Lou’s arm lifted on the cyclonic wind of arms rising around her. The steadiness with which she held it straight defied gravity and exhaustion. This was what she had trained for, lifting weights for the track. A magnetic current pulled her body and soul toward the body and soul of the Führer. A trumpet fanfare roused the crowd until it seemed that the shouting would go on forever.
The Führer motioned for silence. The crowd cheered him for having the power to dam this flood of feeling. It was thrilling to obey: so many, so strong, every individual unified in a single obedient being.
The band struck up the German national anthem, and after that the Horst Wessel song, which Inge translated, in a whisper, breathing wetly into Lou’s ear. Listening to the sad story of the German hero murdered by Communist thugs, but only after writing this stirring hymn about the flag and the battle, a future of bread and freedom, Lou felt pride and sadness, along with a wayward impulse to silence Inge with a kiss.
As the teams marched toward the reviewing stand, the sun broke through the clouds. Had the Führer arranged that too? The colorful flags of the nations flapped in the summer wind. New shouts and cheers erupted. All eyes were on the Führer. Once more he held up his hand, quieting the multitudes with a flick of his wrist.
Lou’s heart filled and overflowed. How beautiful the games were, how glorious the tradition that inspired each country to send its swiftest and most graceful to compete in contests that went back to ancient Greece. The bond Lou shared with these women and men went deeper than culture or costume: the turbans on the Indians, the funny caps on the Japanese, the Americans’ straw boaters, the white pleated skirt the Greek captain wore—and Lou’s dark suit and fedora. How proudly they paraded, knowing that the crowd understood how hard they had worked to get here. Surely it was a miracle, a foretaste of salvation, that Lou could watch from the stands and not feel sick with resentment because she wasn’t marching with the French athletes. She would rather be where she was. Greater things were in store for her than winning a gold medal!
Last night in bed Inge had told Lou that it was a controversial question: how would the national teams salute as they passed the Führer’s box and what did this imply about the relations between Germany and their home countries?
Out of politeness, Inge said, every athlete should honor Hitler with the Nazi salute. After all, they were Germany’s guests, on German soil, breathing German air. When in Rome, etcetera. Why didn’t their coaches inform them that the party had adopted the salute because it was how the earliest Greek athletes hailed their gods? Ignorant of history, some of the athletes were expected to choose the so-called Olympic salute, their right arms raised to one side at a forty-five degree angle.
Lou had ended this slightly tedious conversation by trailing one finger from Inge’s neck down the length of her back. But now that the teams were marching past, she was acutely aware of how the athletes held their arms—and the Führer’s response. The British, the Indians, and the Japanese turned their heads toward the Führer. The American men removed their straw hats and placed them over their chests. Lou could tell that the Führer was torn because it seemed overly jaunty and disrespectful, though the straw hats may have reminded him of the Hollywood musicals that, Inge said, he loved. When the Austrians saluted him openly as their leader, Lou watched paternal pleasure soften the Führer’s stern face.
The Italians gave the fascist salute. But having caught a glimpse of the French flag fluttering in the distance, Lou lost interest in the codes being transmitted by the athletes’ tipped hats and tilted biceps. She braced herself for the pain of seeing the French athletes and not being among them.
The music became less military, more like a dance hall tune. In their tailored white flannels, dark blazers, and berets, the French held their arms to the side at an unmistakably Olympic angle.
Lou was prepared to feel angry, envious, and betrayed. Instead she felt pity and sympathy for her French brothers and sisters. How long would it take them to see the light, to know they were headed for ruin, to admit that their German neighbors wanted to save them from falling into the open grave their enemies were digging? If only Lou could make them see what she saw and understand what she understood. Newly in love, respected, welcome, watching the games in comfort, about to be offered a chance to start over, she had no desire to trade her life for theirs.
