Chapter Text
The year was 1933. A steam train was racing towards the horizon in West Germany. Green and blue blurred together as it barrelled down the tracks. Sitting by the window was a young woman with dark skin in a pale blue dress and jacket. She was staring straight ahead. She had no interest in the countryside. She had seen far too much of it in her life already. When she makes it to Berlin is when she'll be amazed.
Her name was Cendrine Labrousse. Her current earthly possessions were 5000 marks in cash, her passport, and a typewriter. She had been traveling for a few hours at this point, as she knew from checking a small ornate watch on her wrist. That, and the cash in her purse, was the last memory of her past. Forget houses big as castles and the court and courtrooms. No, she was not meant to be the wife of a factory manager. Especially not one like Henri. She was a writer, pardieu! A poetess. And in Berlin, she'd be free. From it all.
Berlin! She'd dreamed of it. Town of art, dark alleyways, strange tongues. No haughty nobility ignoring the people sweeping the streets they walk like they own them. Move to Paris if you want to be a writer, they all said. But she couldn't bear Paris. She wanted something new. So it was off to Berlin she went.
In the blink of an eye she swept off the train into the crowded central station of Berlin. Clutching her bag, she wandered around the streets of dust and smoke squinting at the address on the paper her friend gave her. Finally, she found the rooms where she was going to live. Sitting in the lobby were two middle aged men, talking quietly. Upon her entering, they seemed to move away from each other.
"Ah, hello," said one of the men in a strong german accent. "You are the new girl, correct? In the room upstairs. I'm Heinrich Schneider, I own the building." Cendrine tried not to flinch at the name. Heinrich. Henri.
To make matters worse, the other man was staring at her. "I say, do I know you from somewhere. The papers, maybe?"
"That could be so, I suppose," she said tersely.
"Ah, that affair in the town in France? Ghastly, ghastly business, dear. My apologies."
Heinrich smiled uncomfortably. "This is my friend, Timothy Goose. He is from England. Let me show you to your room, my lady."
She nodded and followed him up the stairs.
A small room with a bed, a shower, and a window overlooking the street awaited her.
"It will do, yes? For the lady?"
"Yes, yes, it will do," Cendrine smiled. Her own room! Not her stepmother's or her 'love's' that she was just staying in. Hers.
"And you have a profession, no? A working girl?"
"I am a writer. Hopefully. Should the inspiration take. Until then I teach French lessons."
"Ah, you should tell Timothy. He wishes to learn French very much."
She nodded. "He shall be my first student in Berlin."
"What are you planning to do this evening, then?"
"Oh, I'll be staying in. Getting the feel of the place."
"Bah! You have years to get the feel of the place. You are young in Berlin! I would sell my soul to be young in Berlin again. Go out! There is a charming cabaret just down the road. The Kit Kat Klub. Plenty to amuse a young lady like yourself, no?"
"Oh, alright, then," Cendrine said modestly, but inside she was electrified. A cabaret! She had never been to a cabaret before. This was why she had came to Berlin. Plenty of inspiration to be had at this Kit Kat Klub, she was sure.
So, making up her mind, she set up her typewriter, unpacked her clothes, put on her only nice dress, and walked out onto the streets of Berlin at night.
Somewhere backstage at the Kit Kat Klub, Fraulein Rosamunda Von Preiss was finishing her makeup as she prepared for that night's performance. A dazzling jewel was delicately placed upon her neck. Her reminder of where she came from. She took a deep breath as she reminded herself that this was temporary. It had been temporary for the last four years. Just seduce the right person and she'd be as rich as she was always meant to be. It was that easy for some people. But this stupid voice in her head was telling her stupid wishes of true love, that one day she'd find the one that truly loved her, the one who'd wake her up from this horrible nightmare of cabarets and smoking and starving. Who knew? Maybe tonight.
There was a knock at her door and in walked Herr Drosselmeyer, known to most of the Klub's clientele simply as Emcee. He was wearing a top hat and a cloak and not much else.
"All is good, my rose?" he asked her in German.
"Yes, yes, just prettying myself up."
"If you get any prettier you'll blind people, my dear," he joked.
"That's very kind, my friend," she smiled halfheartedly.
