Marlene (30 page)

But he tasted like the sea.

WITHIN WEEKS, EVERYONE ON THE SET KNEW
. We couldn’t have hidden it if we tried. Our scenes crackled with electricity, every look between us charged with the aftereffects of our nights together. Gary stopped letting von Sternberg get under his skin. He had no room, not when I was there instead, so that when we passed each other on our way to our dressing rooms, he’d waggle his hand and quote his dialogue suggestively, “What am I doing with my fingers? Nothing. Yet.”

Von Sternberg went as dark as a thundercloud, reducing his directions to as few words as he could muster: “Move to the left. Turn to the light. Hold. Cut.”

And that was with me. With Gary, he ceased speaking at all. Through his silence, he made it clear he didn’t care how his male lead performed, confirming that he considered
Morocco
to be my picture. He was making it only for me.

“I don’t give a crap,” Gary said as I rested on his chest while he smoked lazily, as nonchalant after sex as he was ardent during it. “He can’t hurt me. Selznick told me, forget about that asshole. He’ll make you famous despite himself. It’s a terrific part. I’m not the nice guy in this one. I’m the heel who walks away. The girl chases after me.” He ruffled my hair. “Betcha it won’t be like that in real life, huh? You don’t seem like the type to chase after anyone.”

“Why should I?” I took his cigarette from his mouth and inhaled. “We’re both married. And your Mexican spitfire does quite enough chasing after you for the three of us.”

“Do you love him?” he suddenly asked. “Your husband, I mean?”

I paused, smoke drifting from my mouth. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I do. There are many kinds of love. We have a daughter. I miss them both. I miss Germany.”

“Never been.” He folded his arms behind his head, stretching out his long limbs. “I hear it’s not so nice now. Lots of unrest. That war knocked you Krauts down pretty hard.”

“It did.” All of a sudden, I wanted to be alone. “Are you staying tonight?”

“Nope.” He uncoiled from under me, padding to the chair littered with his clothes. “Got to get up early. We’ve that final scene to shoot. Then I have to see Lupe.” He grimaced. “Talk about driving a man crazy. She’s got a screw loose or something.”

I didn’t comment, though I agreed. From what he’d told me, Lupe Vélez had a nasty habit of following him around—she wasn’t stupid—shoving her fist into his crotch and threatening to cut off his
huevos
. I had no idea how he put up with it, trapped between a marriage he no longer wanted and a jealous mistress who might castrate him at any moment.

“She thinks I’ll leave my wife,” he said, pulling on his jacket. “But she’s wrong. I’ll file for divorce as soon as the studio says I can, but not to marry her. She needs a mental ward, not a husband.” He pushed his fingers through his hair without glancing at my dressing table mirror. His lack of vanity never ceased to amaze me. He wasn’t like any actor I’d known. Once he was away from the camera, he couldn’t have cared less about his appearance.

“Will you?” he said. “Someday, maybe?”

“Will I what?” I reclined against the headboard.

“Divorce. You say you love him, but, baby—a woman in love doesn’t fuck like you do.”

“Is that so?” I chucked his chin as he kissed me. “Go home to your wife. And get a gun. Lupe might actually try to cut off those big balls of yours and, I must admit, I’d miss them.”

Laughing, he strode out.

It wouldn’t last. I knew it already. I enjoyed his company but we had nothing in common save for mutual lust. But until the picture wrapped or he started to bore me, I was content.

Even if von Sternberg was not.

IN THE FINAL SCENE,
when the trumpet calls her legionnaire to duty, Amy sees her name carved by him on a tabletop. Unable to resist, she joins his departing caravan, her white skirt and blouse billowing in the sirocco as she kicks off her shoes and vanishes into blistering sands.

It was my idea to shuck the shoes. The studio was stifling, wind machines blowing acres of sand hauled from a nearby beach; as I stood with my hand shielding my brow while the caravan snaked over the ridge, I thought Amy would want to hurry. She’d want to join her man as soon as possible. The moment I kicked off my shoes, von Sternberg erupted from behind the camera. “Cut!” he said, and he marched up to me with his megaphone in hand. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off her shoes. It’s the desert at high noon. She can’t walk in heels.”

“She can.” His spit needled my face. “She’ll burn her feet. Put them back on.”

