Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

by Justine Saracen

  It suddenly all crystalized. They were talking about homosexual meeting places. And Rudi and Peter, at least, were homosexuals, criminals in the eyes of German law.

  Though slightly befuddled by the vodka, Katja grasped that Rudi had just confided something important, a fact that could land him in jail. It was a gift, of sorts. “Of course you don’t.”

  Rudi relaxed visibly. “We met just yesterday in a bar in the Nöllendorfstrasse. We got talking, and when we found out we both were photographers, I invited him home to meet Peter. You happened to arrive while he was here.”

  Peter took her hand. “So you see, dear Katja, you have landed in a very dangerous place. With homosexuals, Jews, and Communists. But we’re not so bad, are we?”

  Katja thought, as much as she could focus her thoughts at all, that they were not so bad at all.

  “No, you’re charming, all of you, but I should go now.” She stood up on uncertain feet.

  “Maybe you should have some regular coffee before you leave,” Rudi said, placing the envelope of photographs in her hand.

  “No, I’m fine. The cold air outside will clear my head. I…I just have to deliver these to Frau Riefenstahl before the end of the day. If I don’t, then by tomorrow she’ll be looking for a third new secretary. Thank you for everything.”

  Having shared alcohol, they had passed the line of demarcation between handshakes and cheek kisses, and she leaned happily in for her departure pecks.

  The cool afternoon air did sober her as she walked the three blocks to the stop and boarded the Strassenbahn. But then she brooded, barely noticing the crackling of the overhead electric pole or the clank of wheels on the track joints. Three good men had invited her a little into their lives, had shared their meal and their secrets. She thought them engaging, even fascinating, but the new thoughts did not fit together with the old ones.

  She had never quite understood the “Jewish” threat, and the recent great purge of the SA on the grounds that Ernst Roehm and many of his officers were homosexual had troubled her. But she had always thought of herself as a good German, and when the Führer spoke, she never considered disagreeing. Not to mention that she was engaged to a man in the Wehrmacht. What would he think? It was bewildering. On one side were the heroic Aryan images they had so artfully captured on film and, on the other, the despised Jews, Bolsheviks, and homosexuals, three of whom now felt like her brothers.

  She shrugged inwardly, then concentrated on preparing herself for the meeting with Frau Riefenstahl, who surely would have no sympathy for her dilemma.

  Chapter Seven

  January 2, 1935

  As Katja arrived at the Königsplatz, Leni Riefenstahl was obviously in a foul mood. “I hate this sort of thing,” she grumbled. “More speeches telling us what we already know and killing a whole day of work. How am I going to finish editing Triumph for the March premier if they keep summoning me to these events? I’m not even a party member.”

  Katja responded with caution. “I suppose Hitler sees you now as an honorary party member. But you’re right. Why would he need you, without a camera, at a Reichstag meeting?”

  “It’s not really a Reichstag now, since they don’t act like a parliament any longer. They just cheer him when he speaks.”

  Ahead of them, at the end of a wide drive, stood the handsome complex of Italian-Renaissance-styled buildings that made up the Kroll Opera House. Katja was struck with a brief nostalgia. “I remember when the Kroll was still the seat of the State Opera. I spent a lot of nice evenings there. Before they went bankrupt.”

  “It was very sad, wasn’t it? But at least the Reichstag then had a suitable building nearby for their meetings after the fire. If the Communists thought they could launch the Great Revolution here with a single blaze, they got the exact opposite. They made the entire party illegal and so lost the Communist deputies from the Parliament, which gave the Führer absolute power.”

  Katja glanced back at the soot-stained shell of the Reichstag edifice at the other end of the Königsplatz. “It’s hard to imagine they could be so stupid.”

  They were in the lobby of the Kroll now, and Katja saw with regret that much of the opulent furnishing of the old opera house had been stripped away. Where there once were gentlemen in white tie and ladies in evening gowns, now there were only business suits and uniforms. SS men stood everywhere.

