Chapter 15: Diva Marlene

Spring, 1930 (Aurelian Calendar) – Kronfeld, Capital of the Kingdom

"Let's give a round of applause for our greatest diva… Marlene Hoffman!"

The announcer's voice echoed throughout the hall, followed by a wave of thunderous applause from the audience. Cheers and whistles rang out beneath the glittering crystal chandeliers. This place—one of the grandest entertainment halls in the central district of the capital—was extravagant in a way only peace bought with blood could afford.

I sat with Mom at a round table, its white tablecloth trimmed with gold embroidery. Between us, several untouched refreshments were neatly arranged, catching the stage lights and reflecting them like lanterns in the mist. We sat facing each other, though our eyes were both fixed on the stage, now slowly being cloaked in a golden spotlight.

And there she appeared—the diva.

Marlene Hoffman stepped out from behind the velvet red curtain, her gown shimmering like a star-strewn sky, and her smile… yes, that smile could make soldiers lay down their weapons, if only to see it once more before the final bullet found them.

Mother had once said that seeing Marlene live was a spiritual experience. At the time I thought she was exaggerating—but now, I understood.

I still wasn't sure if I truly wanted to be a singer, as Mom hoped. But I had never hated music. In my previous life—before this world—music was the only thing that could soften the shriek of war machines. Even the simplest songs felt like celestial symphonies compared to the grind of tank treads and the whistle of bullets. Back then, music was breath when everything else around you was dying.

And now, in this world, it remained the only thing that made life feel... human.

Marlene raised her hand and offered a warm wave to the audience, seated at candlelit tables draped in fresh flowers. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and sincere:

"Thank you, all of you, for being here tonight. I hope this performance can bring some warmth and hope… in times as difficult as these."

Applause erupted again, followed by cheers. "Bravo! Bravo!" came from several corners of the hall, as people rose to their feet in delight. She hadn't even sung yet, but the reaction was enough to shake the walls. That was the power of celebrity during wartime—hope, illusion, or perhaps a fragile blend of both.

But then, her next words shifted the air.

"Tonight," she said, "I wish to dedicate my voice to the Kingdom of Felsburg. I believe that music too can be a weapon… and with it, I hope my songs will strengthen our spirits in this struggle."

At a glance, her words sounded patriotic—even noble. But I felt the tension ripple from Mom's direction. I turned.

Her expression was composed, but her jaw was set. Her eyes narrowed—not from the stage lights, but from something deeper. Disappointment. I knew Mom too well. She had always been skeptical of the Reinhardt regime now in power. To her, propaganda was poison, and Marlene Hoffman had just swallowed it on stage in front of us all.

Her beloved diva had become a tool of the state.

I didn't blame Marlene. In a system like this, how could any artist survive at the top without showing loyalty? The world of entertainment was no longer a neutral space—it was a battlefield, and the spotlight was its weapon.

And the audience? They devoured it easily. Whether they believed it, or were simply too exhausted to care anymore, I couldn't tell.

After her patriotic declaration and warm introduction, the diva took her place. With elegant grace, she adjusted the gold-plated microphone before her, then bowed her head slightly, like in silent prayer. The room seemed to hold its breath—not from nerves, but from a tension born of pure anticipation.

One by one, the crystal chandeliers dimmed, their golden light fading into shadows, until only a single spotlight remained. It fell on Marlene, casting her in soft luminescence, her figure aglow while the rest of the stage melted into darkness.

Then the music began.

The first notes were from a piano, slow and tender, like a spring breeze brushing across an empty field. A violin followed, its quiet entrance weaving through the silence like a thread of memory. The music didn't overwhelm—it filled the room gently, seeping into the bones of everyone present.

And when Marlene finally opened her mouth, her voice came through—pure, clear, and unflinchingly honest.

It was the kind of voice that seemed to rise from some long-forgotten fairy tale. Not too high, not too low—just right. It didn't demand to be heard. It invited you to listen, to feel.

