For all of us. I wish I could turn back the clock to this moment, and tell her to stop, now before it’s too late.
Mo told her to stick around for retakes, and then she could depart for Europe, as she wished. Then there were sittings for publicity photos. Mother presided over the contact prints, retouching them with her wax pencil, shaping the nose, the hands (which she hated), the corners of the mouth, and when the product was perfect, she ordered dozens of copies for herself.
Mo left a message to join him in the projection room to view the rough cut. Mother was luminous. As Mo intended, the corpses and gargoyles served to enhance her beauty, the purity of her white skin. No one films you like I do, because no loves you as I do. Mother knelt at Mo’s knees, her golden hair fan-like against his trousers. He put his hand gently on her hair, his eyes sad.
In the morning, we stripped Mother’s dressing room, and then we packed for Europe. Mother’s clothes were carefully wrapped in tissue paper and stored in enormous steamer trunks, which looked like coffins. We packed the dolls. On the train we pulled down the blinds, locked the doors, took off her departure outfit, and packed it away in tissue. She removed her garter belt, then the expensive silk stockings, rinsed them and hung them carefully over towels to dry. A more comfortable bra was put on. She washed her face and brushed out the curls in her hair. Put on a navy PJ set and silk dressing gown.
‘Soon, I will drink real coffee in Paris, not the piss that Americans drink.’
I ate my last cheeseburger and a slice of lemon meringue pie, and waved goodbye to the Big Green Lady with the torch, and I promised her that I would be back soon.
Mother was in a good mood when we boarded the Europa and entered our staterooms, which were already filled with huge baskets of flowers and bottles of champagne in ice buckets. The pungent scent of tuberoses and white lilac filled the air. The maid had already begun unpacking the coffins for Frau Madou; her tuxedos and evening gowns were hanging on padded hangers, and evening shoes and bags had been labelled and stored away.
Mother was chatting and laughing with the waiter and her steward. She was so relaxed, and I didn’t understand why until I realised that everyone was speaking in German. So that’s why she was happy! My heart swelled with love and pity. All those times when she was so edgy, it hadn’t occurred to me that she could be homesick.
We ordered room service: liver dumplings, cabbage rolls, frankfurters, red cabbage, sauerkraut, liverwurst on black bread. When she finally finished eating, she worked her way through the large pile of cables, while I sorted the flower cards. She picked out one to read.
‘Sweetheart, just listen to this: Darling I yearn for you (stop) it is one week today since your beautiful naughty hand opened a white rose (stop) how will I live without my love and my life.’
Mother was unimpressed: ‘Nebbish, that woman is getting too vain.’
Mo’s telegram pleased her more: I AM MADOU STOP MADOU IS ME STOP DO NOT FORGET TO COME BACK STOP
Then there was a cable from my father, telling Mother that she must not come to Berlin, and that they would reunite in Paris. But nothing could prevent her from bubbling over with happiness.
The captain had invited her to be his guest. We dined in the vast splendid dining room with its carved mahogany pillars, festooned with carved garlands and eagles. Everyone turned to stare when she made La Grande Descente and we walked to the table. Mother was resplendent in a low-cut gown of gold lamé that clung to her body as if she had been dipped in silky butterscotch.
I started to worry when the waiters began to bolt down the tables. As the ship began to roll, the dining room emptied. Mother held her glass of champagne firmly, and calmly carried on eating her pickled herring in sour cream.
Her mood only changed when she discovered a copy of Mein Kampf in the ship’s bookstore. Luckily, it was the day that we docked, though she wasted no time in telling Papi, who was there to meet us at Southampton.
I kissed Papi and made my curtsy, and then they talked about stuff I didn’t understand. The book burnings at the Opernplatz, how Mutti (he always called her Mutti) must not go to Berlin, how it wasn’t safe.
‘Papi, don’t be so dramatic. Why doesn’t someone just kill that dreadful little man?’
Papi chuckled: ‘Mutti, the hotel outside Paris. It’s beautiful. It’s in Versailles. A hotel of mirrors. We shall go shopping.’
‘Papi. May we go fur shopping? I stole my Russian sable from those damn furriers at the studio, and now I have a taste for it.’
‘Darling, we shall go fur shopping in Austria, lingerie shopping in Paris, suit shopping on Savile Row.’
‘And Berlin?’
‘No, Mutti, not Berlin.’
We had a phrase for when Mother was not working: ‘in real life’. In real life, she wore trouser suits and shirts with cufflinks. In real life, she ate as much as she wanted and let her hair dry naturally.
As Papi promised, we stayed at the Trianon Palace Hotel, close to Versailles. Our suite of rooms was fit for Madame de Pompadour: all mirrors, gilt, and rococo furniture. I imagined Cinderella dancing in the Salon Clémenceau, and losing her glass slipper on the wrought-iron and bronze-gilded staircase.
After we had finished scrubbing and bleaching the bathrooms, Mother bathed, while I set up her desk. I unpacked and laid out ashtrays, water glass, tray with pencils and Waterman pens, desk blotter and blue ink, two boxes of blue monogrammed paper and envelopes. Stack of Western Union forms.
The first day we ate beluga caviar and filet mignon, with white asparagus, washed down with pink champagne for the grown-ups, and freshly squeezed lemonade for me.
In Europe, Mother never seemed to tire: ‘Papi, I want to go lingerie shopping. But I want silk only, not lace. Lace rolls into a wet sausage between one’s legs. So vulgar, so low-class shop girl. Very Garbo.’
Papi chuckled indulgently and telephoned for a saleswoman to bring her wares to the hotel. She arrived in a navy serge suit with a huge suitcase while I was having my rest. Later, Mother called me into her room. Strewn over her bed were dozens of gossamer silk mousseline confections in champagne, coffee and ivory. Satin, crêpe de Chine, so soft to the touch they slipped between my fingers.
Mother picked up a pair of pink silk panties edged with golden-brown lace, and, turning to Papi, announced: ‘You never know, said the widow.’ It was one of her favourite sayings whenever she handled beautiful lingerie. It was one of those adult jokes that escaped me, but I laughed along with her, because I loved to see her happy.
Fresh from The Red Queen, Mother had developed a taste for fur. We went fur shopping. She acquired a floor-length mink cape, and a silver lamé dress with a five-foot train edged in black fox. Two silver foxes, joined at the snout, were bought to be draped over her pinstriped suits. For me, she bought a white rabbit coat and matching beret.
Mother was getting fat on the delicious hotel food. We ate chicken poached with truffles, lamb, céléri à la grecque, artichoke vinaigrette, spring-pea soup, soufflé potato, leaf spinach, endive salad, caramelised pear, raspberries with cream, lemon soufflé tart, and soft cheeses. I still longed for melted cheese and bacon on white, and Paramount’s coconut cream pie.
In the evening, we went to the opera. Mother wore a dress of pale chiffon, which clung to her curves like a second skin. She looked just like a Greek statue. I had taped her
