Letter 7

Read by Delia Corrie

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6.2.’32, Potsdam

I write in high excitement and good humour! Don’t breathe a word, for if my family knew they would throw a fit and cut me off with a bad penny. I am hoping that I am about to change my orderly and respectable life for one of artificiality and (conventionally considered) of doubtful repute. I am hoping that after an interview with a Jewish impresario, Herr Trau by name, I shall join a female pseudo-gypsy orchestra from Budapest with who I intend to travel merrily round Holland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark and who knows where else besides? This orchestra is a turn in a show, so I think I may say that I am aspiring to go on the stage. I came to the above conclusion because (a) I may now consider myself to be bankrupt and (b) I am inclined to be stick-in-the-mud, snobbish and smug. Now would you say it was the craziest thing I have ever done or the most sensible? I can’t make up my mind – and actually I cannot believe that I shall get the job.

Meanwhile I have a damnable cold and the maid is in bed with a scalded foot and we have to do all the cooking etc. Yesterday I made an English shepherd’s pie for Mittagessen. I’ve never cooked such a queer looking (or tasting) thing before. To begin with I made it far too wet so most of it overflowed into the oven (Heavens, the smell!) and secondly the potatoes weren’t cooked enough. The Graf poured stewed gooseberries over his, declared it “Herrlish!” and had three helps. The Grafin, sighing (“es macht furchtbar satt!”) could manage only one. Since then I have been confined to drying plates and ironing handkerchiefs.

We’ve just had the remainder of the shepherds’ pie fried for supper!

Now, I’ve had rather an amusing month up to date. Thea and I went to a ball in Berlin. First of all we missed the train, then we lost our way in the Tiergartenstrasse in Berlin. (If you knew the Tiergartenstrasse you would wonder how, for it continues without deviation from one end of the earth to the other). Thea exhorted me to be sure and shake hands with everyone. I bore it in mind, and when we finally sailed into the building I was all prepared. We bought our tickets and I followed Thea. Well, I saw a cheerful old boy at the door with extended hand, so I shook it. And if it wasn’t the ticket collector! Still, that was my only faux pas. The rest of the evening was even more amusing. Do you know what a Polonaise is? The whole ball goes marching off in a long line two by two and follows my leader over chairs, under tables, into the street, down the cellar. Germans are a humorous race. Next Saturday I am going to a Carnival Ball with a friend, which will, I gather, be rather less respectable. I am told that few if any of the guests remain sober. Perhaps this may be all you hear about it! Perhaps my next letter will contain only an elaborate account of my stay in Dresden with Granny H.’s married niece. Who knows? I shouldn’t like to shock you. (That, of course, is a lie – I should love to, but I should like to be there to watch the effect.)