Riefenstahl shifted slightly in her seat before throwing down the glove. “No, Reichsminister, we haven’t. I am still in the process of developing it and selecting the most telling segments of over 130,000 meters of film. It is not subject to review, and no one outside my team will be able to see it until it’s edited.”
The battle lines were drawn. Hitler’s filmmaker had said no to Hitler’s propaganda minister. For several seconds, a vapor of wrath wafted between them like poison gas. If one could have ignited it, it would have burned blue.
The minister’s voice was ominously soft. “Do you know to whom you are speaking, Frau Riefenstahl?”
Riefenstahl’s reply was equally calm. “Yes, I do. I also know that the Führer has given me full artistic control over this film and has allowed me to bring my own artistic vision to the party rally. When it is completed, you will be invited to see it.”
The minister’s lips pressed together in a wide, flat line that slashed across his face. “I remind you that you are not entitled to your private ‘artistic vision,’ least of all in a work relating to the party and created on the party’s money. We have spent years transforming a nation’s spirit from sloppy liberal thinking to a sense of the Volk. German culture no longer has room for decadent individualism of the sort that brought us Kirchner and Matisse, or a Picasso, and even Jews like Chagall. He spat each name out as if it were poisonous. “Nor for the self-indulgence of an actress turned filmmaker.”
Riefenstahl would not be lectured to. “Who defines German ‘culture’ if not the German artists themselves?”
“I define it, and do not forget it. I measure all forms of public expression as to how they affirm and revere the German people.”
“Herr Goebbels,” Riefenstahl said. “You cannot negate the genius of individual expression and replace it with slogans.”
He was beginning to squint, which should have been a warning. “Don’t come to me with your ‘genius of individual expression.’ All art is political, and you are either with us or against us.”
Katja seized her courage. “Herr Reichsminister, surely a concerto does not carry a political message. Some things are beautiful in themselves.”
Both heads turned. Riefenstahl looked pleased by Katja’s unexpected burst of support, while Goebbels looked as if a roach had scurried across his desk.
“You are mistaken, Fräulein…” He obviously had forgotten her name. “Music also belongs to the Volk. It must please the ear or embolden the spirit. The Führer himself listens to Wagner and Mozart and Beethoven. Under my jurisdiction, you will not hear the ridiculous atonal noise of a Schönberg or Hindemith. These decadent and intellectualized works reveal the judifying of our culture and will no longer be permitted.”
Riefenstahl brought the argument back to her film. “Since a National Socialist Party Congress can scarcely be judified, I see no reason to subject it to your judgment.”
“All work produced in Germany is subject to this office,” Goebbels reiterated, like a child who had run out of arguments.
Riefenstahl stood up. “Herr Goebbels, I have paid you this visit because I promised the Führer to remain in contact with your office. I have honored his wishes, so if you will excuse us, we have a great deal of editing before us, to meet his deadline.” Riefenstahl did an about-face and took a step toward the door.
Katja stood up to follow, but the enraged Reichsminister came from behind his desk to have the last word. In his rush, he made no effort to control his stride and Katja witnessed what only his closest acquaintances saw. The Reichsminister had a clubfoot and limped like a cripple.
They were outside now, and Goebbels stood in the doorway. Like a troll crouched under a bridge, he drew his wide mouth into a grimace and snarled, “I caution you, Frau Riefenstahl. Do not cross me.”
Riefenstahl kept walking and declined to reply, though the words seemed to echo down the corridor. Behind her, Katja nodded a polite greeting of departure and hurried after her employer.
Riefenstahl, obviously fuming, was in no mood to talk, and Katja was simply stunned. What now? A project that had seemed so glorious, so utterly supportive of the nation and the Volk, now seemed jeopardized by the hostility between director and minister.
They were about to turn the corner toward the great entry hall when Riefenstahl glanced to the side and halted them both. There, through an open door to an office, they saw two SS men conversing with a woman. Though the woman was three-quarters turned away, there was no mistake; it was Frederica Brandt, Leni Riefenstahl’s private secretary.
