Darin besteht die Liebe;

zwei Einsamkeiten

die treffen, beschützen und grüßen.

- Rilke.

Berlin was all around me, but not German Berlin full of efficiency and wonderful pastries and cabarets of certain persuasions. Another Berlin one centre of Russian emigres, as they had scattered arcoss the known world, in the wake of 1917 and 1922 like seeds, in a fierce blowing wind. They lived in a shade, shade of endless creativity and frevor and competition, different publishing houses, and magazines, and literary backstabbing. It was a courious mix of pre 1917 and 1920s society around them.

I glanced at the poems in my hand, they were Pasternaks, new work, the verses were glowing clear, but the titles seemed given, nature themes, and longining. Slowly I shook my head, and I leaned against statue and glanced at my watch.

I had arranged a meeting with Marina Ivanovna, but she was late, as usual as she did not own watch, she as ever, despised all modern things, and had a horror of this new mechanical and ideological world full of ideas and isims.

Russia was now truly dead. It was now Soviet Union, and there were rumors of a possible closure of its borders, a loose union of different nationalities and languages, without any religion apart for state declaired Atheism, though there was vibrant underground jewish and orthodox-communities, and other religious minorities too. All around me, part of the Berlins Russian emigre community was rampant, some packed their bags to return, some wanted to stay and move forward, to Prague or Paris, or even further along to United States.

I had passed Pasternak with his bags, he had nodded, to me and had handed out his poems to me to pass on to Marina Ivanova before rushing to the train, to back to Soviet Union. As I looked at his slender, slightly stooped figure and pondered the proclamations he had written about the Bolsheviks as the glow of October 1917 glowed everywhere, I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter. I remembered the beauty of Petrograd, now renamed Leningrad, and the last of the misery, and thought of Akhmatova's poem, which she had recited defiantly, slicing me as I went to say goodbye to her, and to Zvezda, before I boarded the train.

The verse glowed like prophecy.

I am not among those who left our land
to be torn to pieces by our enemies.
I don't listen to their vulgar flattery,
I will not give them my poems.

It surmised perfectly that inner cultural rift of those who stayed, as Akhmatova had, and those who had left, perhaps permanently. I had sent a letter to her with Pasternak as I had surmised that the literary circles of Moscow and Leningrad would have contact to each other, so the letter would get through to her hands eventually.

In the shimmering sunlight, I heard a crack of light footsteps from the cobbled street, and I lifted my head, and there they were.

All three of them, Serzoja, Alja, and Marina Ivanovna.

Soon, in a few days on their way to Prague at last, to rural life, "away from the hectic pulse of Berlin, to a place where poems could breathe", as Marina Ivanovna ironically put it to me, as she took with a nod, the poems that I handed to her, her fingers were covered with silver and amber rings, again inkspots.

I looked at Sergei Efron for a long time and closely. He had clear beautiful features, and the same large blue-green eyes that Alja had and a slightly vague presence, as if he did quite not know what to do, what purpose in life he had.

I asked the Efrons what they would do in the countryside of Prague. Alja would go to school, but what would Sergei do. He shrugged slowly, and said he was trying to continue his humanities degree in Prague and would visit his family when he could.

I had a really strong feeling that Marina Ivanovna needed like minded friends and community around her. So why she would be leaving Berlin, to some remote corner of Prague countryside? I pondered for a moment the thought that if Katherine happened to be in Prague, when Marina Ivanovna would be there. What kind of meeting it would be? Dramatic would be one word for it.

We walk around in the historic centre of Berlin and everything Marina Ivanova says is interesting. She enthusiastically recites Goethe, and then Rilke to us, and orders cake and strong coffee in a cafe in perfect German, for Alja and me. Her eyes glow more green than ever in the gentle streaming light. After exellent coffee and cake, I hand her with a smile, two tickets, colourful scraps of paper and ink. Marina Ivanovna looks at the tickets silently, and quietly. Her narrow fingers lightly touch the name in them. Händel Rondelinda, then her hands, softly cover mine, in voiceless gratitude as Alja twirls around in dizzly gladness, and shouts:

" Opera, Maman, Opera, we are going to see opera!"