  They took seats on the aisle at the back of the main hall, and Katja noted that the entire stage area had been reconstructed. In place of the raked stage was a series of levels surmounted by rows of desks, with a speaker’s dais at the center. She recognized Rudolf Hess at one end and Hermann Goering, plumper than ever, on the other. Over their heads the stylized eagle stretched its wings from wall to wall, its wide claws grasping a wreath that contained the swastika. Lines like rays of sunlight emanated from the wreath and filled the entire wall. Was it Albert Speer or one of the set designers of the Kroll opera who was responsible for the ponderous emblem? The effect was certainly operatic.

  At the last moment, Joseph Goebbels arrived and strode toward the podium, signaling silence in the hall. After some preliminary remarks, he announced that the party had prepared an oath of loyalty to the Führer, which would be required of all government officials and armed servicemen.

  An oath, not to Germany, but only to the party leader. How curious.

  After the corps of deputies had dutifully taken the oath, the Führer himself came to the podium. Thanking the assembly for the fealty just sworn, he began his speech, which sounded much like the speech he had given in Nuremberg, about unification and race.

  At its conclusion, when the entire assembly rose to its feet and raised the full-armed salute, Katja glanced sideways at Riefenstahl to see if she joined. But she kept her arm firmly by her side, and the sudden tilt of her head signaled they should leave. At the door, where the shouting was no longer deafening, Riefenstahl said, “Now comes the worst of it. We have to smile and pretend we approve.”

  People were already streaming into the foyer. One or two of the deputies recognized the actress-director and made polite conversation in passing. Gradually they edged toward the outside doors.

  “Frau Riefenstahl! I wondered if I might see you here.”

  Katja followed the voice to its source, the wide, unpleasant mouth of Joseph Goebbels, who was threading his way through the crowd toward them. Behind him was a man in a brown pinstriped suit, and behind both of them was Frederica Brandt.

  Katja saw anger flit across Riefenstahl’s face, then disappear.

  “Good evening, Herr Reichsminister. Very nice to see you this evening,” Riefenstahl said lightly. Katja had to admit, the woman had style.

  The minister responded with a frigid smile. “Frau Riefenstahl.” He offered his hand first to Riefenstahl, then turned to Katja. “Fräulein…?”

  “Sommer.”

  “Yes, Sommer.” The gargoyle smirk appeared again. “Please allow me to introduce my stenographer, Otto Jakobs. I believe you already know Fräulein Brandt, Herr Jakobs’s assistant.”

  A moment of awkward silence followed, then Goebbels spoke again. “How’s the work coming on our propaganda masterpiece?”

  Ignoring both the words “our” and “propaganda,” Riefenstahl replied. “Very well, thank you. Though every political event I am requested to attend robs me of a day’s work.”

  “You must not think of the two occupations as separate, Frau Riefenstahl. Both are of historical importance. You do not want to neglect the nation itself while you sew its flag, do you?” The minister smiled at the metaphor he’d apparently just come up with.

  “Is that what I’m doing? Sewing a flag? It feels more like a patchwork quilt right now, for which I must select two dozen panels out of thousands.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you are up to the task. But you must admit, this event was an important step.”

  Riefenstahl was having none of it. “What is the purpose of this loyalty oath, Reichsminister? Haven’t the dep
uties, the various militias, and the Wehrmacht already sworn loyalty to Germany?”

  “Yes, that’s so. But the Führer feels that meeting a thousand different opinions on things cripples the advancement of his vision. Now, having sworn a loyalty oath to the Führer, each man understands himself as a part of that single great vision.”

  No one else in the group seemed convinced, and Otto Jakobs changed the awkward subject, admiring the Kroll Opera House. “A veritable palace of beautiful music,” he said, clasping his hands.

  Goebbels laughed. “Beautiful music, to be sure. But once, after a performance, I went backstage to visit a stunning Violetta, only to find that without her costume and makeup she was as ugly as a horse. But of course I am too much of a gentleman to reveal her name.”

  Jakobs laughed obligingly, but Katja ignored the vulgar remark. “I remember the backstage as being sort of magical. A place of transformation. I’d love to see it again.”