“No. They stay where they are. Make it the last shot. A symbol of her past.”

“A symbol! Are you directing this picture now?” But he trudged away to consider and the shoes remained where I’d left them, on the sand in the final shot.

By the time we wrapped, no one ever wanted to see a grain of sand again. The preview was held in a dusty suburb called Pomona. I’d never heard of previews, but we did our duty by dressing up and attending. The theater was half empty. No one applauded at the end, though the film was sublime and far less simple than I’d supposed.

I thought we had a flop. The studio had aimed for a tamer version of Lola-Lola, but the undercurrent of perverse longing, my chemistry with Gary, and the cross-dressing lesbian kiss would be too strong for America’s white-bread taste. It wasn’t as overt as
The Blue Angel,
but no one could mistake it for anything else but what it was—a tale of masochistic surrender.

Paramount must have feared the same. They held an extravagant pre
miere at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the first ever by the studio in that legendary Asian-themed palace, with all the industry’s influential columnists in attendance. I was stunned by the crowds, the photographers, and the cheering fans—a panoply of glamour fixated on me as I walked down the carpet in hip-clinging black chiffon and a silver fox stole.

To our surprise,
Morocco
was a hit. Critics hailed me as “a seductive rival to Garbo,” which thrilled the studio. When I got the call from Schulberg himself that the picture had broken box-office records, he offered an immediate contract renewal, doubling my salary along with the stipulation that von Sternberg would continue to direct me. He also offered a spacious Mediterranean-style villa, paid for by the studio, in Beverly Hills.

I had just become Paramount’s new female star.

My next picture,
Dishonored,
was rushed into production. Kept busy from dawn to dusk with fittings for costumes by the studio’s premier couturier, Travis Banton, and publicity shoots, I was permitted studio-organized evenings at the Cocoanut Grove or Club New Yorker, escorted by several of their upcoming male stars, although I found enough spare time to continue my dalliances with Gary.

I had everything I’d worked for so long to achieve. I was famous, regaled wherever I went. I earned more than enough money to support my family; even my manufactured duel with Garbo, stoked incessantly by the studio press, ceased to bother me, for I’d accomplished as much as she had in the same span of time. I might not be deemed worthy of coveted dramatic roles yet, but those would come. I’d hone my skills and master my craft. No actress would know more than me about filmmaking. I would be an asset, a tool, von Sternberg’s willing marionette. I had only just begun to explore my potential.

Yet instead of reveling in it, all I wanted was to see Berlin again.

SCENE FIVE

GODDESS OF DESIRE

1931–1935

“THEY SAY VON STERNBERG IS RUINING ME. I SAY, LET HIM RUIN ME.”

I

D
ishonored
was about a widowed Viennese streetwalker recruited to spy during the war. She falls for a Russian agent and is betrayed, then shot to death by a firing squad. With a complete script, Schulberg mandated that we finish the shoot in under two months, so he could capitalize on my success and keep audiences begging for more.

He was wrong. Perhaps because it was rushed, my second picture did not fare as well as
Morocco
. After being inundated with initial publicity about me, the new face at Paramount, audiences had flocked to see my first film; now, they weren’t so curious anymore. Nevertheless, a few perceptive critics lauded my performance and Schulberg affirmed his trust in my collaboration with my director, stating that no picture was doing very well at the moment.

Von Sternberg chose to be insulted. “All they care about in this town is profit,” he said, tossing our notices aside. “It’s a better picture than
Morocco,
and you’re better in it, but as they don’t understand it, who cares? America did not suffer as we did during the war.”

He was restless, tired and fed up with the studio oversight. He needed a rest. We both did. We’d been working nonstop for over two years, shooting three pictures in a row. My new contract wasn’t due to start until the
spring. With
Dishonored
finished and Christmas upon us, I took advantage of the lull, hiring staff to prepare my new house while I departed for
Morocco
’s London premiere, followed by a long-awaited reunion in Berlin with my family.

RUDI, TAMARA, AND HEIDEDE GREETED ME
as I disembarked. I rushed to embrace them while photographers yelled out my name. My family looked well; Heidede would soon turn eight, and I was astonished by how much she’d grown, her long legs, messy curls, and defiant expression reminding me of myself at her age.

