Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

by Justine Saracen

  To save time, Katja unfastened her skirt and drew off her stockings. In a moment, both were naked from the waist down, and she lay back on his bed.

  Unlike the first time they were together, he spent little time on foreplay, merely stroking her sex long enough to create a bit of moisture. Katja wished he would have done it longer; she was just beginning to warm up to the idea of him, but he was impatient, and he lay on top of her before she was really ready. Nonetheless, she held him tight, feeling his hardness on her belly, and sensed a slight tingling. If he were just not in such a hurry.

  But obviously he could not hold himself back and so, moaning against her throat, he spread her legs with his knees and, after a few tentative pokes, he plunged into her.

  She murmured back at him because she knew he liked it, and he began his motion. She matched his grunts of pleasure with her own, and though they were not feigned, she knew she was not experiencing what he was. She had imagined ecstasy differently, not at all like this. But she did like his warmth and the protection of his arms while he thrust into her; she was lucky to have him rather than any of the brutes some of her friends had married. His lovemaking would get better, she was sure.

  In just a few moments he was finished and rolled off, breathless. “It’s so good with you, Katja,” he murmured into her ear. “I can’t wait until we’re married and we can do this every night. And have children come from it, lots of them. Being an only child is no good. We might have to live here with my parents for a little while, until my military service is over, but then we’ll have our own little house. Won’t that be fine?”

  Cradled in his arms, Katja felt the sticky pool of fluid beneath her. What would Dietrich’s mother think when she came to clean her son’s room and make up his bed—which she surely would do. The idea of having Gertrude Kurtz monitor her marital sex disturbed her deeply. And Katja had not even considered the question of living arrangements after marriage. The thought of living under the authority of both her husband and her parents-in-law, benign as it was, suffocated her.

  “We can also keep being together like this while you do your service. We don’t have to be in a hurry to have children. I would like to accomplish a few things first.”

  “I know you’re ambitious, Liebchen. We all have dreams when we’re young. But eventually you have to grow up and accept your responsibilities as a woman.” He spoke gently, as was his nature, softening the reproach. “And just as a man’s duty is to fight for the Volk, a woman’s duty is to raise a family. Both are noble in their own way.”

  Suddenly the room seemed smaller. She sat up from his embrace and swung her legs around to the floor. The floorboards felt cold under her bare feet.

  Dietrich curved around her, grasping her playfully around the hips as she bent to pick up her skirt and underpants. He cajoled her. “Are you sure you want to get up already, Schatz? I think I’ll be ready again in a few minutes.”

  “Please, Dietrich. I’d like to wash before your mother comes home. And all this talk about children has put me off. A woman should be able to do more than have babies and clean house. Look at Frau Riefenstahl.”

  “You can’t compare yourself with her. She’s serving the Führer in a unique way. Besides, you don’t know her. She may have a man some place. I’m sure dozens of good German men would like to make babies with her.”

  “I don’t want to talk that way about her.” Katja stood up with her clothing in hand. “Is there a sink upstairs?”

  “I’m sorry, no. All the plumbing is downstairs, next to the kitchen.” He was sitting up now too, obviously resigned to their “little hour” being over.

  She crept down the wooden staircase clutching her clothing to her chest, hoping frantically that no one would come through the front door while she was in sight. Passing the cozy Bavarian kitchen, she imagined herself living with the little corner table and benches, next to the Kachelofen, the crucifix and the picture of the Virgin Mary, and she shuddered.

  Chapter Four

  “How many are you?” the Hausmeister asked, his upraised finger twitching as he counted. Twelve?”

  The cook, standing next to him, confirmed the number.

  “Thirteen, counting Frau Riefenstahl,” someone added from the doorway.

  “Good, because that’s all we have food for.”

  With all of its trestle tables but two dismantled and stowed away, the temporary dining room looked cheerless, and the voices of the gathering team members rang slightly hollow. Still, in an effort to be festive, someone had put the two tables end to end and covered them with a long white tablecloth. Plates and silverware had also been laid out.

