Delayed Rays of a Star

by Amanda Lee Koe

  III

  Morning light is cooler and softer, Hans Haas could hear Schmitz say if he closed his eyes while on dawn patrol around the mountain valley. The sun shines in from the horizon, not the way it beats down at midday. Its angle is sharper. Use a blue low light, close to the rear. Overexpose ever so slightly, but check if the director finds it acceptable. We have to be very precise with the lights, so the director can be free.

  Amid this idyllic set in the mountains, Hans Haas felt calm. If Schmitz could have been here, too, everything would have been perfect. In the daytime, there were quiet moments for Hans Haas to look out and observe the quality of the light, the way it filtered through the mist. Sometimes he still woke in the middle of the night expecting to rub fine sand from his face, with the impulse to grab his rifle, but he had only to open his eyes and breathe in the mountain air to assure himself that he was not back in the heat of the North African desert, he was on a clean straw pallet in the Bavarian Alps. He was not being jostled this way and that by a leathery-skinned platoon leader in dusty fatigues, he was being instructed by a sharp-looking woman in a sleek camel overcoat. He was not on the losing end of the Afrika Korps campaign in Sirte, he was on the set of a state-sanctioned Bergfilm with a generous budget. There was clean water: not only to drink, but to bathe in. Three hot crew meals were served daily. Yesterday Miss Riefenstahl had even passed around the toffee candy she normally reserved for the child extras. The warmth of buttermilk fat melting on his tongue left an unexpectedly sour aftertaste.

  Hans Haas had been on set for only a week or two, and like everyone else here, he hoped to remain as long as the war went on. They were safe here. He oversaw the security of the animals and the extras, assisted Miss Riefenstahl’s gaffer with the lights. Handling bounce boards and gobo stands he was in his element again, no more Astras and Karabiners. There was something about gunmetal that made his hands go cold when reloading the magazine, even if it was just practice.

  Having taken part in two Wehrmacht campaigns on the North African front, Hans Haas was being rotated back to Berlin for his rest when Riefenstahl Film GmbH, upon receiving a new batch of extras for its production, had wanted to borrow a few Afrika Korps servicemen on furlough to beef up security. Candidates with technical experience in the movie industry were preferred so they could help out on set at the same time. Passing through Tyrol on the way home, the commander had asked if any one of them had experience with film production. Hans Haas had been one of the few selected and dispatched since he’d worked as a best boy at UFA, known to be the premium motion-picture production company in Berlin.

  * * *

  —

  PASSING THE HAIR and makeup trailer, Hans Haas overheard Miss Riefenstahl telling the makeup artist to lay on the foundation thickly. He felt a little sorry that no one dared to tell her that that only made her look older. This would have been less of a problem if she had not handpicked such a young lad to play the male lead: Franz boasted to anyone who would listen that Miss Riefenstahl had plucked him right off a ski slope in St. Anton, for “being her type.” It was fine that he’d never acted, what was important to her was that he had the exact right look to play her love interest. Be that as it may, he was an atrocious performer, and they made for an awkward onscreen couple: Franz was not yet twenty, and Miss Riefenstahl must have been over forty.

  Hans Haas watched them rehearse the scene where shepherd Pedro and dancer Martha meet in the meadow. Gaze at me with desire, Miss Riefenstahl commanded. Franz tried to make his eyes soulful and stirring, widening and narrowing them repeatedly, as he breathed audibly and stamped his foot like a donkey.

  Everyone else was in silent stitches.

  Miss Riefenstahl called for restraint. Hans Haas could see that she was trying to pretend she had not noticed that everyone was having a laugh at her expense in order to remain in character, but it all flew over Franz’s broad shoulders, till finally she called out in exasperation: Gaze at me with desire, but like a virgin! Hans Haas sneezed. Miss Riefenstahl snapped out of character. Is something the matter? she demanded in the general direction of the crew. I hire you to play to my strengths, not to jeer when we are experiencing technical difficulties.

