Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  “Let’s split up,” I told Kay. “Come at Leni from different sides.”

  “The classic pincer movement. See you at the front.”

  I picked my way through the audience and three miniscule sandwiches. Riefenstahl stood several people away, the back of her suit to me. Just past her, Kay had gotten bottled up with some Nazi functionaries. I steeled myself for the final push.

  “A splendid turnout this evening,” a voice said in my ear. I willed myself not to quake and turned toward Kaspar Biel.

  A whiff of chlorine hung in the air around him, as if he’d emerged from a swimming pool before slipping on his charcoal-gray suit. Or perhaps he bleached himself thoroughly before dealing with the public. His eyes contained a glimmer of dark merriment over a professional smile.

  Time to wipe it off his face.

  “Good evening, Peter. Or are you Kaspar Biel at official functions?”

  “Yes, an inquiry from the police indicated you’d learned my true name. A real-life Rumpelstiltskin. A German tale, you know. Shall I spin straw into gold for you now?” He chuckled, and my fingers almost flew at his face of their own volition. My frustration at that moment was total. I wanted to hurt Biel, to make him fear I had dirt on him.

  “I also learned what you forced Jens Lohse to do. What made you look for him?” My voice was small but hard, alien even to me. Stranger still, I liked the sound of it. “Something had you out there beating the bushes for him. Let me guess. His family in Austria went missing. Jens had raised the money he needed to get them out of the country. You heard they were gone and realized you’d lost your hold over him.”

  The gleam in Biel’s eyes faded, his jaw tightening. I’d struck somewhere near the truth. It wasn’t much of a victory, a faint flickering hope that before his death Jens had been able to deliver those who mattered most to him from a dire fate. But it would have to suffice.

  Biel changed the subject. “You’re the rare American to see Olympia. What did you think of the first installment?”

  I couldn’t praise it, not to Biel’s face. “I don’t follow sports, I’m afraid.”

  “A pity. Then let us speak of matters of greater import.” He edged closer, the chlorine scent intensifying. “Who should play Scarlett O’Hara?”

  His query, screaming in from left field, struck me dumb. Biel happily continued. “Paulette Goddard seems a disastrous choice, don’t you agree? Scarlett is so contentious a character, at once monstrous and likable. Who among your actresses possesses both these qualities? Surely not Miss Goddard.”

  He’d snared me in his web, the bastard. “Her relationship with Chaplin won’t help her chances, either.”

  “For me, there is only one choice. Tallulah Bankhead.”

  “Are you crazy? She’s too old.”

  “But authentically southern. From a noble lineage, no less, her father speaker of the House of Representatives. Can you imagine? The product of one of your most prominent families taking the lead role in a great story of American history. The symmetry is overwhelming. Rest assured that’s how we would mount the film in Germany.”

  Reason enough for Selznick not to do it. “You wouldn’t cast Miss Riefenstahl?” I gestured at the actress and filmmaker—

  And to my amazement saw her in conversation with Kay, Ernst Jäger chatting amiably alongside them. Kay spotted me and her eyes widened, commanding Get over here.

  I sidestepped Biel and moved toward her. But Biel repositioned himself, blocking Kay and Riefenstahl from view. “The other choice for Scarlett would be a neophyte. A complete unknown. I gather Mr. Selznick has considered this option as well.”

  I smiled tightly and tried to maneuver around Biel but he kept pace, unwilling to let me go.

  “The approach brings reward, but greater risk. A novice can find herself in over her head so quickly, make mistakes that cost money and time. She can ultimately prove far more trouble than she is worth.” He placed a hand on my elbow, and I told myself I didn’t feel it go cold. “But then, eliminating an unknown isn’t much of a burden. Who would notice?”

  The lights flickered. It took me a moment to realize Biel wasn’t responsible. Behind him the crowd started drifting back to the auditorium. Kay, now on her own, threw a curious glance at me. My opportunity, lost.

  That smile, disconnected from any human emotion, returned to Biel’s face. “Showtime. Part two begins. Enjoy it along with the remainder of your evening, Miss Frost.”

  Upon regaining the ability to move I scampered back to my seat, where Kay was waiting. “How about next time you listen to Leni while I chat up handsome flyboy types?”