“I should have known,” Riefenstahl muttered, and touched Katja’s elbow, urging her along toward the exit.
“Should have known what?” Katja asked, once they were outside.
“I should have remembered that Joseph Goebbels is a philan-derer—and has a powerful allure for young women. My secretary has obviously fallen under his influence. Now I’ll have to dismiss her. Who knows what information she’s given him about me?”
“I always thought Herr Goebbels had a perfect marriage. I’ve seen so many pictures of his family with the Führer.
Riefenstahl snorted. “The man’s a womanizer, I know from experience.”
“Oh?” Katja was careful not to sound overly interested, but Riefenstahl was obviously ready to talk.
“After I returned from filming in Greenland, Herr and Frau Goebbels invited me for dinner several times. It was all very proper. But Goebbels began to telephone me at home, then visit me. It was obvious that he was inventing reasons to call, and everything I did to discourage him just seemed to stimulate him. At his last visit, he behaved like a schoolboy. He went on about Nietzsche and poetry and then suddenly blurted out that he had loved me for years, and life would be a torture if he couldn’t have me.”
Katja was aghast. “What did you do?”
“I pushed him toward the door and called the elevator. I know it was humiliating for him. We’ve met since then several times at public events and he’s always polite, but at the same time, he’s started a power struggle between us. I’m sure that’s what’s behind this ridiculous meeting.”
“And Frederica? You really think he’s won her over?”
“If he hasn’t, he will. She’s already much too cozy with him. I can’t trust her now. I don’t like being exposed to the minister’s scrutiny, even less through one of his spies. No, I’ll have to let her go. It’s a pity. She was a very good secretary.”
Katja gazed back at the ministry where Frederica was still engaged in some mysterious business with Joseph Goebbels and his agents, and she thought the same thing. A pity.
Riefenstahl kept up a rapid, angry pace until they reached the Kurfürstendam, where she glanced at her watch. “Well, I’ve lost half a day for this nonsense. Thanks for being a good sport about coming along. If you hadn’t been there, his tirade would have been much worse and lasted much longer.”
“Does this mean I have to worry now about repercussions?” It suddenly struck home how vengeful the Reichsminister could be.
“No, I don’t think so. I doubt he even remembers your name. And as long as you are in my employ, you also have the protection of the Führer.”
Katja was confused. “Am I still in your employ? I thought the filming was finished.”
Riefenstahl brushed back wild hair. “It is, but now I need a secretary. Are you interested?”
“Uhh, yes. Of course. When can I start?”
“How about right now? Rudi Lamm promised me a set of still photos but called this morning to say he couldn’t get away until tomorrow. You can save me a day’s delay if you go pick them up.”
“I’ll be happy to. He lives in Neukölln, I think.”
“Yes, here’s his address.” Riefenstahl scribbled on a notebook page and tore it out. “Bring me the photos this afternoon and I’ll show you the business.”
Katja hurried to her task, trying to absorb the fact of her sudden promotion. A few days before, she’d been a lowly came
ra-equipment holder, and now she was secretary to Leni Riefenstahl—actress, film director, and friend of Adolf Hitler.
Chapter Six
There it was, the Old Post Office, in all its red-brick, German-Renaissance architectural excess, onion-shaped dome and all. On its side wall was the street sign, Bergstrasse, and walking south from the corner, she found the Heldengasse.
Rudi met her at the door with cheerful enthusiasm. “So you’re Frau Riefenstahl’s ‘enforcer’ now. I’m delighted. Come in.”
“Yes, I feel sort of guilty replacing Frederica like this. For some reason, Frau Riefenstahl doesn’t trust her. I have no idea why.” She followed him in.
“Don’t worry about Frederica. She’s nobody’s fool,” he said over his shoulder. “If she’s no longer working for Frau Riefenstahl, it’s by her own choice, you can be sure.”
As they entered the living room, two young men stood up from the sofa.
“You remember Peter, don’t you, from our dinner in Nuremberg?” The young man with the glasses and dueling scar stood up to shake her hand.