  The diners filed in, taking places more or less randomly, and Katja glanced around to see who out of the team had stayed. Riefenstahl sat at one side, with Sepp Allgeier and her secretary, and across from Erich Prietschke, Marti Kraus, and young Johannes. Cameramen Richard Koehler, Walter Vogel, and Hans Gottschalk joined them at the other end of the table, near Dietrich. Only one person was unfamiliar, the rather striking young man who had come with Rudi and who sat now between him and her. He wore spectacles, and the dueling scar on his chin suggested he had been a cadet at university.

  Rudi glanced to the left and to the right and observed the layout of the table. “We’re a little Last Supperish here, aren’t we?” He laughed.

  Katja enjoyed the image. “Yes, you’re right. And look who’s in the middle.”

  “That can’t be a good omen,” the spectacled stranger remarked, then twisted around toward Katja. “Hello. I’m Peter Arnhelm, and you, I know, are Katja. Rudi has told me a lot about you.”

  “Really? I’m sure I’m not as bad as he said.”

  “No, you’re just as charming.”

  Katja felt out-quipped but amused. “He told me nothing at all about you, though. How do you know Rudi?”

  “We met ages ago, when he photographed a stage play I was working in.”

  “You’re an actor?” She could easily imagine the slender man posturing onstage.

  “No, costume designer. In the Deutsches Theater.” He blinked as he cleaned his glasses on his shirt. “I worked on the costumes of a couple of Schiller plays, William Tell and Maria Stuart. But that was a few seasons ago, under Max Reinhardt. I don’t think they’re performing them this year.”

  “Max Reinhardt, I know that name.” Katja frowned slightly, trying to recall him.

  Peter threaded the wires of his glasses back over his ears. “You should. One of the great geniuses of the stage. But he was Jewish and had to leave last year.”

  “That seems…I don’t know…a mistake. To get rid of geniuses.”

  “Yes, it was a big mistake,” he said neutrally.

  The food arrived, a sort of stew made up of an assortment of meats and vegetables that might not have belonged together, but were well enough seasoned and served with enough bread and beer to satisfy.

  People were conversing in clusters of twos and threes, but as the plates were cleared, they turned their attention to the director.

  “Frau Riefenstahl,” Walter Vogel called. “What was our biggest accomplishment?”

  Riefenstahl folded her napkin while she gave the question some thought. “Hard to say. We did a lot of things that hadn’t been done before. But I’m proudest of our convincing Nuremberg to build us an elevator on one of the flagpoles. I’m not sure how high—”

  “Thirty-eight meters,” Marti Kraus sang out. “I was up there every day and I can tell you it was thirty-eight bloody meters. And me, afraid of heights.”

  “Now you tell me.” Riefenstahl laughed. “But that little elevator gave us some of the best filming opportunities. That and the airship.”

  “What was the worst thing we did?” someone else asked.

  After the general laughter Riefenstahl answered immediately. “That would have to be the torch fiasco.”

  “Fiasco, oh, I like that word,” Erich Prietschke said. “This is a story I want to hear.”

&nbs
p; Riefenstahl leaned forward on her elbows. “Well, you all remember the nighttime ceremony with the diplomats in front of Hitler’s hotel? We tried to film with spotlights, but Hermann Goering ordered them shut off because they were too bright. I didn’t know the order came from him, so I ordered them turned on again. But a minute later, they went off again, and we were in a panic. Then someone, who shall remain unnamed,” she looked tellingly down the table toward Hans Gottschalk, “suggested using the magnesium torches the SA had stocked nearby.” A few at the table remembered the outcome and tittered.

  “So, we did. But no one warned me about the smoke. No sooner did we have them lit and were filming away, when the air became thick with greasy clouds. Everyone started coughing and the diplomats fled like the place was on fire.”

  Allgeier laughed, slapping his hand on the table.

  “Did anyone get in trouble for it?” Vogel asked.

  “Not yet,” Riefenstahl said. “I think they’re still trying to figure out who to blame. And of course none of you are planning to talk, are you?”

