were no vacancies anywhere, of any kind. Professors clung to their tenure, postponing retirement out of fear that their pensions would disappear overnight. Students stayed enrolled, hoping that one more advanced degree would give them an edge over their peers when they were finally forced to graduate and join the wretched millions of unemployed.
Greta willingly accepted the only work she could find—tutoring, freelance editing, some copywriting. It reminded her of her mother’s piecework, but with pen and ink and words instead of needle and thread. With almost nothing to spend on entertainment, she rediscovered her lifelong love of literature and drama, disappearing into the pages of a novel or a play, scraping together enough marks for cheap seats at the Staatstheater or the Deutsches Theater. On long winter evenings, she would huddle under blankets in her room’s lone armchair and lose herself in dramas and comedies, the greatest masterpieces ever written in German, French, and English.
As winter turned to spring, she toyed with the idea of finding a new career in theater. Perhaps she could translate English and French works for the German stage. She could become a playwright or dramaturge.
“You should attend the Internationaler Theaterkongresse,” urged her friend Ursula, an actress. “Nine glorious June days in Hamburg devoted to all things theater—performances, seminars, lectures.”
“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.