The first lyrics drifted through the hall like a prayer:

"I wait for you at the city gate,

the place where you first held my hand,

on the final morning before the world changed…"

I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath. This song… I knew it. An old war ballad. A simple, sorrowful tale of a young woman sending her beloved off to fight.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mom lower her head slightly. Her right hand clutched a small handkerchief in her lap—subtly, almost imperceptibly. But I saw it. I knew that look. This song had touched something deep inside her.

And how could it not?

It told of a woman who, day after day, stood waiting at the city gate. From morning until dusk, she'd wait at the train station, hoping to see the one she loved return. She waited in the snow, in the rain, through winds that tore leaves from trees and froze the marrow in your bones. Because sometimes, hope is the only thing you have left when war has taken everything else.

Even I—reborn into this strange world—could feel the power of the song.

In my former life, I had seen women like her. Waiting at stations and roadsides with eyes too weary to hope anymore. This wasn't just a song. It was a portrait of a world that had existed once—or perhaps still did.

What surprised me most was that this song was even allowed in the Kingdom. There were no lines celebrating glory, no verses extolling sacrifice for the nation. It spoke only of love, of loss, of the stubborn refusal to let go. Of a love that stayed alive, even as everything else crumbled.

And perhaps that was why it had survived. It didn't surrender, but it didn't incite either. It walked the narrow path between sorrow and strength—popular enough to be tolerated, neutral enough not to be censored. Even by the Erzregent.

Marlene sang the final verse with a breath of a whisper:

"… and if you never return,

then let me grow old at this gate,

among all the names that never came home…"

The piano faded into silence.

No one clapped right away. The hall stood still—transformed into a tomb of unspoken memories. Only after several long seconds did someone in the back begin to applaud, slowly. Then another. And another. Until at last, the room erupted in applause—but not one of celebration.

This applause… was grief made sound.

Marlene bowed, deeply. In the soft spotlight, I caught a glimmer at the corner of her eye before she turned and disappeared behind the velvet curtain.

Mom still said nothing. But I saw the way she exhaled slowly, as if the song had reached into her chest and pulled out something raw and buried.

And me… I just sat there, quiet, feeling something inside me fall gently apart.

* * *

The concert lasted for approximately four hours, including a short intermission halfway through. During that time, Diva Marlene performed a wide variety of songs, showcasing her versatility across multiple musical genres. From melancholic ballads that pierced straight through the heart—moving the audience to tears and prompting them to instinctively reach for their handkerchiefs—to bright, upbeat tunes that filled the entire hall with joy and energy.

Some of the livelier numbers were so infectious that many in the audience rose from their seats to dance along with the rhythm. Tables that had been perfectly arranged began to shift, glasses clinking gently as laughter and footsteps echoed through the music. For a brief moment, the concert transformed into a warm, intimate celebration—and perhaps, just a little tipsy.

At one point, as the energy in the room peaked and the music shifted into a light, playful dance rhythm, Mom suddenly turned toward me with a wide smile and an eager gleam in her eye.

"Erina, come on! Just this once!" she said, attempting—quite spontaneously—to lift me from my seat.

My eyes flew open in shock. "Wha—No! Mom, don't!" I cried in panic, instinctively swatting her hands away.

She chuckled, completely unfazed. Whether it was the wine talking or simply the concert atmosphere sweeping her away, she was actually trying to pick me up and dance with me.

Yes, pick me up. As if I were still a cute little toddler and not a nine-year-old girl who was perfectly aware of her surroundings and—despite this small frame—full of pride about standing on her own two feet.

Thankfully, I managed to dodge her, remaining seated with a face caught somewhere between embarrassment and irritation. Because honestly—being twirled around by your Mom in the middle of a fancy concert, wearing a frilly dress, in front of dozens of upper-middle-class onlookers… that's not exactly the kind of memory you want etched into your soul forever.

After a few final songs—softer now, as if intentionally winding down the emotional tempo—the hall gradually returned to calm. The spotlight dimmed, and the stage was bathed in a warm blend of amber and gold.

The concert had now reached its closing act.

According to the program, after finishing her singing, Diva Marlene would leave the stage for a moment, then return—not to sing again, but to personally greet each guest table by table. It was part of a tradition unique to upper-class private concerts—where the performer would offer a personal touch, exchanging brief words or warm greetings with the guests.