“Did you miss me?” I asked her as the studio-assigned chauffeur evaded the clamoring reporters and drove us via side streets to the flat. “I missed you so much.” I held her close until she wriggled away, looking askance at me, as though she wasn’t sure who I was.

“Children forget,” Tamara reassured me that evening, after Heidede was put to bed and we sat at the table. Tamara had made a gloriously fattening supper of roast pork loin, potatoes, rye bread with butter, and sauerkraut. I hadn’t eaten so well since I’d left. “But she’ll come around. You have changed. She doesn’t recognize you.”

“I haven’t changed that much.” I took a swig of my beer and deliberately let out a burp.

“Evidently not.” Rudi grinned. He seemed content. He was working full time now, employed by the UFA and Paramount as an associate producer, in charge of the American studio’s distribution in Germany. I got him the job, lobbying Schulberg to hire him; the studio had agreed, no doubt because keeping Rudi busy would preempt his appearance on my doorstep in Beverly Hills with our daughter. Paramount was still trying to hide my marriage, offsetting my unwitting remarks in New York with a barrage of fabricated gossip in Louella Parsons’s newspaper column about the idol du jour spotted on Miss Dietrich’s arm at the Cocoanut Grove.

“I’m still Lena,” I said. “Dietrich is an illusion. Lighting and makeup.”

“She’s more than that.” Tamara touched Rudi’s shoulder before she
started to clear the table. “You’re so slim and stylish. And that fur coat—it’s lynx, isn’t it? Must cost a fortune.”

“Take it.” As her eyes went wide, I said, “Whatever you like in my luggage, you can have. It’s just clothing. The studio can buy me more.”

“Oh, thank you, Marlene.” Tamara floated out with a smile on her face.

I gazed at Rudi. He said, “You’ve just made her very happy. Everything here is so expensive, she can’t afford brand-new clothes.”

“Well, she makes you happy. She loves and cares for Heidede. It’s the least I can do.”

“You do more than enough by sending us money. You don’t have to give away your wardrobe. Tamara adores you, no matter what.”

Smiling, I lit a cigarette. He might look well, but I detected a reserve in him, as though he was holding something back. “Everything okay in the new job? Are they treating you well?”

“Okay? That’s very American. Yes, it’s fine. I’m the secret Mr. Dietrich.”

I winced. “It wasn’t my decision. I announced when I first arrived that I was married and had a child. The studio was upset. Apparently, women of mystery must remain unattached.”

“It’s not that.” He met my eyes. “Marlene, have you been reading the newspapers?”

“Yes, whenever I can. They send me clippings of my notices and—”

“Not about you,” he said. “About Germany. Don’t you know what’s happening here?”

I recalled what Gary had said
, I hear it’s not so nice now. Lots of unrest. The war knocked you Krauts down pretty hard,
and guiltily shook my head. “Not really.”

“Well, things are worse.” He reached for my cigarettes. I was taken aback to see his hand tremble as he struck the match. He wasn’t just holding something back; he seemed frightened in a way I’d never seen before. “Unemployment and inflation are at record highs. In September, Hitler gained forty-five percent of the vote. His party is now the second-most powerful party. He uses the wireless to give speeches written by his propa
ganda minister, Josef Goebbels, who wrote a novel that no publisher will touch because it’s so anti-Semitic. Goebbels has refined Hitler’s message that Jewish financiers plot our downfall. Many people believe it.”

I had a sudden memory of that day when Leni and I were stopped by Hitler’s acolytes and felt once again the same surge of revulsion. “Surely, not everyone is so stupid. The wealthy, the financiers and literati—no intelligent person would ever believe such nonsense.”

“The steel tycoon Thyssen made a major donation to the party. So did the industrialist Quandt. Even the American Henry Ford supports them. They think only Hitler can save us.” Rudi sighed. “Many of our best talent are starting to leave. William Dieterle, whom you worked with, has gone to America to direct pictures. So are others. Among those who do read the newspapers or listen to the speeches, there is fear. We think Hitler will win the chancellorship in the next Reichstag. It’s what he’s been campaigning toward and he won’t stop until he gets it.”

I clenched my hands. “What are you saying? Do you want to leave, too?”