  “What did she say?”

  “What do you mean what did she say? I don’t know what you want to ask, so when I found myself next to her and that Jäger fellow I complimented the movie. Glenn Morris skulked past and I asked if we’d see him in part two. Jäger laughs. Leni says she and Morris were an item during the filming. She tells me when Morris won his medal, he tore open her blouse and kissed her breasts in front of half of Berlin. Says it like it happens every day. I look at Jäger and he shrugs. Shrugs.” Kay shook her head. “If she’s Hitler’s girlfriend, you’d think she’d have a better press agent.”

  * * *

  MY HEART STILL hammered in my chest as Olympia, “Part Two: Festival of Beauty,” began. Fortunately more disturbingly casual onscreen nudity distracted me, this time of the male variety, sweaty men swatting themselves with leaves. I didn’t bother gauging the audience’s reaction, knowing that to do so would mark me as scandalized. Instead I stared doggedly ahead until I ceased viewing the men as men but instead as groups of muscles operating in harmony—once again, as Riefenstahl did. To her, a finely trained body was the apex of beauty, hence part two’s title. She lovingly photographed Glenn Morris like a force of nature, the closing image of him superimposed over the American flag prompting spontaneous applause.

  The aquatic sections showcased Riefenstahl’s technical acumen. Cameras skimmed the surface of the water during the yacht races, huddled next to men straining against the oars in the rowing events. The bodies of divers were as at home in the sky as they were in the water, a figure in midair occasionally landing on a platform as the film played in reverse, the camera sometimes plunging into the pool alongside the athlete.

  The final shot, of smoke from the extinguished Olympic flame floating into a heaven pierced by spotlights, reduced me to tears, both of joy and fear that two years hence events would prevent the world’s athletes from meeting again under the banner of competition. This second film felt truer to Riefenstahl’s spirit, celebrating sensation and grace, reaching for the beautiful without a thought for what might be crushed underneath.

  The lights came up. The crowd roared. Biel was nowhere in sight.

  “Come on,” I told Kay. “We’re talking to her.”

  * * *

  AN ALCOVE PROVIDED sanctuary while Riefenstahl’s welter of well-wishers waned. Two sportswriters passed us. “Her film’s a hell of a piece of work,” one of them said, “and I wish I didn’t think so.” Glenn Morris wandered at the periphery of the crowd, abashed. But then how were you supposed to react when you’d been depicted as a Greek god? He spotted an opportunity and charged toward his onetime paramour. There was no rending of garments or kissing of breasts, simply a clasping of hands and the exchange of a few words. Then Morris stole away, hopelessly at sea. I felt sorry for him.

  Still no sign of Kaspar Biel. I grabbed Kay and barreled through the stragglers toward Riefenstahl and Ernst Jäger.

  He clucked and fussed at Kay, Riefenstahl’s alarmingly direct gaze betraying only a dim recognition. Her eyes next assessed me, and I thought In S.O.S. Iceberg she should have played the title role.

  My name surfaced like two rocks in a stream of German; Kay, making introductions. Jäger took over, the only word I understood “Paramount.” Mention of the studio prompted the raising of two eyebrows, one Riefenstahl’s, one Kay’s. I’d propagated a lie in two languag
es. The sisters at Saint Mary’s would be proud.

  Riefenstahl spoke, Kay translating. “So nice of you to come. Did you enjoy the screening?”

  I told the truth. “It’s a powerful film.”

  Her response was followed by a self-effacing laugh a touch too transparent; as an actress, she made a fine director. “Perhaps you will tell your employers.”

  “I will. I’d love to line up some big names to excite Americans about your film, let them know what it is. An ode to the human form in all its glory.”

  Riefenstahl nodded vigorously as soon as Kay started translating, her next words a torrent. “Yes. This is what I’ve told Ernst and anyone who will listen. But how do we do this with the world situation being what it is?”

  Now or never. “You’ve had other screenings in Los Angeles.”

  Kay conveyed my words in German. Riefenstahl nodded. Jäger frowned. I pressed on. “Surely you met people you could enlist in your efforts.”