“And this is Yevgeny Khaldei.” A boy who couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen, with a broad Slavic face and dark hair, didn’t speak but offered his hand as well. It was a meaty hand that gave a firm handshake.
“Here, sit down.” Rudi motioned to the sofa while Peter swept gracefully away toward the kitchen. The sound of porcelain cups and saucers suggested he was making coffee.
Rudi said something in Russian to Yevgeny and the boy laughed.
“I didn’t know you spoke Russian? When did you learn that?”
“There are all kinds of things you don’t know about me. I learned Russian the year I studied in Leningrad. I wouldn’t try to read Pushkin, but I can converse and take care of business in it. Speaking of which, I’ve got the pictures for Frau Riefenstahl right here.” He picked up the thick manila envelope that lay on the side table. “These are just a few good ones I’m sure she’ll want to use.” He slid out some dozen photographs in A4 format.
“She asked to see the portraits, though some are more dramatic than others.” He flipped though photos of Bormann, Ley, and Himmler, by daylight, and Hitler, Hess, and Speer by the more dramatic nighttime lighting. “Some good banner shots.” He shuffled through photos of Party flags, SS standards, and Hitlerjugend banners, forming various geometrical patterns across the frame.
He held up the last photo. “And this one is really good. She took it herself, and it shows you what a fantastic eye she has.”
Katja studied the image. The swastika flag, held up by a Hitlerjugend with the sun behind it. The boy stood in profile, his chiseled face almost silhouetted, and the afternoon sun shone through the flag so that it seemed incandescent.
Rudi snorted. “I think all this posing with flags is pretty kitschy, but as a photograph, it’s very successful. Frau Riefenstahl will love it, and the Nazis will love it, and they’re paying our salaries.” He passed the photo to Yevgeny, with some remark in Russian.
Yevgeny studied it, tilting his head and nodding. “Yes. Is good one,” he said in thickly accented German with the hard Rs of Russian. “Very, very good one. Bravo. This is my inspiration and challenge. One day I make a flag photo good like this one. Better. You will see.”
He handed it back and turned to Katja. “You are from camera team? Such big event and chance to use a high-quality camera.” Peter returned and set down a tray of coffee cups and hard cookies.
Katja shrugged slightly. “I was just an assistant and got to do actual filming only a few times. And of course I got the old camera. Are you a photographer?”
He lowered his glance in what appeared to be genuine modesty. “Apprentice photographer. But is great passion of mine, since I am small child in Ukraine.”
“Oh, me too. I wanted to take pictures when I was little, but I couldn’t get my hands on a Brownie until I was sixteen.”
“Same problem for me, and you can imagine. In little town in Ukraine, where would a poor boy get camera? So I make one with box and lens from grandmother’s eyeglasses and took pictures of my sisters.” He chuckled. “Not very good ones. When I got job, with my first money, I bought good camera and took pictures of my comrades in steel factory. Finally, paper in my town printed some, and after that I was like a man in love.” He dipped a hard cookie into his coffee and bit off the wet corner. “After that, I never stop.”
“Yevgeny is a photographer with TASS,” Rudi interjected. “And he’s being much too modest. He’s the youngest photographer on the paper.” Katja imitated the cookie-dip and found the dry ginger cookie greatly improved by the coffee.
“Are you here on assignment from Moscow?” she asked.
Yevgeny nodded. “My boss come to Germany for article on new government. I convince him to take me along. And I have own camera now.”
Katja was intrigued. She’d never spoken with a Russian, or a Ukrainian, before, had heard, in fact, that they were brutish. How did Rudi meet such interesting people? “So, what do you think of our National Socialism? Does it bear any resemblance to Soviet socialism?
The Russian’s open, friendly face took on a cartoonish frown. “No, not at all. Germany and Soviet Republic both have strong leader, yes. Stalin has great power like your Führer, but Communists struggle for all workers, not just Russians. Factories owned by state, but state means workers.”
“I think the catchword is justice,” Rudi added. “Economic justice primarily, but justice in all other things is supposed to follow. That’s the theory at least. Am I right, Yevgeny?”
