by Jürgen Fauth
When I tried to kiss her, she pulled away. Penelope considered a relationship between actress and director unprofessional, and that was that. She might have been the only actress in the history of movies, but she would not sleep with her director. That night at the Belvedere, Ray offered her one of the upstairs guest rooms, and she kept the door locked. I know because I tried.
From then on, I gave up Steffen's girls, Ute and the rest. I sent champagne to Penelope's dressing room, picked the best tulips for her every day after shooting. I courted her. I screened rushes for her alone so I could sit next to her in the dark while her face lit up the screen. I projected everything onto her. That is how movie stars work: they make you feel like you've always known them. Penelope became the conduit of all my dreams.
Eating the petals had been Harold Flint's idea. He began to improvise during the scene where the love-stricken sailor breaks into Lilly's bedroom. He might've been stoned. The script required him to climb in from the balcony while Lilly slept and to lay a tulip on her heaving breast. The flower–worth millions of guilders as a bulb–would heal the ailing beauty.
With the cameras rolling, Flint hopped around the set and engaged in all sorts of Schabernack. He crawled under the bed, opened every drawer, turned cartwheels. I let him go while Penelope, tired of pretending to sleep, made noises from under the covers. That's when he picked up the flower again, tore off a petal, held it to his lips for a trembling moment, and then chewed and swallowed, like a gourmand tasting a leaf of bitter chocolate. Penelope, who had grown impatient, raised herself, opened her eyes, and laughed.
It was the most innocent, unforced laugh you've ever heard, and even on silent film, the shot conveyed irresistible joy. “Keep on rolling,” I shouted, “keep going!” Flint plucked every petal from the tulip and stuffed it in his mouth while Penelope clapped and laughed and cheered him on. When he was done sucking up the last of the stem and dabbed his mouth with his shirt tail, he bowed deep, blew her a kiss, and disappeared the way he had come.
“Cut!”
We all knew the take was perfect: spontaneous and unplanned and true.
“That wasn't supposed to happen,” Penelope said to me. I told her she'd been wonderful, and she beamed back. She knew it was true. I was sure, then, that she could love the movies, that she would love me, that all would be well and she'd be mine.
Everyone was in high spirits when we shot the final scene, the windmill amidst a sea of flowers. We'd gone over budget, but in a gesture for which I will always be grateful, Ray put up the money for additional tulips, carpeting the entire studio in bright bloom. Penelope kissed me that night–one single, tantalizing kiss before she pushed me away.
Then I holed up in the editing room. For two months, I was eating, sleeping, and breathing film, hunched over the editing desk between hanging strips of celluloid. With scissors and glue I sped through time, manipulated events at my whim, and shaped the raw images into a tale like a god. I learned to make shots talk to each other and found rhythms and resonance in the fractions of black between the frames.
My whole life culminated in the triumphant night when Tulpendiebe opened and I finally made Penelope mine. Salvatore Luna had painted the façade of the Ufa-Palast am Zoo with a mural of beautiful flowers, and the lobby and twin staircases were lined with thousands of glorious tulips in bloom. Murnau was there, and Emil Jannings, Asta Nielsen, Conrad Veidt, Brigitte Helm! My old Scheunenviertel landlords had come out in their best Sunday clothes, and my brother Heinz, who'd moved his business headquarters to Berlin, was there as well.
Tulpendiebe should have been a disaster, but instead it turned out a miracle, not at all what I had set out to do, but stranger and better. Penelope was perfect. Only three years had passed since Steffen had taken me to Nosferatu, and here we were, the images I had dreamed up cast against the screen for all to see. I have never been more proud, have never loved every frame of a movie as much as I loved Tulpendiebe that night. When the last frame faded, the audience erupted into a thunderstorm of applause. I took my bows, and in that moment, I realized the tulip thief was me.
At the reception, Penelope and I were the center of attention. Thea kissed my cheeks but Fritz was too proud to pay his respects, holding court by the bar. I chatted with a young film critic by the name of Billy Wilder. Two unexpected guests congratulated us: Anna and Leo Greifenau, Penelope's parents.
