consult with Josephine,” he said. “It would be the proper thing to do. She holds a share in the business. I wouldn’t want to cause her any more trouble.”
“Of course,” I said, before Jolie could protest. “There’s no need. If I have the job, it’s a start.” I forced out a smile, though I felt wretched as I envisioned delivering the news to Mutti.
She didn’t raise her voice. After I informed her that I’d accepted employment in a small orchestra accompanying the flickers, all she said was, “I see,” before she left for her work.
Unnerved, thinking I should also have told her I was moving into the family residence, I saw Liesel glance at me. “You’d best start looking for that new room soon,” she said.
I sighed. I should, indeed. Though how I’d manage it seemed as insurmountable as everything else.
THE JOB WAS TEDIOUS. We had a set repertoire for each film that screened overhead, the music as trivial as the pictures themselves. I had to wonder why I’d been so entranced by Henny Porten. Watching her pantomime her way through convoluted plots six days a week, I thought her a rather poor actress. But she was famous everywhere she went, while I labored in a pit with other musicians who ogled me at intermission. I’d learned my lesson in Weimar. Despite numerous invitations, I declined. I needed the work and the pay, as Mutti’s pursed-lip response had turned out to be a percentage of my salary toward the rent, her punishment for what she deemed my willful rejection of a career as a concert soloist. The last thing I needed was a romantic mistake.
Even if I’d had the courage to tell her I was never going to earn acclaim for my violin, I lacked the time and energy. The job took us to various UFA picture houses in Berlin, Frankfurt, and Munich, where the scenery might change but the dismal hotel rooms and the repertoire remained the same. I learned every piece of music by heart and knew every film by rote; I could play my violin, watch the picture above, and hike up the edges of my skirt to get a draft of air on my sweltering stocking-clad legs without missing a note.
After four weeks in my employment, as I pulled on my coat one evening and prepared to trudge home with my violin in its now-battered case, the manager motioned me into his office. He slid an envelope across his desk. “Your final pay. I’m sorry, Fräulein Dietrich.”
“You’re dismissing me?” I was stunned. “But why? You told me I was doing very well.”
“You were. However, some of the others have complained.”
“Complained?” I knew at once which ones—all those whose invitations I’d refused. “Why should any of them complain? I’ve not missed an engagement. In fact, I should be the one complaining, as several of them fail to start with the picture or play the wrong score.”
“The legs.” He met my appalled stare. “They say you are too distracting. You pull up your skirt to show off your legs and confound them. It was a mistake to hire a woman.”
Infuriated, I grabbed the envelope and stormed out, but by the time I was on the boulevard, I was nearly in tears. I’d been fired for my legs, when all I’d been trying to do was catch some relief before I roasted to death in that hellhole of a pit. Now I was unemployed, and when I thought of what Mutti would say, the triumph in her voice as she reminded me I should have kept to housekeeping and lessons until the appropriate opportunity presented itself—
I dashed into the nearest café. I never bought myself anything. I would at least enjoy a decent meal with my own earnings before I handed over whatever was left to Frau Dragon.
It was early evening, when anyone with anything to spend took to the streets. After ordering the most inexpensive meal on the fixed-price menu, balancing my violin case in one hand and beer mug in the other (yes, I would drink and let Mutti smell it on me), I searched the crowded interior for an empty seat. I spotted one in
“Of course,” I said, before Jolie could protest. “There’s no need. If I have the job, it’s a start.” I forced out a smile, though I felt wretched as I envisioned delivering the news to Mutti.
She didn’t raise her voice. After I informed her that I’d accepted employment in a small orchestra accompanying the flickers, all she said was, “I see,” before she left for her work.
Unnerved, thinking I should also have told her I was moving into the family residence, I saw Liesel glance at me. “You’d best start looking for that new room soon,” she said.
I sighed. I should, indeed. Though how I’d manage it seemed as insurmountable as everything else.
THE JOB WAS TEDIOUS. We had a set repertoire for each film that screened overhead, the music as trivial as the pictures themselves. I had to wonder why I’d been so entranced by Henny Porten. Watching her pantomime her way through convoluted plots six days a week, I thought her a rather poor actress. But she was famous everywhere she went, while I labored in a pit with other musicians who ogled me at intermission. I’d learned my lesson in Weimar. Despite numerous invitations, I declined. I needed the work and the pay, as Mutti’s pursed-lip response had turned out to be a percentage of my salary toward the rent, her punishment for what she deemed my willful rejection of a career as a concert soloist. The last thing I needed was a romantic mistake.
Even if I’d had the courage to tell her I was never going to earn acclaim for my violin, I lacked the time and energy. The job took us to various UFA picture houses in Berlin, Frankfurt, and Munich, where the scenery might change but the dismal hotel rooms and the repertoire remained the same. I learned every piece of music by heart and knew every film by rote; I could play my violin, watch the picture above, and hike up the edges of my skirt to get a draft of air on my sweltering stocking-clad legs without missing a note.
After four weeks in my employment, as I pulled on my coat one evening and prepared to trudge home with my violin in its now-battered case, the manager motioned me into his office. He slid an envelope across his desk. “Your final pay. I’m sorry, Fräulein Dietrich.”
“You’re dismissing me?” I was stunned. “But why? You told me I was doing very well.”
“You were. However, some of the others have complained.”
“Complained?” I knew at once which ones—all those whose invitations I’d refused. “Why should any of them complain? I’ve not missed an engagement. In fact, I should be the one complaining, as several of them fail to start with the picture or play the wrong score.”
“The legs.” He met my appalled stare. “They say you are too distracting. You pull up your skirt to show off your legs and confound them. It was a mistake to hire a woman.”
Infuriated, I grabbed the envelope and stormed out, but by the time I was on the boulevard, I was nearly in tears. I’d been fired for my legs, when all I’d been trying to do was catch some relief before I roasted to death in that hellhole of a pit. Now I was unemployed, and when I thought of what Mutti would say, the triumph in her voice as she reminded me I should have kept to housekeeping and lessons until the appropriate opportunity presented itself—
I dashed into the nearest café. I never bought myself anything. I would at least enjoy a decent meal with my own earnings before I handed over whatever was left to Frau Dragon.
It was early evening, when anyone with anything to spend took to the streets. After ordering the most inexpensive meal on the fixed-price menu, balancing my violin case in one hand and beer mug in the other (yes, I would drink and let Mutti smell it on me), I searched the crowded interior for an empty seat. I spotted one in
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