“Yes, is heart of Communism. Each one gives their ability, each one receives their need.” He tilted his head and curled up one side of his mouth. “Problem is how to make this happen.”
“Don’t National Socialists have a similar ideal?” Katja asked.
Rudi shook his head. “No, not at all. You haven’t listened closely enough to Dr. Goebbels. If Communism is about forced sharing, National Socialism is about seizing power. Whoever is strong enough to claim something is entitled to it. The exact opposite of justice and equality. You have to admire them just a little for their romanticism. They have this image of themselves as the noble beast, nature’s perfect creature and highest creation. I wonder which vision will prevail.”
Yevgeny suddenly jumped up from his chair and grabbed a canvas satchel he had obviously left by the door.
“Conversation becomes serious, so is time to open.” He drew out a bottle of vodka. “For my new friends, while we discuss Soviet ideals, we drink Soviet coffee.” He carried the bottle back to the sofa and poured a generous portion into each empty cup. “Please to add coffee and maybe little sugar.”
Peter refilled all their cups and brought out a saucer of sugar cubes. Katja tried the mixture, and it was like a slap in the face. It burned her mouth and throat slightly, but after she swallowed it, a warm feeling spread through her chest. She exhaled some of the warmth and the sensation was pleasing, so she took another drink. It got better with each swallow.
“Actually, we were discussing Nazi ideals before the vodka arrived. About the German ‘blond beast.’”
Yevgeny poured another shot of vodka into each cup. “Is insane. ‘Beast’ is what civilization fights to be free of. You can admire lion for eating lamb, but always one day bigger beast comes and eats lion.”
“What beast eats lions?” Katja asked, feeling a bit giddy.
“He’s speaking metaphorically. Aren’t you, Yevgeny?”
“Yes. Beast morality is no morality.”
“I’m not keen on either system. My personal choice is to just do my job, not hurt anyone, and stay out of the fight.” Rudi studied his coffee.
“But the fight may come to you. I mean us.” This time it was Peter who spoke. “What about the Jewish Question?”
Yevgeny joined in. “Your Führer is little bit crazy on subject of Jews.”
The remark brought Katja up short. It was almost as if he had heard the tira
de of Joseph Goebbels that very morning. She felt herself sliding toward agreement with him. “Um…” She nodded vaguely, not ready to criticize the man her entire country worshipped. “The party has done a lot of good things for Germany. I just don’t understand why there’s so much talk about the Jews.”
Yevgeny pressed her. “So you don’t think the Jews cause all German problems?”
“No. I mean, I suppose not.” Katja hadn’t given much thought to the question before.
Rudi packed up his photographs and sealed the envelope. “Yevgeny, stop testing Katja and tell her you’re Jewish so she doesn’t embarrass herself.”
Katja felt suddenly defensive. “I’m not embarrassed at all. I don’t know much about what goes on in politics or in business. I only know what I read, and what I learn from my friends. But, I admit, I don’t have any Jewish friends.”
“You do now,” Peter said, offering the plate of cookies again. “Well, half Jewish. Mother was Jewish, so my name is German, but Jewish law says I’m a good Jewish boy.” He laughed. “Though I think it’s all a bit silly, the praying and the towels on the head.”
“Two Jewish friends,” Yevgeny added, offering his hand again to Katja. “Two photographers. Maybe we both have famous photos some time.”
“I will drink to that, and to all my new friends.” Katja raised her vodka-enriched coffee cup.
Giggling now, Peter made another trip to the kitchen, returning in a moment with two more trays of tidbits in an impromptu supper.
Katja felt a sudden affection for all three men, as if she had been adopted into a family with three brothers. “How is it that you know Rudi?” she asked Yevgeny.
The two men exchanged glances.
“We…uh…meet in club, Yevgeny answered, glancing away. “Sports club.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about Katja.” Rudi caught her eye. “Do we have to worry about you? You don’t care about Berlin’s bars and special ‘sports clubs,’ do you?”
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 4