Free Marlene by Marlene Dietrich Page A

was to retain. During the rehearsal, Marcellus Schiffer watched her closely from the corner of his eye. She was a professional down to the last detail. She was a consummate artist.
    After rehearsing for a week, she summoned me to her dressing room. There she began to size me up with her pale blue eyes. The author, composer and director crowded around her. What did she want from me? Quite simply, I found out we were going to sing a new song together—a duet—called “My Best Girlfriend.” I couldn’t believe it.
    When I finally got hold of myself again, I was told that the song would be a parody of The Dolly Sisters. We would be dressed in the same way. She was to sing high and I was to sing low. Then, one behind the other, we would cavort about the stage in great comic strides, finally bringing the number to a close at center stage.
    We got down to the business of our song right away. The tailor shops made the costumes. I was elated that my modest request to appear in black was granted. Even our hats were to be black. Everything fell together perfectly. When our clothes were ready, I fastened big bunches of violets to both our shoulders to give our outfits, which I found a bit too mournful, a friendly touch of color.
    Little did I know that after a play by Edouard Bourdet called The Prisoners, violets in the Berlin theatrical world of the twenties had taken on a rather special meaning. I had simply found the violets pleasant.
    But on the day after the opening, when I read the review describing “an androgynous song” as the high point of the performance whose somewhat peculiar character was heightened by the violets on the shoulders of “the star Margo Lion and her cohort, a moderately talented beginner,” to quote the critic, I was flabbergasted.
    However, I didn’t dare ask Margo Lion to explain it all to me. She probably would have laughed at my gaucherie and naiveté. “Androgynous!” I had no idea what the critic meant. Hadn’t he noticed that Oskar Karlweiss had joined us in the last refrain? And what about the number in which all three of us danced together in a close embrace?
    The production was far ahead of its time—and far ahead of anything I knew about at this point. As, for example, when the director insisted on the use of curtains rather than side scenes and focused the lighting on the performers, leaving it all to the audience’s imagination.
    During the performances (and I didn’t miss a single one), I didn’t make friends with anyone in the company. Margo Lion both fascinated and frightened me. For nothing in the world would I have missed that great moment when, in her wedding gown, she sang “The Blue Hour,” telling the story of her deep longing in the time before the wedding.
    Since I was a member of the cast, I was allowed to stay backstage. That’s all I really wanted. I never sought direct contact with the leading performers or lesser cast members. My upbringing discouraged any kind of intrusiveness on my part. How could an unknown like me dare to speak to a great star whose name was emblazoned on the posters? Unthinkable! But life sometimes holds many surprises in store for us. Who could have imagined that several years later, during the Nazi regime, I would become a close friend of Mischa Spoliansky and his family, whom I was to meet in England? That I would play a role in the secret operation that rescued Oskar Karlweiss from the clutches of the Nazis and succeeded in bringing him via Spain to the United States, where he resumed his career and then, all too young, died?
    After her husband’s death, Margo Lion returned to her native France and later became famous in the movies and on TV. By thattime I had formed a deep and real friendship with her. Nothing brings people closer together than shared tragic events.
    It’s in the Air enjoyed a great success, but suddenly its long run came to an abrupt, unceremonious