I embraced the still twirling Alja and said to her, in soft tone, "Yes, you will. I will all see you tomorrow, but now I have to leave." With a nod to Marina Ivanovna I walked out of the café and into the busy vibrant streets of Berlin..

The soft pink palace-like opera shone in the evening light. Its adapted Greek-style façade with its abundant columns and statues under the influence of antiquity was a marvelous sight, of pure palladium architecture. I climbed the stairs and stepped into dressingroom finishing my makeup for the evening's performance.

The facilities at the Staatsopern were simply excellent, the stage and acoustics were marvelous, its interior was pure 18th-century classicism, gold and white, the curtains of the stage were abundantly dark red, and the benches and balconies of the auditorium lined it in harmony.

Händel's Rondelinda, Regina de Longobardi, is an opera seria of tree acts. Its libretto was written by N.F. Haym and was based on an earlier libretto by Antonio Salvi. At the heart of the opera is an intrigue about crown, love, and high powerplay of the throne of Milan. There is of course misunderstandings, mistaken identities and plots, spurned lovers, and vows of revenge. Händel's lightly abundant music glows, in a pure Baroque style. It expresses every facet of conjugal emotion separation, longing, despair, hope, relief in music of marvellous eloquence.

There was not a whisper from the audience as I stepped on stage as Rodelinda, dressed in voluptuous velvet with gold embroidery, ropes of beads twined in my hair. I sung the dazzingly fierce aria spietati io vio giurai full of intricate coloratura trills,and Morrai si thatincisively staggering and passionate, petition of revenge, with brilliant and icy high notes. In the third act as I leaned against the wall of the dungeon, and began to sing my voice was light, delicate and full, as aria Ritorna oh, caro e doce mio tresore flowed into the auditoriom. In this particular aria Händels music was one of most beautiful, in a work that is full of utterly wonderful arias and duets. My high notes were dazziling and delicate as newly spun glass and I lifted my gaze to the high dome of Opera, as Rodelinda pondered, the news that her husband, was in fact living, and with closed eyes I sung, and I remembered the moment, when I encountered Sonetcka, and for a small, moment of eternity I thought that Virginie was in front of me. My voice throbbed, and glowed with deep happiness and equally incisive sorrow as Händel's tunes hovered over the stage.

When the aria was over, the whole auditorium stood and cheered, for a long time.

Afterwards I met with Marina Ivanovna and Alja, in a cafe near Opera. Alja looked at me for a long time and finally said, pensive. "You're still beautiful, but I like you to be ordinary person, not a queen."Hearing Alja's words Marina Ivanovna, looked at me and smiled, and said, "Titania is not ordinary at all, she is an artist, as am I a poet, it is a vocation and relentless drive." Frowning, Alja took her notebook from her bag and began to write something passionately.

I looked at Marina Ivanovna thoughtfully, silently, and she looked my modish flapper-style dress, usual sleek braid-crown, and silm heels, and said" Titania, you are missing something,"and with a soft touch she held out her long amber beads and placed them around my neck. They glowed, and brought a warm contrast to my pale gold colored dress, with delicate beads of glass. She then smiled and winked to me. With a soft smile I said goodbye to them and headed to the nightlife of Berlin – my destinatination was Charlottenburg.

Few months had passed and I was still at Berlin as I had been offered visitator performer rights at the Opera, with generous pay. I had accepted with gratitude as this was an exellent opportunity to practice my german.

I often walked to the historic center of Berlin and enjoyed the beautiful atmosphere and architecture. I lived in the Krape boarding house, my window overlooked at the Victoria Luisa Plaza. In Wilmersdorf, there was a tavern where romances were often sung, and contemporary literature are talked about with contempt. Sometimes it feels like the past and the present are intertwined when I notice that the door of bar is guarded by a former russian general and there is a café, full of former soliders and factory workers. Nollendorf Plaza has a literary club, in there are vibrant talks about Pushkin and the possibilities of literature to properly describe the surrounding chaos and dispersion of reality. When I sometimes visit there I am always sad and miserable, for the news that oozes from Soviet Russia are not good.