  “I’m sure I can arrange it, Fräulein.” Goebbels raised himself up a few millimeters in height. “I believe I have some authority here.”

  Frederica spoke up for the first time. “I’d love to see it too.”

  “Who can resist an appeal from such charming ladies?” Goebbels waved over one of the SS men standing guard along the periphery of the hall. “Scharführer, these two ladies wish to go to the backstage area. Would you see to their admittance?”

  The SS man saluted cleanly and stepped back to allow her and Frederica to precede him.

  Riefenstahl’s scowl indicated she did not enjoy being left alone with the Reichsminister, so Katja raised a placating hand. “Ten minutes, at most. I promise,” she said, and hurried after the SS man.

  He led them to a double door, unlocked it, and returned to his post.

  A few steps into the corridor, Katja could already see how the magic had vanished. Every dressing room was now an office, and every door held a neatly printed cardboard sign identifying its new occupant or function. All of them were stultifying.

  They strolled to the end of the corridor to a large room with chairs along two walls and file cabinets along a third. “This used to be the orchestra room,” Katja said with melancholy. “My father played in the orchestra, and I was here for the final performance in 1931.”

  Frederica brightened. “I saw that! It was The Marriage of Figaro, with Klemperer conducting. That was always one of my favorites.”

  “I loved it too. I was as smitten with the soprano as Dr. Goebbels was. But unlike him, I found her lovely.”

  “Who was it?” Frederica asked as they did an about-face and retraced their steps.

  “Jarmilla Novotna. A delicate, fragile beauty.”

  “I agree, Novotna was exquisite. Funny you mention being smitten. You know who I was crazy about? Anny Helm. She sang in Tristan und Isolde. Not so beautiful, but she was very kind. She chatted with me seriously, not like the silly Wagner-struck girl I was.”

  Extraordinary. Frederica Brandt loved Mozart and Wagner, and had crushes on opera singers. Katja rapidly reassessed her.

  “Why did you go to work for Dr. Goebbels?” she asked abruptly. “Do you like his politics?”

  “Heavens no.” Frederica answered too quickly, then caught herself. “I needed a job with a future,” she added blandly. “Work in the arts is just too unstable for me.”

  “Why do you care so much about stability? You’re young and on your own. Why not be adventurous?”

  “A rebellion against the past, I suppose. My mother was always looking for adventure and she basically destroyed our family. I’d rather be a little more secure and know where my next pay envelope is coming from.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother but, in principle, adventure isn’t such a bad thing. Unless, of course, you hurt other people.”

  “The problem was, she did. My mother was a failed actress. British, by the way. Her name was Vera Humboldt. She met my father while on vacation here and they got married, apparently on a whim. By the time she decided it was a mistake, she had me. After a few more years she’d had enough of domesticity and left my father for some firebrand Communist who wanted to change the world. She took me back to London but then dumped me with her sister so she could travel with this guy. That lasted for a few years, but then I came back to live with my father. I never really felt like I had a home, so at this point in my life, I want something solid under my feet.”

  “If that’s the way you lost your mother, I’m terribly sorry. I lost mine to cancer a few years ago, but at least she was there until I was an adult.” Katja studied Frederica’s chiseled oval face and wide expressive mouth, full of character. She could see how a woman with that face might try for the theater. “Did she look like you?”

  “A little. But our taste in jobs and men is certainly different. The man in my life has mostly been Rudi Lamm.”

  “But Rudi is…” Katja stopped. “Rudi seems quite happy as a bachelor.”

  “And I’m happy for him to stay a bachelor. He’s like a brother and that’s all I want right now. But we were talking about my leaving the film project. You, obviously, are committed to staying.”

  “Yes. I want to be a filmmaker, so I’ll stick with it as long as I can and see where it takes me.”

  “And if it doesn’t take you anywhere, do you have a second career plan?”

  Katja chuckled. “Oh, you are a cautious one. But, yes, I do. My father has friends at the Charité hospital and is always encouraging me to study nursing. That would definitely be permanent employment, though I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.”

