“It sounds wonderful,” said Greta. “Wonderful, and very expensive.”
“Yes, but theater companies and professionals from around the world attend. What better occasion to make contacts that might lead to a job?”
Greta could not dispute that, so she quickly pulled together the necessary funds, skipping meals and forgoing sleep to finish two lengthy editing projects ahead of schedule. She took on three new English language students and requested a month’s payment in advance. Just in time she saved enough to cover her registration fees, train fare, and lodgings, but as she packed her suitcase, she felt a pang of worry. She could be squandering her money on nine days of revelry that would ultimately leave her significantly poorer but no closer to finding a job.
On her first full day in Hamburg, she fell in with a jovial group of French authors and performers staying at her hotel. Her French was fluent enough to win their approval, their conversation clever enough to win hers. When they invited her to consider herself one of the company, she gladly did.
On the third day, Greta and her new friends attended a special lecture by Leopold Jessner, renowned producer and director of German Expressionist theater, honorary president of the Theaterkongresse,head of the Preussisches Staatstheater at Gendarmenmarkt, and one of the most important figures in Berlin theater. In the lecture hall, a delegation of artists from the Staatstheater accompanied Jessner onto the stage. When Jessner introduced Dr. Adam Kuckhoff, his head dramaturge, a square, solid man in his early forties with a full mouth and a brooding look strode to the podium.
Greta settled back in her seat, resigned to a dry lecture about the logistics of theater administration, but instead Kuckhoff delivered a fiery, passionate speech about the nature of theater and film in the modern era. Riveted, Greta absorbed every word in wonder, never taking her eyes from his face. Suddenly she realized that he was the author of a powerful essay she had read earlier that winter, “Arbeiter und Film,” a denunciation of the “sentimental lies of the typical society film” and the “outmoded spirit and patriotic hurrah of nationalist cinema.” She listened, enthralled, as he developed those concepts into a bold, astonishing vision for the future of German theater.
Her fervent attention did not escape Kuckhoff’s notice. From time to time as his gaze swept over the crowd, it rested upon hers, curious and searching.
After the program, Greta and her companions were debating which session to attend next when Kuckhoff approached her. “You seemed very intent upon my remarks,” he said in French. “Was that a sign of agreement or dissent?”
She regarded him for a moment, bewildered—but of course he assumed she was French, given her companions. She decided to play along. “Agreement, for whatever that’s worth. I’m rather new to the theater,” she said in French, extending her hand. “Greta Lorke, a mere aspiring playwright, or dramaturge, or whatever role might find me.”
His gaze held hers as he shook her hand. “I doubt the word ‘mere’ ever suits you, mademoiselle.” When he invited her to discuss his lecture in more detail on a boat tour of the Hamburg harbor, she hesitated only a moment before agreeing.
The Theaterkongresse was forgotten as the hours passed swiftly and wonderfully in sightseeing and engrossing conversation. The excursion led to a romantic dinner at one of the city’s finest hotels, at a table overlooking the Elbe. After the most delicious meal Greta had ever tasted and a magnificent bottle of wine, their talk drifted pleasurably into lingering glances and subtle touches, his hand resting upon hers on the table, her leg pressed against his beneath it.
When, with almost formal politeness, he invited her upstairs to his room, she nodded and gave him her hand.
In the morning she woke in Adam’s arms and knew from the sunlight streaming through the windows that the morning conference sessions were already well under way. She had not intended to stay the night, or to make love with him, but Adam’s touch and his words had evoked desires she had not known she possessed. At the last moment, when prudence had shouted warnings that she must tear herself from his arms or risk losing everything—her future, her reputation—all for a moment of passion, Adam had produced a small packet that she needed a moment to recognize as a condom. Of course she was not his first, as he was hers; of course a worldly man would have come prepared. And she had been profoundly glad for it.
When Adam stirred, she snuggled closer and rested her head on his shoulder. Drowsily he kissed her forehead, inhaled deeply, and sighed. “Ah, ma chère mam’selle,” he lamented, smiling. “You are too young and lovely for an old man like me.”
“How old are you?”
“I confess that I’m forty-three.”
“How ancient,” she teased, but then she hesitated. “I have a confession of my own. I’m not French. I was born in Frankfurt an der Oder and I live in Berlin.”
For a moment he only gaped at her, but then he laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded in German, propping himself up on one elbow. “I assumed—”
“Yes, you did assume.” She smiled wickedly. “It amused me to play along.”
He ran his hand down her side from her shoulder to her hip and gave her buttocks a light slap. “What a naughty girl you are, deceiving me like that.”
“I’m sure you have many secrets of your own.”
“Not me. My life’s an open book.” He shifted onto his back, one arm holding her close, the other tucked beneath his head. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”
“I suppose the most important question is—” She paused, thought better of the questions that immediately sprang to mind, and asked instead, “How are we going to spend the day?”
“First, breakfast. Then you should spend the day however you please. I could recommend a few programs for you, but I have hours of appointments and lectures ahead of me and I won’t be able to keep you company.”
“Of course not,” she said quickly, crushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“But I hope you’ll have dinner with me this evening.”
“Dinner?”
“And more after, if you’re willing.”
He spoke nonchalantly, but his voice carried a thrilling undercurrent of promise. “I may be,” she replied, cupping his chin with her hand and turning his face toward hers for a kiss.
For the rest of the Theaterkongresse, Greta spent her days with the French delegation and her nights with Adam. Sometimes a few of his colleagues joined them for dinner, and she marveled at her good fortune when they gave her their cards and encouraged her to contact them about jobs in various Berlin theaters—unglamorous, low-paying work that would help her get her foot in the door and could lead to something better. Yet somehow her all-important job search had faded in the shadow of her burgeoning romance with Adam. She had never fallen so swiftly or so hard, and it was as frightening as it was intoxicating.