Mahler glowed, the music flowing like a relentless stream around me. I shrugged my shoulders and nodded to the orchestra, they started again, the violins, cellos, flutes, oboes, above all of it, my voice rose, bright, clear and full of emotion, as I rendered the Rückert-Lieder, in a shimmering tone. The longing, melancholy music shone as I focused on the third song of the five song cycle, Rükert's poetry was extremely eloquent in all of them. Suddenly everyone stopped playing when the director of the opera, Kleiber, arrived on the stage, he nodded to us and sat down, in the middle of the auditorium, and took out a cigarette from a fine silver box. My hands trembled, irritated, I hid them in the hem of my dress. I hated that the leaders popped in to watch the orchestral rehearsals.

One cellist nodded sympathetically to me, I had seen him often in Kantstraße 24, Charlottenburg dressed in a drag, and plenty of pearls around his slim neck and rouge in his cheeks. As I observed the young people dancing with each other, in the heartbeat of Berlin's nightlife, in the mazes of Charlottenburg, I thought with stinging pain at Walter how he might have enjoyed this atmosphere, as well and attracted a lot of attention, himself.

I shook my head and focused on the music, and I tried to forget the long flickering and foggy hours on the Weimar night, the crowd on the dance floor, the champagne, the various drinks, as well as the interest in me, unless I misinterpreted the signs. I didn't have the time or desire for love adventures, as there was too much to do, although the attention was naturally flattering. There was especially one cabaret singer, she had shown a strong interest, but there was buzzing around her, so I had just nodded lightly at her, and left them all at it.

The orchestra stops playing, again as Kleiber gets on stage and comes to me and inquires, "Fraulein, please sing the last song again because, oboe was out of tune." I take a deep breath and nod to him, I could not do anything else, as he pays for my time here. The cellist nods to me quickly, and encouragingly, so, I smile at him, lightly and transiently.

Again Mahler's melodies resonate dreamily and delicately as I sing in a soft voice that Rükert's romantic and symbolic text, Liebst du um Schönheit. As I sing the verse about the mermaid and her pearls, I think again, of Nina and her dazzling Rusalka, and in my voice there is a hint of honey, soft, and darkly sweet as the high tones glow as bright as the sun shimmering in the waves.

The rehearsal finally ends and Kleiber lets us go. The cellist comes to me in light steps, as if in passing he remarks "you haven't been in Charlottenburg lately, that one cabaret singer has asked after you." Silently, I raise my eyebrows, and he hurries to continue, "She insisted that I invite you there tonight, so please come. I know that you are free, as there is no performace tonight or tomorrow, either."

I look quietly at the cellist's pale, narrow face, and dark eyes, and I smile at him. "Have you memorized my schedule, or are you being paid to collect information?" Silently, he shook his head, his dark hair fluttering. Lowering his voice, he whispered, "everyone here knows who you are, but only I know what you do in places like Charlottenburg. It's an honor that you are one of us, so I don't betray or sell your secrets, for they are my secrets, too. "

The words of cellist strike my heart like a sting of a dagger, in the cache of my skirt my hand clenches into a fist and my nails press into my palms. I straighten my posture and say in an ice-cold sarcastic voice, Katherine's voice, to him, "what I'm doing is drinking a few glasses of overpriced champagne and noticing people dancing around me. I'm not participating in anything and I'm not doing anything."

"Not yet, because someone or something is stopping you, and it's clear, maybe someone's memory? But it's not the main thing. I just want to make sure with this speech that you get there tonight. I'm sure the evening will be nice, and maybe you'll get new friends for yourself, if you descend from your sheltering loneliness among, us. " Gently bowing to me, the cellist walked away in quick steps, whistling a light cabaret tune.

I was left standing on the wide stage alone, and all the operatic glitter around me seemed suddenly so very cold, and empty.

The trees in Charlottenburg are so dense that the sky is barely visible, and what is visible is the blue of the deep deep ink, it is a little over midnight.

I take a deep breath and step inside, into a familiar space. There is smoke and people, women, men, couples, in dresses, tuxedos, and top hats, flapper dresses, sailor-styles, different are a big stage, champagne, a small orchestra, hustle, queues, joyous 1920s music and dancing, wild spinning. In one corner there is a woman, she is wearing a collared shirt, suit jacket and tie nods at me. She's Claire Waldoff, and she touches her red hair off her face and lights a new cigarette, she's surrounded by a whole bunch of admirers, they want songs or autographs. In a wide arc, she waves her hand at me, signaling that I'm buying drinks.

