Heike saw the Self-Portrait later that week, recording her thoughts in the final entry of the recovered diaries. 

Went to the Neues Haus to see Christian’s exhibition. I was alone – none of the girls could make it – and as soon as I got there, a group of society women stared at me, and then went back to the paintings. Of course they were fawning over the one of the dandy who wants to have sex with the hostess from the El Dorado but can’t because it’s not respectable. “So brave!” they kept saying. “So bold!” 

I decided to find the picture of me, even though Dora told me not to. I should have listened to her. I’d tried not to expect anything, but hoped he might have tried to bring out something of me – something to show Marlene or Conrad, or even the girls – but then I saw the Self-Portrait with Model. 

I stared at it. Some woman glanced at me like I was dirt, looked back at the painting and then walked away. He’d made a very good likeness of himself, but he’d brought my hairline down and changed the style, made my nose bigger and given me breasts. He knew how much I wish mine were like that! Of course, they were there because he doesn’t want anyone to find out how much he likes the third sex, and in the picture, he was blocking me from the waist down. He remembered my stocking though – he was so desperate for me to keep it on – and he added a flower. The gallery attendant said “It’s a narcissus, it represents vanity.” Then I noticed the scar on my cheek – the attendant just shook his head when I asked what it meant. A man said they were common in southern Italy – jealous husbands put them on their wives.

I could feel the tears coming. I ran back to the Institute and wept, and told Dora that I never want to see Christian or his painting again. 

* 

In summer 1932, Schad had another encounter with Heike – almost certainly his last. We know this from another letter to Huelsenbeck, dated Sunday 7 August. 

Welt-Dada, 

I promised myself I’d never go again, but last night I found myself in the El Dorado. It’s been five years, but I’d only been there ten minutes when who comes on stage but Heike, from my Portrait. She wore this glittering red dress, almost transparent, and I felt scared. As she got down, I called her. She recognised me and tried to run to the bar. I grabbed her wrist. 

“I won’t hurt you.” 

She looked at me, trembling. A couple of the inverts came over. “I’m fine,” she said, and sat with me. I thought about when you said that being with her would be the perfect Dada gesture because she was so spectacularly ugly in the Portrait, but I was stunned at how good she looked – just like when I first met her. 

“You look incredible,” I told her. She thanked me. “I can’t believe that Marlene is in Hollywood and you’re still here.” 

“You were right,” she said, “they don’t cast freaks.” 

Silence. 

“Did Dr Hirschfeld …”

“Dr Abraham got there with Dora,” she said. “I’m fourth in line. Next year, they hope, if things calm down.” 

“Which things?” 

“Adolf Hitler says that Dr Hirschfeld is the most dangerous man in Germany,” she told me, “and if he gets in …” 

“My career is finished,” I said. 

“Your career and my life!” she shouted. “The club, the surgery, the Institute, everything!” Silence. “I might die on the operating table, anyway, like Lili.” 6 ((Lili Elbe (1882-1931) – Danish artist, intersex person and one of the first recipients of sex reassignment surgery. In 1931, Dr Erwin Gohrbandt performed a castration and penectomy on Elbe, who then had an operation to transplant ovaries from a 26-year old woman. These were removed in two further surgeries due to serious complications. She died of transplant rejection after an attempt to insert a uterus into her body. )) She took a draw on a cigarette. “That might not be so bad.” 

“You don’t need surgery,” I said, “you’re beautiful as it is.” 

“If that’s so, why did you cover me?” she asked. “It wasn’t a mistake – I could tell from that scar you put on my face.” 

“I was breaking up with Marcella,” I told her. “I didn’t want to hurt her any more by letting her know I’d been with you.” 

“The Count’s shameful secret,” she said. “Your shameful secret.” 

“She’s dead,” I said. “Drowned. There’s no need to stay here. Come away with me.” 

“Where can I go?” 

She started crying. I held her hand and I was sorry. She went back to her friends. I doubt I’ll ever see her again. Will paint to work out how I feel about this. Let’s talk soon. 

Christian. 

*