  “Us?” Vogel looked around with feigned innocence. “We wouldn’t think of it. We’re a team, after all.”

  Allgeier raised his beer glass. “To the team. To us!” Everyone seconded the toast, and during a moment of quiet, beer flowed quietly down thirteen throats. Then Erich Prietschke stood up, still in his SA uniform.

  “Frau Riefenstahl, I just want to say how proud I am to have worked with you making the party congress into a great drama for the world to view. Seeing the German Volk through your vision has been an inspiration.”

  On the other end of the table, Dietrich Kurtz stood up as well. “I wish to echo that sentiment, Frau Riefenstahl. Although I was on the field, amongst the thousands of my brother soldiers, my fiancé was with your team and I was damned proud of that. You’ve done a great thing for the Fatherland.”

  Johannes Kraus, Marti’s young son, looked back and forth between Erich in his SA disguise and Dietrich in his Wehrmacht tunic with an expression of the purest adoration.

  Riefenstahl raised both hands. “Oh, for God’s sake, sit down, you two. I’m glad to hear you’re so enthusiastic, but you must understand, I intend this work as a piece of art, a spectacle. Of course we want to satisfy the wishes of the Führer, but the work is not a propaganda statement or a newsreel. Art is not political. This film, like an oil painting, should be its own glory, and you should all be proud of making it.” She turned then to her chief of operations. “Sepp, you feel the same way, don’t you?”

  Sepp Allgeier pursed his lips. “Frankly, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve filmed with you on glaciers and mountainsides, and I think your message is always a bit more poetical than mine. Me, I just want to record the most truthful moment.”

  Rudi Lamm, the youngest of them all, spoke quietly. “I think I’m among friends here and can speak freely. I joined this team in the belief that we’d make a masterpiece. I would not have signed on with Dr. Goebbels to make a propaganda film. We saw so much power and idealism on the field this week, but that power can be abused, as it was when the SA threw our sound cart into a ditch. That spirit of the ‘Volk’ is beautiful but it’s also explosive. I hope it continues to be directed toward raising Germany up, building roads and planting forests and creating jobs.” He glanced over at Peter, who sat beside him. “And not on boycotting Jewish shops or beating up Social Democrats.”

  A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. Katja watched the mysterious Frederica for a sign of her political position, but saw only a carefully composed face that revealed nothing. Riefenstahl broke the silence.

  “So, who is going with me to the propaganda ministry to face down Herr Goebbels? You’ll come, won’t you, Sepp?”

  “I’m sorry, Leni. “I’m not even returning to Berlin. I’ve got a contract in Munich for the next two weeks.”

  “Marti, what about you? I just need someone to be there so he behaves himself. If he doesn’t get his way, he can become very disagreeable.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t go either. I have to take my son to his grandparents.”

  “Frederica, at least you’ll face him with me, won’t you? It’s logical for me to show up with my secretary. He’ll control his temper if there’s a witness.”

  Frederica winced. “I would love to stand by you, Frau Riefenstahl, but in this case, I can’t. My family has…um…other business with the ministry and I can’t show up there as an antagonist. I’m sorry.”

  “Business? What ‘other business’ do you mean?” Riefenstahl seemed affronted.

  “Stop tormenting the girl, Leni,” Richard Koehler said. “If all you want is for him to mind his manners, why don’t you take someone he doesn’t know? Someone like…” He looked down the table. “Someone like Katja.”

  “What?” Riefenstahl said aloud what Katja thought.

  Hans Gottschalk agreed. “If he’s like any politician, he has to keep a certain public image, and what’s more public than a complete stranger? Take her along and say she’s your assistant, or your secretary. You’ll have your little confrontation, which will be necessarily polite, and then it’ll be over.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Katja, do you mind?”

  Katja glanced around the table, wondering if she’d been selected for slaughter, but before she could voice any reservations, Dietrich spoke up. “What a wonderful idea! You’ll have the chance to meet one of the most important men in the country.”

  “Uh, yes, I suppose it’s all right.”

