As Farberbock tells it, Felice‘s world is less a deviant escape from Berlin life proper than a mirror to its desperate eros, the last thrill-seeking gasp -- a pathetic ghost of the cocky prewar sensuality evoked in Cabaret -- of a city fiddling while it burns. This Berlin sustains itself on a nervous energy fueled by the knowledge that there’s no tomorrow for anyone, let alone Lilly and Felice, who, after the latter has come clean about who she is to the one person left on Earth she feels safe with, plunge for a while into a gossamer idyll, as if unaware that in that benighted place, at that foul time, ”for a while“ is all there is. ”Nothing to eat, but [we dance] the rumba,“ says an elderly neighbor who dances a night away with the two women. ”That‘s culture.“