Naturally, for many people in the room, that moment was the highlight of the evening. Because to meet Marlene wasn't just to talk to a singer—it was to shake hands with history. A symbol that, for a brief instant, you were part of something larger than the world of music alone.

And to be honest… I was starting to feel nervous.

Ready or not… the stage was coming to our table.

Finally, Diva Marlene—accompanied by several staff and the master of ceremonies—began making her way toward us. A soft light followed her steps, creating a near-mystical aura, as if she wasn't walking but floating across the marble floor. The guests she had already greeted still wore dazzled smiles, and some hadn't quite managed to tear their eyes away from her even after she'd moved on.

But as she reached our table—something completely unexpected happened.

"Oh Inge, you really came to my concert!" Marlene exclaimed, her tone bubbling with pure joy, like a child reunited with an old friend.

My Mom—Inge—smiled back calmly, utterly unfazed. "Of course I did. Did you think I'd lie to you?" she replied lightly, like it was a conversation they'd had a dozen times before.

I was speechless. My gaze darted between Mom and Marlene, eyes wide in disbelief. Even some of the staff standing behind Marlene exchanged surprised glances; a few of them raised their eyebrows. Clearly, this interaction wasn't part of their planned script.

Diva Marlene—who had likely greeted hundreds of people that evening with a polished smile and rehearsed charm—was now standing with a relaxed demeanor that could only come from true familiarity. And Mom… good grief, she didn't even look remotely starstruck. It wasn't a meeting with a legendary diva—it was a casual reunion with an old childhood friend.

Noticing the confusion on my face, which probably looked like a blinking neon billboard, Mom turned to me and said calmly, "Oh, sorry, sweetheart. I forgot to mention… Marlene and I have been friends since we were kids. We used to play together all the time before life took us down different paths. We haven't seen much of each other lately because… well, you know, work and everything."

I could only stare at her for several long seconds. Then, breathlessly, I let out a deep, drawn-out sigh. "...Please don't forget to tell me something this important again."

She just chuckled softly, her tone full of mischievous satisfaction. "Hehe, you should've seen your face just now—it was priceless."

So, this had all been planned.

Yes, she definitely did it on purpose. Classic Mom—keeping a surprise under wraps just to watch my reaction explode in real time. And of course, she succeeded. I wanted to be annoyed… but I couldn't help the faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

At the very least, one lingering mystery was finally solved—the question that had bugged me since the start of the evening:

How did we get such premium seats at a high-profile concert like this?

The answer: personal connection. Naturally.

We weren't nobles. We weren't VIPs. We didn't have wealth or status to buy these kinds of seats.

But Mom? She had something even more valuable—an old friendship with the star of the show.

And now, it all made sense. Her reaction to Marlene's opening remarks wasn't just about a fan disappointed in her idol's politics—it was the sorrow of someone watching a childhood friend become a tool of the state. A sadness far deeper than a simple ideological disagreement.

"Oh, so this is the little girl you've always written about in your letters, Inge?" Marlene looked at me with warm eyes. "My goodness, she looks just like you. I'm sure she'll grow up to be just as strong and radiant as you are."

I could only bow my head slightly—part embarrassed, part unsure how to respond. But Mom laughed softly and quipped with an amused smile, "Don't be fooled by her looks. She may have inherited my face, but her personality… that's all her father."

Before I could interject, she went on with a sigh—half weary, half fond. "Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck between two stubborn bulls when they're together. Two hard heads under one roof."

Marlene chuckled gently, a soft and genuine laugh. But then she asked something that immediately shifted the air around us.

"Is that so? Sounds like fun." She turned to Mom. "By the way… how's Paul? Is he doing well?"

My Mom smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. It was a thin, restrained smile—like someone trying to keep something heavy hidden behind a composed face.

A smile that made Marlene fall silent.

Then—realizing she'd touched a nerve she shouldn't have—Marlene's expression turned to panic.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean—I didn't realize that… I mean… I wasn't—"

With a calm but dignified tone, Mom said, "It's alright. My husband is simply answering his country's call. Isn't it true… that we must all make sacrifices, each in our own way?"