  I refrained from biting my lip as I awaited her reply. “Yes, a few. But they might be reluctant.”

  “Perhaps we”—I leaned on the plural, putting the full weight of Paramount Pictures behind it—“could help enroll them in your campaign.”

  After listening to Kay, Riefenstahl consulted briefly with Jäger. She then turned to me, her smile at last genuine. “We’d appreciate the help.”

  “Tell me who to call.” I prayed she wouldn’t say Errol Flynn’s name.

  A door behind Riefenstahl opened. Georg Gyssling bustled in, shoulders hunched and forehead gleaming. Kaspar Biel stood behind him, his eyes never deviating from mine.

  Gyssling flashed a spotlight smile, then spoke in German to Riefenstahl. Biel’s comment, in English, was directed at me. “Miss Riefenstahl must depart.”

  He held the door open. Gyssling gestured for Riefenstahl to proceed. The filmmaker hesitated, looking at me. Biel spoke, his words sounding harsh even without benefit of translation, and I felt myself disappear from Riefenstahl’s view, a feature no longer visible on the landscape. She strode off down a corridor, Gyssling and Biel in her wake, Jäger scrambling to keep up.

  I hooked my arm in Kay’s and ran after them, calling Riefenstahl’s name. She and Biel spoke in raised voices, as if I were a squalling infant they’d chosen to ignore. Riefenstahl adjusted her hat so I wouldn’t even appear in the corner of her eye. She reached the exit, where two brown-shirted men waited. Gyssling threw the door open to the night and ushered Riefenstahl out. Biel followed without a backward glance. Jäger turned to us—“Lovely meeting you!”—and darted through the door before it slammed shut. The sentries remained, faces blank, barring us from pursuing them.

  * * *

  AN OLD MAN in a tattered coat and a new homburg stood opposite the California Club’s entrance. “For shame!” he hollered at Kay and me. “That film glorifies Hitler! For shame!”

  “Can it, pops! It’s a free country!” Kay bellowed back. “Word’s out about the screening. I’m still in the dark about why we’re here, but I’m guessing tonight’s expedition was a bust.”

  “In so many words.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to go back and let the man in the homburg heap more abuse on me. I’d been so close, and I failed.

  Naturally, Kay was in chirpy high spirits. “Still, I don’t regret coming. That picture was a marvel. Never saw anything like it. They should show it in schools. The Hitler-free version, I mean. I’m sure Leni would be fine with it.” Sensing my despair, she surprisingly took pity on me. “You gave it the old college try, Lillian. Fancy that, telling them you were with Paramount. It was working until golden boy queered the deal. Who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s with the consulate. He thinks Tallulah Bankhead should play Scarlett.”

  “Stick to politics, Horst. Leni was explaining you could help get the picture seen and he told her to forget it.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Now I definitely do. What did he say about me?”

  Kay exhaled. Very well, if you’re going to force me to repeat gossip … “He said you didn’t work at Paramount, and that you were—how did he put it? A nonentity.”

  A nonentity. Very apt, I thought. “What did Leni say in response?”

  “Only that she should have known.”

  “That’s it? She came on like quite the chatterbox.”

  “It was some kind of German folk wisdom, I suppose, a new one on me. She said what you offered was too good to be true, and like the man said, when the hand is dealt it’s not enough to check your cards. You also have to check your dealer.”

  I stopped dead on the sidewalk. Behind us, the man in the homburg continued to harangue the late exodus. Electricity sparked from my every nerve. I knew.

  “Those were her exact words?”

  “Give or take. Why?”

  “I know I don’t work there, but how soon can you get me to Paramount?”

  38

  I PILED OUT of Kay’s car at the Bronson Gate, fending off demands for an explanation. “All will soon be revealed,” I said.

  “Quit talking like Orson Welles on The Shadow. I’d better hear every last detail. Remember, I’m in line for an exclusive.” Tires scraping the curb, her roadster roared off into the night.

  The lethargic gate guard perked up at my name. “Miss Head left a message. She’s taking a walk around the lot, but her office is open. You can wait for her there.”