Her heart went out to her dear countrymen in their farmer’s berets, the symbol of their peasant roots, of their love for the land and its traditions. Their visit to Germany would show them that a nation could be healed. They would learn from the Germans how human beings could treat each other with care and loving kindness.
Hitler’s face was unreadable, but Lou thought she glimpsed the trace of a frown as the stadium erupted in cheers for the French neighbors with whom the German people hoped to live in peace and friendship. Lou added her voice to the others and wept again as she shouted, “Vive la France! Heil Hitler!” Listening to the noise of the crowd, she seemed to hear each person saying: there will not be another war. She and Inge could be together.
The Swiss marched past in clockwork time, followed by the Germans, the women in angel white, a squad of captains and coaches in military dress, the athletes in snowy linen suits, like the army of God. Inge told Lou to look at the Führer making an effort to be fair and to not appear excessively proud of the beautiful young Germans. But at last he smiled, despite himself. He lowered his hand and, deeply moved, put his fist to his heart. He stepped forward and solemnly announced that the Berlin Olympics, celebrating the Eleventh Olympiad of the modern era, were officially open.
The loudest trumpets yet played a fanfare, and a flock of twenty thousand white birds took off and soared, fluttering, into the sky. Then the honor guard fired off a volley, scaring the pigeons so badly that they all simultaneously lost control and defecated on the athletes standing at attention.
Everyone in Berlin heard about this regrettable event, which would not appear in Olympia, Fraulein Riefenstahl’s film.
That evening, the pigeons were the talk of the private dinner on Peacock Island given by Herr Goebbels. From across the room, Lou spotted the Führer, who tonight was too busy to pay attention to Inge and Lou. Lou didn’t feel slighted. She’d gotten so much last night. Inge hung on Lou’s arm, translating the gossip and jokes, which were mostly about pigeon droppings.
Apparently, the bird shit had landed on the American athletes, the British, the French, but . . . are you ready? Not the Germans! The Führer had a good laugh when his press secretary said that by tomorrow the foreign press would report the Germans had trained its pigeons to bomb with the same deadly accuracy as its air force, which, as everyone knew, did not exist.
Of course the German air force existed. That was part of the joke. Bombers had flown over the stadium. Lou’s ears still rang, hours later.
After the Peacock Island dinner, Inge told Lou they’d been asked to a small, exclusive cocktail party, to be held tomorrow evening at the villa of Sturmbannführer Heydrich, the head of the state police. Herr Himmler and Reichssportsführer Von Tschammer und Osten had been invited, and a few more guests, though sadly, not the Führer.
This was it, thought Lou. This wasn’t just a social event. They were going to make her an offer. They would ask her to use her skills and training to help the Reich restore the glory of France.
The next day, Lou watched the javelin competition won by German girls without feeling any, or almost any, resentment. Nor was she envious when Hitler gave his autograph to Helen Stephens, the American winner of the 100-meter dash, one of several female athletes suspected of being men.
Even as hosts, the Germans were fastidious record keepers. A ledger preserved in the State Archive in Berlin notes that on the evening of August 20, 1936, Lou Villars and Inge Wallser were on the guest list at a gathering at the home of Reinhard Heydrich, who, in addition to his police work, had been a major organizer of the Berlin games.
Heydrich, who would go on to be
come an architect of Kristallnacht and the Wansee Conference, at which he and Eichmann hammered out the Final Solution to the Jewish Question, lived in a simple, even sterile villa, done entirely in black and white. The floor of the reception room was covered in checkerboard tiles. Lou felt like a chess piece, a bishop, in a tuxedo.
Whatever happened after this, the fact remained that she had been chosen. She had been here and seen this. Nothing could take that away. A genie had lifted her out of a garage in a Paris slum. A magic carpet had transported her to Berlin.
Heydrich offered Lou a glass of wine (Don’t tell our beloved Führer!) and began by saying (in German, which Inge translated, as she would throughout the evening) that they had discussed Lou’s character, her intelligence, her gifts. How could she be most useful to her country and theirs?