Penelope couldn't hide her surprise. “Didn't you find it vulgar and glamorous, my beauty objectified and my intellect immaterial?”
“Oh Penelope,” the professor said. “I just want you to be happy. And you, young man. Quite lyrical, the story about the tulip. The erratic movements of the market correspond to the movements of the heart, do they not?”
I basked in my success, but all I wanted was to leave with Penelope, more beautiful than ever, stunning in her white silk gown. She was a brand-new movie star, and I was not her director any more. That night, we made love until the sun came up over Friedrichshain.
The newspapers raved, calling Tulpendiebe “lucid and full of meaning,” while Metropolis, that turgid piece of overblown shit, couldn't earn back its budget. A Landei and a cripple, I had transformed myself into Klaus Kino, the Wunderkind of Neubabelsberg, the youngest-ever director in the history of Ufa, a favorite with the critics and the public! I was in love with myself, with Penelope, with the pictures we were making on the screen.
I bought a villa in Charlottenburg and an American cabriolet that we drove across the Alps to Lake Como. Drunk on red wine and mad with the romance of it all, I proposed. Penelope explained to me, at length, that marriage was a tool of the patriarchy–and then, surprising as ever, accepted. We were married that very night, in a musty church in Bellagio with the local fishmonger as witness and a town of strangers celebrating our love.
Penelope Greifenau had become Penelope Koblitz, our vacation had become a honeymoon, and we were as happy together as we'd ever be. We drove on to Venice the next morning.
What happened next cast a dark shadow over our young marriage. At a café just off the Piazza San Marco, we were recognized by a professor from Tübingen, and he and his students joined us for Ramazzotti and soda. They were full of praise for Tulpendiebe. Penelope, who pretended she didn't care, loved the attention, and we promised to visit them at the basilica, where they were restoring mosaics.
Herr Dokter, have you seen San Marco? Infinite labyrinths cover the floor and every glittering inch of the gilded walls is layered with intricate Byzantine detail, pointing beyond itself, suggesting infinite possibility. I was getting lost in the ornaments of the gem-encrusted altar piece when an infernal sound came growling up through the building. In the left transept, by the chapel of St. Isidor, Penelope and I watched the tall scaffolding on which the professor and his students worked on the ceiling collapse. The wooden frame tore apart under its own weight, sending tools and bodies flying.
When the last echo of the destruction died down, we moved toward the heap, which was still shrouded by a cloud of dust. There were indistinct voices, people crying out in pain, desperate whispers for help. Trapped underneath a large crossbeam, we could make out the smashed face of the professor, distorted into a mask of agony.
Tulpendiebe has been lost for decades, so there is no way you could possibly understand. I realize my current position further undermines my credibility–but try, if you can, to believe me. At Tulpendiebe's climax, the evil tulip notary, played by Otto Gröninger, dies in a conflagration under the collapsing parts of a burning windmill–an extremely difficult shot, one of the best in the movie. There was something deeply moving about his death: at the last possible moment, we discover empathy for the villain, as he, himself, discovers that his fate is bound to all others. It is a moment of pure cinema, Herr Dokter, and one of the most truthful things I ever put on film.
There was no fire in Venice, but what Penelope and I saw in the basilica as we approached the heap of rubble, handkerchiefs pressed to our faces, was precisely
what the audience sees at the end of Tulpendiebe, down to the framing, the angle, the beams crossed like a game of deadly pickup sticks, and beneath it all, the doomed man's face, not quite dead but aware of the approaching inevitability, his eyes wide to take in the last of what life would show him. There was no mistaking it, Herr Dokter: there was a connection, an undeniable connection, between my film and the professor's agonizing death.
It was dispiriting and horrid, and after the ambulances and the Carabinieri arrived, we wandered the streets of Venice till dawn. I'd seen worse back in Königstein where I had witnessed my brother Jupp die, where I watched as Dokters sawed off my limb, but Penelope couldn't stop crying. Our honeymoon was ruined, and we returned to Berlin.