  “How lucky we are when we can do what we’re cut out for,” Frederica said, then glanced at her watch. “Oh, oh. I think we’ve gone past our ten-minute mark, and we both have employers we don’t want to antagonize. Let’s go back.”

  *

  In the car on the way to the film-cutting studio, Katja watched the rain pelt the windshield. “Days like this make me glad I know someone with a car,” she remarked.

  Leni Riefenstahl swung onto the Kurfürstendam. “It does make life easier. But if I didn’t have the advance for the documentary, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. So, what did you and Frederica talk about on your little backstage tour?”

  “Opera, actually. She likes Mozart and Wagner.”

  “Did she say anything about the Reichsminister?”

  “No. But I didn’t ask her. Why does Dr. Goebbels have this Otto Jakobs, his own personal stenographer?”

  Riefenstahl snorted. “Herr Reichsminister not only writes for his own newspaper, but composes endless speeches and addresses. As if that were not enough, he also dictates a report of what he thinks and does every day in a sort of diary. Imagine that. Even the Führer wrote only one book and got it all off his chest. Goebbels just never shuts up.”

  “Maybe once you start propagandizing, you just can’t stop.” Katja laughed.

  “Well, speaking of propaganda, we’ve got to start making some advertising for Triumph des Willens. As we get close to release time, we’ll need to send out press materials and photos. Can you coordinate that with Rudi? It’ll take a lot off my mind so I can concentrate on editing.”

  “Yes, of course. Whatever you like.” Katja stole a glance at Leni Riefenstahl’s handsome profile. What an enigma the woman was. She obviously had no interest in the Nazi program, yet she was creating a masterpiece to further it. She hated Joseph Goebbels, had only contempt for Goering and Himmler, yet seemed entranced by Hitler. How did she feel about Jews?

  *

  The spacious house on the Brahmsstrasse seemed cheerful in spite of the early evening darkness. Katja changed out of work shoes into slippers and began preparing supper for two.

  Five minutes later, Karl Sommer arrived home from his orchestra rehearsal. As was his habit, he stood his violin case in its cabinet and went to the living room to put a disc on the record player. This evening it was the one of the Brandenburg concerti. Then he joined Katja in the kitchen carrying his so
uvenir chest and smoking his first cigarette of the evening.

  She pecked him on the cheek, wrinkling her nose at the cigarette smoke, and resumed slicing the boiled potatoes. “I do wish you’d smoke less, Vati. I hear you coughing every night.”

  “Don’t worry about me, dear. Let me have my little pleasure. Smoking is my only vice, and I’m sure I’ll die of something other than that.”

  She roasted the potatoes with onions and a handful of sausage chunks, turning them frequently. “Well, this cough of yours never goes away. What do your friends at the Charité say?”

  “Oh, they’re no good. They just suggest I take a rest cure in Bavaria. What nonsense.”

  “Why don’t you go see Dr. Mandelbaum? He treated mother’s lung cancer. Surely he can handle a little chronic coughing.”

  Karl opened one of the window panels and brought in two bottles of dark beer that had been cooling on the windowsill. “He won’t be staying much longer. The Nazis want to make it illegal for hospitals to employ Jewish doctors. It’s not the law yet, but it looks like it soon will be.”

  “Insane,” Katja muttered. “Can’t the hospital make an appeal?”

  “No, darling. We’ll manage. There are Christian doctors just as good. The same is happening in the orchestra. We’re losing people from the strings and the woodwinds, but others will replace them. It’s not wise to get involved in politics.” He set the table for two and poured the beers into glasses.

  Katja added an egg to the potato and sausage mix, which hissed appealingly as it reached the hot grease. “I thought this anti-Jewish thing was just a small part of the party’s plans for the future, one they’d stop obsessing over after they got into power. But it just gets worse.”

  “That’s not our concern, Katja. The Nazis are a little extreme, I know, but Germany is finally on its feet again, and if all it costs is a few Jews their jobs, it’s a small price to pay. I don’t worry about those things. I just care about my music and you. And this, of course.” He patted the little oak chest he had brought in with him.