  A pair of seamstresses speaking Spanish shuffled out of the Wardrobe building, offering weary smiles as I passed. Inside I heard the rhythmic clack of a sewing machine. Cameras would be rolling in a matter of hours, and costumes would be ready and waiting.

  Light from a lamp Edith had left burning spilled across the sketches on her desk. I sneaked a peek at her creations, to be worn by Bob Hope’s costar in his latest comedy. A flowing skirt with gay stripes accompanied by a Dutch girl hat altered to look more like a doily, and a rather severe black dress suitable for a funeral. Edith had scribbled “dueling scene” on the second illustration; if Bob Hope was participating in an affaire d’honneur, he wouldn’t be the one destined for the casket. Not with his billing.

  Even Edith’s artistry couldn’t provide distraction from what I’d discovered. Donald Hume was a Nazi agent. Jens hadn’t blackmailed him over his infidelity but his political leanings; the “other woman” he’d been with at 4:17 had been Leni Riefenstahl. In fawning over her after the clandestine screening of the full Führer version of Olympia, he’d relied on his canned wisdom, which she’d repeated to Kaspar Biel. On the ride to Paramount I’d grilled Kay, asking her to parse Riefenstahl’s words. Yes, she admitted, upon reflection the director did seem to be quoting someone as opposed to citing a maxim. The intensity of my questioning only fueled her interest. Kay made bulldogs look lazy when she thought she’d sniffed out a story. I’d soon have to figure out how to handle her.

  At the moment, though, what I wanted to do most was review the night’s events with Edith. I paced her office suite, the implications looming larger in my mind with each trip.

  From the outer office, I heard a noise in the hallway. I swung the door open, tempted to holler a greeting into the quiet, knowing Edith wouldn’t find it amusing.

  Never was I so grateful for my Catholic school reticence. Kaspar Biel quickstepped along the corridor, reading signs with ferocious concentration.

  I didn’t wonder how he’d gained entry to the lot. I didn’t go back to the office for my handbag. Instead I slipped toward the stairs and started down with all deliberate speed.

  I intended to loop around the building along Marathon Street and have the gate guard call the police. But upon reaching the door I abruptly retreated and pressed my back to the wall. One of the brown-shirted men from the California Club stalked past the window. I scurried to another exit.

  It was eerie being on the lot at night, the normal vibrancy stilled at that hour. Ghosts already held sway on th
e studio grounds, vestiges of forgotten films and neglected actors hiding in plain sight, surfacing at unexpected times in surprising places. Under cover of darkness, they had free rein.

  My plan was to cut over to the closest gate fronting Van Ness Avenue and seek help there. But as I reached the path, I spotted the second of the brown shirts jawing with the gate guard. A compatriot who’d allowed Biel and his bullyboys onto the lot, I thought, and fled in the other direction.

  Soundstages loomed on either side of me like beached ships, dormant at present yet still emitting energy. I angled toward Melrose Avenue and another source of salvation.

  Ahead of me, a few guttural words of German. Unless it was one of their single multisyllabic words. My feet scuffled on the pavement as I scrambled away. I didn’t hear the voices go silent so much as feel it, like a chilled liquid engulfing my skin.

  I moved faster. Passing John Engstead’s photography studio, I spied a space even darker than the night surrounding it. One of the doors had been left open, a forest of lighting stands around it. I weaved between them and ducked inside.

  My eyes slowly adjusted, the contours of the room revealing themselves. The studio as always was jammed with furniture. I felt my way to the wall, intent on using it as a guide until I located a telephone.

  I screamed before I reached one. It was my natural reaction to finding a woman sitting alone in a pitch-black room. I nearly screamed again when she didn’t budge in response.

  I’d proceeded far enough to risk a light. I fumbled for a lamp, found one on a table, flicked it on.

  A cigarette extended toward me, seeking a match. Behind it, dead eyes. Only in Hollywood could I encounter, in a moment of extreme distress, a celebrity.

  The “woman” was Cynthia, Jack Benny’s mannequin costar in Artists and Models Abroad. She hadn’t been packed up after her latest photo shoot, the fair-haired facsimile leaning forward as if hanging on my every unsaid word, cigarette poised.

  From outside Engstead’s studio, whispers. I doused the light. And did the only thing I could think of.