, I was undecided, having seen enough of surgical knives and hospitals for the time being.

“Eddie hasn’t sent word that anyone wants to see me,” I said, as Tamara emptied my ashtray and gave me a look. She was on medication to deal with her nerves; whatever she was taking had caused her to stop smoking, not that she’d ever smoked as much as me or Rudi. Besides, my jaw surgeon had advised me to quit, saying it had contributed to the infection and damage. “I don’t see why I should humiliate myself by going somewhere I’m not welcome.”

Rudi sighed. “You can’t sit here for the rest of your life. I know you’re afraid, but—”

“I’m not afraid,” I interrupted sharply. “I’m just not ready to keep every eyelash straight. Hollywood never knew what to do with me. Every risk I’ve taken, I took on my own. And don’t forget, I’m still German. No one wants to see movies with a German femme fatale.”

“Are you telling that to them or to yourself?” asked Rudi, making me scowl. I despised the fact that he could still see through me. “You’ve done more for morale with your USO tour than any other performer. You’re a war hero. That must count for something. You could stay with Orson Welles. He sent you a personal invitation, offering his home for as long as you like. He’s directing his own films; his wife, Rita Hayworth, is one
of Columbia Pictures’ biggest commodities. They’ll introduce you to everyone. It could be the start of a brand-new career—one you’re finally in control of.”

I laughed and lit another cigarette, ignoring Tamara’s disapproving snort. “When has anyone who signed a contract been in control of their career?”

Yet his words stayed with me. He was right. I couldn’t hide away and hope they came to me. They wouldn’t. I’d made them a lot of money once, but as Eddie said, things changed. Or not, as the case might be. In Hollywood, we were only as important as we made ourselves appear. I’d been out of the limelight for too long to hope an amazing part would drop into my lap. I’d have to go to them. I’d have to go and look irresistible. I would have to smile and pose and genuflect, demonstrate I had value, that my name could still attract an audience.

But I seemed to have lost the will. All I could think of was Paris, where people I knew, like Gabin, now worked to revive the stagnant film industry, offering up their talents in partnership with destitute European studios to make films that depicted the realities of today—gritty stories without sequins, about how we lived now. I could find work there; Paris was where I belonged. Without ever having acknowledged it, Paris felt like home.

I’d already decided to book a ticket back to Europe when unexpected word came from an attaché of General Bradley, who’d not forgotten his promise to me.

My mother had been found in Berlin. Alive.

X

I
traveled to Paris to apply for the necessary permits to enter Germany. While I waited, I reunited with Gabin, who’d returned to his beloved Paris after having endured his own harrowing battles during the advance to liberate the city. His hair had gone silver; he was weatherbeaten and careworn, aged beyond his years, but still magnetic. He took me to bed, chided me about his beloved paintings, which remained in my storage, before he talked about us working together. He had a script he felt I’d be perfect for; he would play the lead opposite me. France needed to restore her culture, and he’d always thought I should act there. Why not now?

I wanted to do it, but asked for time while the army processed my application to travel to Germany. The Allied tug-of-war over the country, with the Soviets staking their claim to the east, meant every applicant was scrutinized, run through multiple security checks to ensure they had a valid reason for entering enemy territory. Contraband, racketeering, and the occasional Nazi stowaway were rife. Nothing and no one was safe. I had to be patient to get into Berlin.

I’d charmed my way into more perilous engagements. A telegram to Bradley himself, reminding him that I was a major, finally secured my authorization, albeit with the caveat that I was under duty to report when
summoned. They even provided me with an official plane, which I accessorized by wearing my military uniform—khaki jacket, gored skirt, tie, and cap.

When I landed at the Tempelhof airfield, international news photographers blinded me with their flashbulbs. Word had leaked out, but this was an event I wanted them to record. It suited me to be seen reuniting with the woman who’d given birth to me and outlived two wars.

She was on the airfield with the army-assigned chauffeur. As I dodged past the airplane propellers, their wind shearing at my cap, I took one look at her spare, brittle form—so small now, so aged, when once she’d seemed immutable, like the Brandenburg Gate—and threw my arms around her. She stiffened; and then, as we went to the waiting car, she cast a censorious glance at the cameras and said, “You’re too thin. You’ll look like a bean stalk on the front page.”

I wanted to clutch her veined hand when we settled in the car. But she tucked her fingers into her lap and, as we drove into the city, she remarked, “You’ll find everything changed.”

She had a way of making it seem as though the streets had been repaved, her expression detached as I melted in disbelief at the window, staring out at the wasteland my city had become. I didn’t recognize a thing. There was nothing to recognize. Berlin was a husk, a burnt-out shell. It was already a ghost, a lost memory.

“Wait,” I started to tell the driver. “This can’t be the way to Kaiserallee . . .”

Mutti sniffed. “My flat was bombed. The area is a shambles. Good thing I wasn’t there. Those endless ration lines people complained about? Standing in one saved my life.”

“I thought you were dead.” I was doing everything I could to contain myself, knowing she’d not approve of histrionics. It did not fail to strike me that within minutes of our reunion, I’d reverted to the daughter she’d raised, wanting to please, to make her proud and avoid censure.

“Then we both thought the same.” She met my eyes. “I heard you
singing over the wireless. And your speeches.” Her voice tightened, though I couldn’t tell if she approved of my defiance or considered it an intolerable breach of etiquette. “Later, they declared that London had been destroyed and came to my door—I was still at the flat—to inform me that you had died in the Blitz. An enemy of the Reich, they said, who has paid the price.
Heil
Hitler
.”

“But I was with the Americans,” I exclaimed. “I had everyone searching for you.”

“Is that so? They didn’t search very well. I’ve been here the entire time.”

I almost laughed. She wasn’t saying it to disparage the soldiers who had located her. She simply stated a fact. No one disliked incompetence more than Josephine Felsing.

By the time we arrived at her new home in the Fregestrasse, a neutral suburb between the Soviet- and American-occupied areas, I could see she was weary. She had trouble climbing the flight of stairs, and once we entered her dimly lit flat, which consisted of a sparsely furnished living room, adjoining kitchenette, and closetlike bedroom, she sighed.

“If you need to use the WC, it’s down the hall. The entire floor shares it.”

I made her a cup of tea, noting she had army rations and whispering a word of gratitude to General Bradley. Then, as she sat on the lumpy sofa, I rolled up my sleeves and went to work, tidying up whatever I could until she said irritably, “You needn’t prove you can still keep house. I cleaned the apartment myself when they told me you were coming. Sit with me.”

Perching beside her, I didn’t know what to say. I could now clearly see how much the war had wrought on her. She wasn’t only underweight; her entire being seemed diminished, that unquenchable force within her ebbing like water from a ruptured pipe.

“Mutti, are you sick? You don’t look well.”

She set her cup on the table. “It’s Berlin. No one looks well. We’ve lost another war. Only this time, we’ll pay for it more harshly. Between your Americans and the Reds, they’ll see us penned up like beasts in a stockade.” She paused, glancing askance at the apartment, which contained none
of her prized possessions, all lost in the bombing. “I’m a stranger in my own city. I don’t understand how any of this could have happened.”