"...You're right." Marlene lowered her gaze, her voice much quieter. "You're right."

A brief silence followed. But in that silence, there was sympathy. A mutual understanding, unspoken yet profound.

I could only sit and watch the two of them. But slowly, my gaze drifted to the people standing behind Marlene—those staff members who hadn't moved far from the stage all evening.

And that's when I saw it.

They weren't just staff or managers.

They were watching. Marlene's every move, every word, even her expressions—monitored by sharp eyes hiding behind professional facades. They were the eyes and ears of the state. And perhaps, the invisible leash around our diva's neck tonight.

So that's it…

I finally understood why Marlene's patriotic speech at the start of the concert sounded so… measured. Too clean. She wasn't speaking from the heart. She was reciting a script—an unwritten but unmistakably real one: survive in this industry by aligning yourself… or vanish from the spotlight forever.

And Mom?

I'm certain she knew it all along. That's why she responded with a line that echoed twice as loud as any declaration of nationalism—a line that sounded patriotic on the surface, but to those who understood… was an act of protection.

A way of saying: "I know you can't speak freely. So let me speak for you."

To break the silence that was slowly turning awkward, Mom suddenly clapped her hands together with an overly cheerful smile.

"Anyway!" Mom said suddenly, her voice far too cheerful for the weight of the moment, "Erina has been saying lately how much she wants to become a singer like you, Marlene! She even told me she couldn't wait for your concert tonight. Says she sings in the bathroom—almost every day!"

I had just started to breathe easy, relieved the heavy conversation had passed, when that sentence slammed into me like a train.

"W-What!? Mom!?"

My protest came out as a squeak, high-pitched and utterly panicked. My face instantly flushed—part embarrassment, part outrage. Because what she'd just said was… a complete and utter fabrication. I turned to her with wide, disbelieving eyes, silently begging for a god of truth to descend from the heavens and strike her down with reality.

Yes, okay, I might have had the tiniest flicker of a dream to become a singer. But it was nothing more than a passing fantasy—one of those idle thoughts that bubble up late at night, or when I'm alone listening to music while sipping my favorite tea. And as for attending this concert? That was purely due to pressure. Had I said no, Mom would've threatened to cut down my daily tea rations. A brutal abuse of power, if you ask me.

But of course, small truths like those never stood in Mom's way. Not when she had a flair for weaving dramatic, exaggerated, and deeply humiliating narratives.

And the worst part? Aunt Marlene—the same woman some might worship as a living goddess of song—completely fell for it.

Her eyes lit up instantly, sparkling like freshly polished gemstones. She leaned forward, beaming with enthusiasm.

"Oh really!?" she exclaimed, her voice as melodic as the vibrato of a heartfelt ballad. She gently placed both hands on my shoulders, her touch light—but her expression sent my heart into a frantic sprint. Not out of awe… but panic.

"It's always such a joy," she continued warmly, "to see the younger generation taking interest in music. And hearing that you want to become a singer… it feels like a new light is being born."

I swallowed hard.

"I'd even be happy to mentor you personally," she said, her smile radiant. "To guide you, teach you everything I've learned—from vocal techniques to stage presence. It's not every day that someone gets an opportunity like this, Erina."

I could feel myself slowly sinking into my seat like a candle melting under the spotlight. My hands clutched my dress tightly, fighting the rising urge to just fake fainting right there and then.

And Mom? Of course she sat there with the most satisfied smile on her face—like a wily old fox watching a rabbit walk straight into her trap.

Meanwhile, some of the staff standing behind Marlene looked visibly stunned by her spontaneous offer. One of them was already scribbling something down in a little notebook—probably starting to panic about what kind of schedule reshuffling might be necessary if the diva actually followed through.

I could only let out a weak little laugh… inside, of course. A bitter laugh.

Because one tiny lie from Mom had now snowballed into a massive commitment that I had no idea how to wriggle out of.

And the only thought echoing in my mind was:

Thank you so much, Mom. You really do know how to make my life more complicated.