Chapter 10
Dr. Hanno lifted Mina off the last rung of the ladder down to the cobblestone yard just as the first of their pursuers swung his leg over the roof. Mina's arms trembled, with exhaustion or fear, she didn't know. Dr. Hanno was holding her a moment too long, but she didn't mind. She had made it down safely.
Her suitcase hadn't been so lucky. It had smashed in two, and all of Mina's honeymoon clothes–the little red dress, the flippers, the towels they had stolen from the hotel–had gone flying all over the yard. She grabbed what she could and stuffed it into her knapsack. The snorkel mask had cracked. Her favorite dress wouldn't fit.
One by one, the suited men appeared at the edge of the roof and began to climb down. Or rather, they slid, moving downwards without actually seeming to move their limbs. They were descending quickly, and they weren't shouting Mina's name anymore. She found herself wishing they did; their silence was more threatening than when they had still bothered to shout.
Mina was still cramming clothes into the knapsack when Dr. Hanno grabbed her by the shoulder. “Frau Koblitz. There is no time.” She slung the bag over her shoulder and left the broken suitcase behind. Trailing underwear, they ran through an alleyway lined with locked bicycles and rows of colorful trash cans and out into the street. They found themselves in the middle of a very long block. A few buildings to their right, a streetcar was pulling up to a stop. They were out of breath but kept on running, running. The streetcar driver closed the doors in their faces and pulled away.
“What now?” Mina rested her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Any moment, the men who were chasing them would appear through the alleyway.
“Keep going,” Dr. Hanno commanded, leading them down the sidewalk, where to Mina wasn't sure. In front of a wide staircase, a bent old man shook his cane at Mina; she was in his way. She moved aside, and he disappeared through a heavy wooden door. The sign said “Türkisches Dampfbad.”
“What does that mean?” Mina asked.
“It's a spa.”
Mina grabbed Dr. Hanno's elbow and pulled him up the stairs.
They sat next to each other on wooden benches, breathing in hot eucalyptus-scented air, dripping sweat, and trying awkwardly to keep their towels aligned. The spa was a beautifully designed neo-classical bathhouse with vaulted ceilings, tiles with elaborate mosaics covering every surface, and a variety of recessed saunas arranged around a large central pool.
It was also co–ed and all nude.
Dr. Hanno had his towel carefully tied around his waist, but Mina's kept slipping, revealing her breasts. Mina knew how jealous Sam would get if he knew where she was, with this German film professor. He was handsome, almost. She knew she wouldn't mention this part to Sam.
“You could've told me this was all nude.”
“You were up the stairs before I could say anything.”
“At least they won't follow us in here. They're nothing without their suits.”
“I wouldn't be so sure. But I don't think they saw us.”
The plan was to hide out until Frank came to pick Mina up and take her to the airport–Tempelhof instead of Tegel, where the men might be waiting for her.
They had found the least hot sauna, a good vantage from which to observe the spa's main room through the glass door. The spa was filled with old naked people. A few were younger and good-looking, but most everybody else seemed well over fifty. Nobody seemed to be the slightest bit embarrassed by the nudity. There was a lot of sagging flesh on display.
“How many of these people do you think were Nazis?” Mina wondered out loud.
“Not all Germans were Nazis,” Dr. Hanno said. “It was one thing to be in the party or the SS, but most people were just trying to survive during those years.”
“Do you think any of them have seen Kino's movies?”
Dr. Hanno didn't seem to have an answer. Mina felt his awkwardness and decided to give it another twist.
“Maybe he used to come here for bathhouse orgies or something. Do you think this used to be a place for hooking up?”
“Hooking up?”
“Fucking.”
It worked: Dr. Hanno blushed. He was sweating hard.
Mina turned to him. “Now, who the hell are these goons, and why are they after me? I don't even have the movie anymore.”
“I'm not sure,” Dr. Hanno said. “There are a number of possibilities, none of them good. You'd be surprised by the lengths certain parties will go to to protect intellectual property.”
“Certain parties?”