  “Bravo. Here’s to our Katja!” Marti Kraus raised his glass, and the entire table thumped on the table as applause.

  Leni Riefenstahl stood up. “Would you look at us? A table full of cameramen and no one has a camera to record our last supper.”

  “I have one.” Rudi held up his camera case by the strap. “And by chance, I’ve got a wide-angle lens on it.”

  “Splendid. Come on, everyone,” she ordered in the directorial voice everyone recognized. “You six, slide down with me to the other end of the table, and you six, come around and line up on this end. Herr Lamm, if you will do the focusing, we can ask the Hausmeister to snap the photo.”

  She called over the portly man who had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Would you be so kind, Hausmeister?”

  “With pleasure, Frau Riefenstahl.” He took the camera from Rudi’s hands, listened to the explanation of focus and trigger, and waited for him to retake his seat.

  “Oh, look,” Rudi exclaimed, as he sat down. “I’m in the middle. Does this mean I get to be the Son of God?”

  At the sudden surprising remark, everyone looked away from the camera and at each other. At one end of the table, Erich Prietschke and Marti Kraus stared in amazement at Rudi. Riefenstahl herself was resting sideways with one elbow on the table laughing, while Sepp Allgeier leaned past her to whisper something to Frederica. Only Rudi Lamm, at the center, looked somberly at the camera, while Peter held his arms outstretched, as if to embrace him. Katja could hear the other cameramen at the other end, in private conversation. At that disorganized and unposed instant the shutter clicked and caught the image.

  Chapter Five

  Berlin, Two days later

  “So that’s it, then,” Katja said. “The Ministry for Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda.” Katja recognized the old Leopold Palace with its stripped-down classicism so favored by the National Socialists. “Where they decide what’s German and what’s not.”

  “Yes, it is,” Riefenstahl confirmed. “And woe be unto him who has a different vision,” she said as they entered the wide entry hall. The interior still had some of its original murals, its painted ceiling, and its chandeliers from the previous century, reminding Katja of the way monarchy used to look.

  An SS guard led them to the door of the Reichsminister’s office, leaving them to wait outside while they were announced. Several minutes passed and, though she said nothing, the hard set of Riefenstahl’s face revealed her exasperat
ion, both at having to appear in the first place and at being made to wait. The day’s newspapers lay on a long table against one of the walls, and most prominent was a small pile of Der Angriff, Goebbels’ own newspaper and the platform for his articles. Several copies of the party instrument, the Völkischer Beobachter, were next to it, as well as a sampling of Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, Das Schwarze Korps, and the tabloid that even Katja recognized as a rag, Julius Streicher’s Der Stürmer. Presumably, one was expected to inform oneself while waiting for the propaganda minister.

  Finally the door opened from within and another SS guard stood back to admit them into Goebbels’ office.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he said, rising from his seat behind a wide, well-ordered desk.

  Katja was taken aback. Joseph Goebbels was much smaller than he had seemed at the party congress. His face had something fairy-tale ugly about it. His bulbous skull was rendered even more so by the way his hair was combed straight backward and rose in a mound across the top of his head. But below his brow, his face tapered off, for his cheeks narrowed suddenly. On a small jaw, his mouth seemed extraordinarily wide so that when he smiled, as he did now, it appeared predatory. He was immaculately dressed, but even in a carefully tailored suit, he looked like a gnome.

  He seemed surprised to see a second person enter the room, but kept his cold smile as he motioned them to the chairs in front of his desk. When he sat down again, he appeared to increase in height, and Katja realized his chair was on a platform a few centimeters above the floor.

  “Well now, I am glad to see you were able to find time in your busy schedule to visit me, Frau Riefenstahl,” Goebbels said with unmistakable condescension.

  “Thank you for receiving us,” Riefenstahl replied, unperturbed. “This is my assistant, Katja Sommer.”

  Goebbels nodded acknowledgement and came to the point. “Have you brought some of your film for me to review, Frau Riefenstahl? I believe I made my message to you clear in that regard.”