Lou couldn’t help saying, “You talked about me?” Inge shot her a kindly but stern look and didn’t translate her friend’s girlish lapse.
Heydrich said, “You are a driver.”
“That I am,” said Lou.
Heydrich said, “Our hope is that you will agree to drive for the Reich.”
“I would love to,” said Lou. “But it might take me a few months to get back up to speed. No, I mean a few weeks. Or even a few days. Just give me a fast car—”
“We all love fast cars,” Von Tschammer und Osten said. “Who doesn’t love fast cars?” His laugh was like the high, sharp bark of a small, ill-tempered dog. “But for the job we have in mind, speed is not the principal qualification.”
A race without speed? Were they suggesting she compete in endurance courses, the traditional slot into which women drivers had been shunted? Armand had contempt for marathons. But maybe Armand was wrong.
Unless they didn’t mean racing. Maybe they wanted her to test-drive new models. In France, retired racers often became consultants. Why hadn’t the Rossignols hired her to do something like that? If they had, she might not be here. Now she was glad they hadn’t.
Heydrich explained that what interested them were Lou’s connections with sports clubs throughout France, athletic associations, which, as everyone knew, formed an important and vibrant network. Such groups had played a critical role in helping the early heroes of the National Socialist Party.
Lou remembered the Führer telling her that. It made her feel that the Führer was here tonight, if not in body then in spirit.
Heydrich said, “We believe that you could be a valuable source of information.” Translating, Inge had to pause for breath before she could continue.
“Information about . . . ?” asked Lou, though she knew what was being asked. As a child she’d played at being a spy. Be careful what you pretend.
“About your magnificent country,” Heydrich said airily. “Information that will help foster peaceful international relations and cement the ties between Germany and France.”
Inge’s eyes were shining. Had she been in on this from the start?
Inge wanted the best for Lou, for Lou and herself—and the world! Why not? Inge loved the Führer and Germany. She loved Lou, and she wanted Lou to love the Führer and Germany too.
Heydrich said, “Let’s say you’re giving a talk to the soccer club of Reims. And on the way you notice that the road is full of army trucks. Well then, let us know. Someone ought to know. Your government is wasting good money that its hungry citizens need. Squandering precious resources on defending itself from an invasion that will never happen.”
Von Tschammer und Osten said, “Soldaten.”
“Soldiers,” translated Inge.
“Exactly,” said Heydrich. “Soldiers. Suppose you’re at dinner with the ladies auxiliary of the Lyons hunting club, and they say their husbands—the best shots in town—have been drafted into the army. Or you’re advising the women’s basketball team of Clermont-Ferrand, and someone mentions that her husband’s factory has gotten a massive order for truck tires.”
“Fortifications,” prompted Von Tschammer und Osten.
“Right,” said Heydrich. “Fortifications. Imagine you’re driving through the countryside, and you see a new building project in an unexpected or unlikely place. A fortification meant to strengthen the border that, we promise, will never be breached by us. In other words, we would like you to shine some light on areas that should be transparent.”
Now they were all looking at Lou, to see if she understood. Did they think that she had never seen a spy film? Or didn’t they show such films in the Führer’s Germany?
“Will I have a contact?” Lou said. “To whom will I report?”
Inge said, “I can personally guarantee all the contact you want.” Her tone was lewd, but genteelly lewd. Everyone laughed. The men loved it. That the Germans so liked to laugh was another surprising thing about them.
Inge said, “Pillow talk is the oldest and safest way to exchange information.”
“Of course we will pay you,” Heydrich said. “Obviously, in francs.”
“And a budget for travel,” Inge suggested.
“Of course, a budget for travel,” said Von Tschammer und Osten. “All this will be under the auspices of the sports ministry.”
Heydrich said, “We have worked out a scale of payment for our advisers and consultants. A certain amount for identifying a troublemaker, more for a conspirator, still more for the location of a weapons cache. Other sums will be determined based on the quality of the information.”