“Powerful corporate interests. The entertainment–industrial complex. No one takes movies as seriously as you Americans.”
Mina shook her head. “What do they want from me? That movie just appeared out of nowhere, and it's gone again. I don't know anything.”
“In a word, copyright. To them, old ideas are like fossil fuel. These days, everything is a potential franchise, and they treat intellectual property as a non-renewable resource. Ever notice how every new movie these days seems to be a remake or a sequel or a reboot? Plagiarism suits are everywhere. Did you hear about the Eldred Case? Free the Mouse?”
“What mouse?” Mina wiped the sweat off her forehead.
“Mickey Mouse, of course. His copyright would have expired by now, but Disney fought tooth and nail to extend it past the original seventy years. They got what they wanted, but it left thousands of works of art inaccessible to the public domain. It's a disaster for creative production, but for these guys, it's all about control.”
“And they want to control Tulpendiebe, too?” The heat made it almost impossible to concentrate on Dr. Hanno's impassioned speech. Mina blinked. Sam, she remembered, was having fever dreams.
“They want to control everything. It's how they operate. They want to own history and never let go. If they get their hands on Tulpendiebe, it'll disappear forever in some vault.”
“But why? No one will watch this movie. It's a hundred years old. Who cares?”
“Frau Koblitz, motion pictures are produced and distributed under severe economic pressures, and they're too expensive to go freely into the world. As a matter of fact, art is never free, not in any sense of the word, and movies least of all.”
“Marxism 101, thank you, but you don't have to grow up in the GDR to know this stuff. I watch TV. I went to law school.”
“You did?”
Mina nodded. Technically, that was true, but she immediately regretted mentioning it. She would not tell him that she dropped out after half a semester. “I'm going for a dip,” she said. She left the sauna for the much cooler main room, found a rack to hang up her towel, and jumped into the cold pool, in full view of the sauna. The water felt ice cold against her skin, waking her up and clearing her head. Swimming naked felt great. She tried to make eye contact with the other bathers, looking for approval for her courage, maybe, but no one seemed to notice.
Back in the sauna, Dr. Hanno hadn't moved. He wore a peculiar face, and Mina wondered if he had a hard-on. Her towel was wet and pointless now, and she didn't even try to cover her breasts any more. For the first time, Mina felt she had an edge over Dr. Hanno. He was looking at his bare feet.
“I still don't get it,” Mina said. “If this is about copyright, why not
just send me a letter or something? How did they find out about the movie in the first place?”
Dr. Hanno avoided turning his head in Mina's direction now. He cleared his throat. “Maybe the movies have been around for too long for most people to realize this anymore, but your grandfather had it exactly right: the cinema exerts the same pull as dreams. If anything, it is stronger–people pay money to subject themselves to a carefully constructed shared audio-visual experience, a guided trip if you will. That's more than just a high-stakes financial gamble–that's real power, the power to make people dream. Film is the most integrated of the arts, and they have a light side and a dark side. They can be used to liberate, and they can be used for domination. From the beginning, governments have been very interested in the power of the moving pictures.”
“You're talking about propaganda,” Mina said.
“I'm talking about all movies. Propaganda is the word we use for the poor examples, the obvious manipulations. The real stuff, the truly potent stuff, doesn't have a special name. We just call it Kino.”
“And my grandfather–”
“Your grandfather was an exceptional, uncanny talent. Remember the way he described Nosferatu? It altered his consciousness. When he left the theater, he was a changed person.”
Finally, Dr. Hanno turned his head to look her in the eye. “Let me ask you something. How did you sleep last night? Strange dreams?”
Mina had, in fact, had odd, vivid dreams of a beach, Sam, and the burning windmill, but she wasn't about to tell Dr. Hanno. “Dreams are private,” she said.
“Not anymore,” Dr. Hanno said grandly. “Not since the invention of the movie camera. Just because you understand the technology doesn't mean you grasp the essential mystery of it. Kino is nothing to be trifled with, and those who control it now hold no stake in our souls.” The sweat was pouring down his face.