I nod and head to the counter. I buy beer, and champagne, because I know Olly is here, somewhere, and she almost never drinks beer. Behind the counter, a young man is making my order. He smiles at me and says lightly, "Nice to see you Titania, you have been missed, and not just because of your looks, you promised us a song." I smiled lightly and said, "It may be, but I usually sing completely different music than what is usually played here."

The bar operator grins and whistles, and suddenly there is the cellist next to me who takes a full tray and carries it on a table that has been filled in the meantime.

There are Claire Waldoff and her Olly, who was dressed in a graceful light flapper-style dress with a dark velvet ribbon around her neck. Olly looks at me quickly, and an accepting smile lights up on her narrow face, and her gray eyes twinkle, and she says in her in a light voice, " Titania, you can also come to our salon to perform if you don't want to do it here. There is usually political and cultural speeches, but sometimes also performances.

My old friend Nathalie, has written a lot about you and your talents."

I've stopped marveling at the scale of Nathalies networks years ago, she had apparently written about me to all her acquaintances in Berlin, as my stay here got longer than a two weeks, and here was the end result. The whole sapho scene in Berlin knew who I was, so the pseudonyms were useless.

So delicately I shrug and smile instead of reply I took a drink from my glass. The champagne is excellent, full bodied and light. Suddenly someone touches my shoulder, and I hear a soft voice at the base of my ear that says, " You truly are here, let's celebrate tonight!"

I turn my head softly aside, and look at the darkhaired woman who is standing next to me. Her hair is cut in a style typical of the time, similar hairstyles are endless vogue in Berlin and Paris. She's dressed a light flapper dress that shows the benefit of really excellent legs in high heels. Her eyes are pale blue and there is something magnetic about her, her face, and form, as stylish as she is in her glad rags.

"Why do we have to celebrate when you're wasting your gifts in one movie again, when you could sing with me in a cabaret like you've already done. I know you think the world has something big for you, and it may well be, but remember the lessons you get here, Marlene, when at some point you go to conquer the world, if that ever happens,"Waldorff said emphatically, and she blew a cloud of smoke over the table.

It shimmered like a haze around us.

On the dance floor, the dance accelerated, and the orchestra played passionately, with strength and enthusiasm.

" Well my mother wanted me to be a concert violinist, and I worked for years with the violin and piano and mandolin before I injured my tendon and I couldn't play or rehearse Bach's violin concerts anymore, so I had to do something else, so acting in the theater, singing in various cabarets and now movies, not a few roles yet do anything, but the future looks promising. Admittedly, my mother was terrified, because a well-educated girl can't be an actress, it's a direct analogy to prostitution in her world view, but the war broke a lot of norms."

Marlene grinned at us, looking wild and joyful, and somehow elegant, as she drank her champagne, and smoked her cigarette, as she contiued her talk,"mother, didn't like my marriage either, but we have our own rules. "

So saying she dropped her tobacco, in an ashtray, and I pulled me into the whirlwind of the dancefloor. I was so amazed at this gesture that I just followed along, and I found myself dancing with great pleasure with her. There was the dancing cellist near me, and he smiled at me with real pleasure, as his companion twirled him, in circles.

The music changed, and the lights dimmed, as Waldoff stepped on stage.

Everyone was cheering, very loudly.

She sat on the piano and smiled at the audience, and said"Tonight, I don't perform myself, but today we have a special guest, who doesn't usually sing in cabarets, but who will probably forgive me for this."

I looked at the stage at Waldoff who winked at me.

So I took a deep breath, and counted to ten, in french, and then twenty in russian, to calm my nerves.

I got up on the bright stage, and nodded lightly at Waldorff, and went to the orchestra-pit saying in a few words what I wanted, they nodded enthusiastically. I looked up in front of me at the wildly dancing audience, the crystals shining on the melody flooded behind me, captivating, powerful and energetic.

I met Marlene's gaze, as she lifted her champagne glass slowly in the air.

A/N:

Händel's Rondelinda is a magnificent opera.

Claire Waldoff and Olly, Olga von Roeder were of the leading figures of the lesbian and cabaret scene in Berlin.