Free Marlene by C. W. Gortner Page B

it clear without ever saying it that I must make no demands of him.
    For a while, it suited me. As he couldn’t see me every night, it left me plenty of time to do other things. I became enthralled by newfound friends rhapsodizing about the gaudy butterfly emerging from Berlin’s war-torn carapace, the many theaters, cabarets, and vaudeville halls sprouting amid destitution. Children were dying in droves from typhoid and starvation. Maimed veterans had found no reparations from the government and took to begging or selling contraband goods. Women who survived the war, but whose husbands or sons had not, peddled what they had, or if they were nimble enough, auditioned to be chorus girls. Germany was chaotic, riddled with poverty and crime, but every boy I kissed and every girl I met wanted to go to Berlin—but not to extol Handel, Schiller, or Goethe. No, they longed to make abstract art, pen satires, parade down the streets and revel in freedom. It reminded me of Uncle Willi’s friends in the parlor, their exuberance and belief that art could heal all ills. Berlin was where art was being made, a beacon of hope to chase away the drudgery.
    In Berlin, everyone thought they could become someone else.
    But I feared returning there.
    REITZ NEVER SOCIALIZED WITH ME . We conducted our liaison like our lessons—in private, with no attempt to plan beyond the next time. Eventually, I grew impatient. I wanted more, but more of what? I was reachingthe end of my third term at the conservatory. Much as I wanted to avoid the thought, I couldn’t be a student forever. I had to start planning my future.
    “Do you think I should move back to Berlin?” I asked him impulsively one night, smoking in bed after lovemaking. I’d begun smoking more with him, our ritual after sex, as he liked it and he could turn moody at times when we were done.
    “Berlin?” He stood at the window, the tip of his cigarette glowing. “What do you expect to do there?” He sounded disinterested, as if I was making idle conversation, which only made me more impatient. Did he not care if I stayed or went? Perversity overcame me. After all these months, he still behaved as if we engaged in a transgression for which he could never atone.
    “I don’t know,” I said with deliberate flippancy, to see if I could get a reaction out of him. “I’ll never be a concert soloist, but I can still play music. There’s so much opportunity. New musical halls and cabarets opening every day. I could do a violin duet or maybe sing.” Stubbing out my cigarette, I ran my hand through my tousled hair. Affecting a throaty tone like the chanteuses used in our local dives, I crooned, “‘We are different from the others who love in morality, wandering through a thousand wonders . . .’” I paused, watching him turn to me with a slight smile. “I have a nice voice, don’t you think? My friends tell me I sing very well.”
    “You do. A lovely voice. Do you know what that song is about?” When I shrugged, he said, “It’s ‘Das Lila Lied,’ The Lavender Song. A homosexual anthem.”
    “Oh?” Of course I knew. I’d seen homosexuals in the cafés—lithe boys in skintight sailor pants and perky caps, sashaying with precision. I’d grown curious as they sidled past me, eyeing each other at the bar and sometimes disappearing into the alley behind the café, until I finally dragged Bertha outside with me, ignoring her protest.
    We stood in the shadows, watching one boy lean against a wall while the other slipped to his knees before him. Right there, under peeling posters announcing Henny Porten’s latest flicker and defiant slogans of sickles and fists, the kneeling boy took the other in his mouth. As he gulped, thestanding boy slid his eyes at us. He winked. Bertha gasped, pulling from me to race back into the café. I stayed until they finished, the kneeling boy rubbing himself as his companion spilled. I found myself aroused by their random carnality; it made me