“I’d be honored,” said Lou. “Money is the least of it.” Was that even true? She no longer knew. She had no idea what she was saying. She was talking to Heydrich and Von Tschammer und Osten, in a language that passed through Inge and emerged as speech. But her audience was much larger than Inge and the men in the room. She was saying yes to everyone, to the French and German people, from the humblest peasant all the way up to the Führer—the one to whom she was saying yes.
From that date on, pay stubs in the files of the German secret police document checks deposited directly into the Paris bank account of Lou Villars, who was listed as the president and treasurer (the only other recorded member was the secretary, Inge Wallser) of the Franco-German Athletics and Brotherhood Federation.
Paris
April 1937
Dear parents,
You are the only ones who can see into my heart, who will not judge and condemn me as a selfish monster for indulging in a little harmless boasting at a moment when it seems as if the world is about to topple, like Mama’s china shepherdess, off the mantel and shatter.
In the past months my photographs have been included in five international exhibitions, including one (can you believe it?) in New York’s Museum of Modern Art. The waiting list of would-be collectors has grown so long that it no longer makes sense for me to waste my time working for magazines: the gardener’s newsletter, the hairstyle monthly, the journal of home improvement, the erotic publications that ran my nudes for the wrong reasons. If I never mentioned these publications to you, it was only because I didn’t want you to know how I was prostituting my talent.
By the same token, I’m tempted not to mention the insomnia that has returned, worse than ever. I am too old, and you are way too old, to trouble yourselves about it. I can only tell you what keeps me up at night. I wonder: am I benefitting from the misfortunes of others?
Could it be that everyone suddenly wants photographs of Paris because they fear that this eternally beautiful city may not be so eternal? What if Hitler isn’t just bluffing? And what is the connection between these terrors and the fact that Paris and I have fallen in love all over again?
Last night I attended a costume party for people in banking and finance. The invitation instructed guests to come as ordinary kitchen objects. Despite the shortages, my hosts and their friends hired designers to fashion medieval collars from pastry tubes, encrusted tiaras of forks and spoons twanging like antennae. Another lavish party started off with a waltz performed by a couple dressed in real paper money and gold coins. They were delighted to
have me transform their merriment into art.
Every night, I could, if I wish, attend a different party with Suzanne or the baroness. I reserve time to spend with each one. And it’s fine with the women, with whom I have very different relationships. But that is a bit too personal to put into a letter to my parents!
The list of painters and sculptors I know would make Papa green with envy! Dufy, Derain, Maillol, Giacometti, and Papa’s special hero, Matisse, all have invited me into their studios because word has gotten out that I am good at photographing artists and their work. Matisse has invited me to shoot him sketching girls in the nude! There is talk that Picasso and I might collaborate on a book.
The world is approaching a precipice. In the pit are snakes, twisted corpses, bloodshed and death, and meanwhile I am thinking, It’s fabulous for my art. Is it my fault that desperation looks so stunning through the camera lens? I have been taking photos not only of upscale Parisian soirées but also of refugees traveling north from Spain. When we first saw Guernica, all the artists were inspired by the brilliance with which Picasso had managed to pack so much tragedy onto a single canvas.
I am photographing how my beloved, threatened city looks now. And it looks very beautiful indeed, as if it knows how many tearful good-byes its citizens will soon have to say. Isn’t it a lesson, reminding me always to return and try to rekindle the love that I think I may have lost or exhausted? Doubtless that is a lesson you have learned in your long marriage, and that I am only beginning to absorb in my relationship with the endlessly patient Suzanne.
And now, a little matter that you must be wondering about: when will our son mention money?
Enclosed you will find a substantial check, in francs, which I hope you can still convert into whatever currency will be most useful. I know that accepting money from me goes against everything you believe. But I insist.
Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 Page 28