"Well, time for the show. You'll be… perfect. You're my star, remember?"
"The toast of Berlin," Rosamunda said faintly.
"Yes! Yes! Come, the show is about to begin!"
"Just a second." As she tucked her final lock of hair into place, she couldn't help but think that tonight was going to be special.
Cendrine sat alone at a small table watching the show. She had never been to the cabaret before, and all the smoke and alcohol and dancing girls thrilled her. The main attraction appeared to be a pale girl with golden hair in a flawless updo, with a dazzling necklace and the longest eyelashes she had ever seen. Her name was something along the lines of Rosamund. She applauded the loudest for her when the show ended. A few minutes after she was considering leaving when the phone on her table abruptly started ringing, making her jump. She gingerly picked it up.
"Hello?" she half-whispered.
"Hello there, darling. How are you?" a dramatically British female voice said.
"Sorry, who is this? Do I… know you?"
"Not yet, gorgeous. I'm Rosamunda. Von Preiss. The dancer?"
Cendrine's jaw dropped slightly. "The one… onstage?"
"Yes. I saw you from the audience and thought you looked charming. You're not from here, no?"
Cendrine felt her face go hot and tried not to stammer. "No, I'm from France. A village outside of Paris."
"Paris? Marvellous, darling, how sophisticated. My apologies, I'm being dreadfully rude. Your name, love?"
"Cendrine."
"How French. Sounds like Cinderella. And what do you do, Cendrine?"
"I'm a writer. A novelist and poet, hopefully."
"Oh, my dear, do me a favour, won't you? Recite me a poem? I haven't had intelligent conversation in years."
"Uh, okay." Cendrine racked her brain for a poem. and started stammering the first she could think of.
"A girl,
like the reddening apple,
at the tip of the topmost twig,
which the apple-pickers missed –
or no, not missed entirely;
the one they could not reach."
Rosamunda made delighted noises which started bordering on obscene as she recited the poem down the phone's receiver. Cendrine tried her best to stay focused and finish the poem.
"Oh darling, that was wonderful," Rosamunda sighed. "Who wrote that?"
"Uh, Sappho. A Greek poetess."
Rosamunda giggled. "I know who Sappho is, darling. Listen, my Cinderella, why don't you come to my dressing room, dear? Backstage, first door to the right. I do find it so hard to discuss over these damned phones. So if you don't mind we could… discuss Sappho and such in private, maybe?"
Cendrine's heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. "I uh… feel like you may be implying something here."
"Darling, this is Berlin. Paris may be the city of love, but Berlin is the city of love affairs. And we mean all kinds of love affairs. Understand?" Rosamunda's voice was somewhat deeper than before in an extremely disarming way.
"Understood," Cendrine said without thinking.
"See you soon, love," Rosamunda whispered before hanging up.
Shellshocked, Cendrine followed light-up signs to the backstage to a door with a star on it. She knocked politely and a voice inside called out for her to come in. Entering the surprisingly messy room, she found Rosamunda was lounging on a chair in a gorgeous purple satin dressing gown with a fur trim. She didn't seem to be wearing much underneath.
"Uh, hi," Cendrine said maybe a little too loudly. Rosamunda's head snapped up. Her long blonde hair was down now, falling in choppy waves down her shoulders down to her hips, framing her ghostly pale face, its bright makeup having faded. A quick smile was plastered on as she leaped to her feet.
"Darling!" she said, gesturing for Cendrine to sit next to her. And so she did. Immediately Rosamunda was talking a mile a minute, chattering about the performance, her hair, the dreadful lights in the cabaret, all the awful german men staring at her, her backup dancers, her necklace. It had been maybe ten minutes of Cendrine staring at her in speechless awe before Rosamunda abruptly stopped herself.
"My love, I'm being frightfully rude! Welcome to the Kit Kat Klub, of course!" She flashed a devilish grin before leaning in and kissing Cendrine on the lips.
The only thing Cendrine could remember processing in this extraordinary moment other than the feeling of spinning and her mind going white hot was the way Rosamunda felt surprisingly soft and cold for a woman so intense and burning. And the way they pulled apart and Rosamunda breathlessly asked her how she was enjoying Berlin. And the only reply Cendrine could eloquently deliver was to kiss her over and over again.