  If Schmitz were here, Hans Haas was certain they would have locked eyes and burst out laughing. Then he would have been in trouble, but Schmitz had a knack for getting him out of things. Hans Haas had been Schmitz’s apprentice. Everyone in the industry knew Schmitz was one of the best gaffers in Berlin, and Schmitz had taught him everything he knew.

  * * *

  —

  THE FIRST TIME he met Schmitz on a UFA production lot in Berlin, the set was lit brightly. People were moving around like wind-up toys finding their positions.

  Sunrise slants, a voice called out. Lower all key lights on set!

  The lights were lowered. The man calling out instructions was thickset, his russet hair somehow clashing with his large frame. When the line producer introduced Hans Haas to him, he scowled and said as if Hans Haas were not present: Long arms, yes, but like matchsticks!

  Later, when Hans Haas burned his fingers on a red light, Schmitz said to his subordinate, addressing him in the third person: Of course young Haas already shows how fit he is. What’s your eelskin stuffed with, pudding? Schmitz flicked him a damp towel as he moved the red light on his own. Welcome to the world of light and shadow, Hasi. Hans Haas watched the lead actress step on set in a forest-green coat as Schmitz suffused the interior set—an entire boulevard, replete with streetlamps—with a fresh, early-morning glow.

  Though light was integral to films, gaffers came and went completely unrecognized and uncelebrated. That did not stop Hans Haas from looking up to Schmitz as an artist. When he told this to Schmitz, he received a smack on the head. Who wants to be an artist, Schmitz said, they’re bootless faggots! Call me what I am—a craftsman.

  Hans Haas admired that his mentor was practical, but imaginative.

  He could create a naturalistic, late-afternoon light on an enclosed set with just a single source of hard light, rigged to a studio beam, diffused with muslin, and distributed with the clever use of mirrors. He was quick to think up eccentric but effective solutions. Hans Haas had watched him put on a double layer of gloves before lifting a portable light source, swinging it evenly from left to right to mimic the passing movement of cars, take after take, with unwavering precision. When the director wanted a certain effect from the light and the cinematographer had not achieved it precisely, Schmitz knew immediately what to tweak. He would call for a different lens to be added to the light to narrow it down or spread it out. His hands, always gloved on set, were nevertheless scarred heavily with burn marks. He spoke firmly to Hans Haas, giving him clear instructions on setups, but in between takes he discoursed with more sensitivity than Hans Haas would have expected. Light should tell a story without calling attention to itself, Schmitz would say. Diffusion softens imperfections. By pulling light farther away from the object it hits, you create harder shadows. That’s all the rage in Hollywood now, but everyone here knows we did it first in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari!

  Schmitz gave Hans Haas credit when it was due, while shouldering Hans Haas’s mistakes as his own. On one production, Hans Haas was rigging up a Hal 500 when a malfunctioning screen door dropped right beside the ankle of the Czech-sourced actress Lida Baarova. She burst into loud tears. The producer wanted Hans Haas dismissed, not just from the set, but from UFA altogether. Schmitz stepped in.

  It didn’t even touch her!

  Look, the producer said. Do you know who she is?

  Hans Haas nodded.

  I can’t be sure, Schmitz said sarcastically. She is—Lida Baarova?

  My friend, the producer said. You know just what I mean.

  Hans Haas nodded again.

  They had all seen the Minister of Propaganda visit the set, where he was shown to a special seat behind the director. Her
r Doktor Goebbels had even been heard boasting that Miss Baarova possessed the most adorable belly button in all of Germany. They’d all seen Miss Baarova leave in the Doctor’s chauffeured ride after they wrapped for the day, not even waiting for the car to pull out of UFA before she melted into his arms in the backseat.

  So, Schmitz said. Are we NSDAP doormats now? I don’t see why I should be, when I’m not a Party member. Neither are you, nor is babycheeks Haas here. How is it anyone’s business some Reichstag rat-face is messing with a Czech muffin? Let’s have some principles. If you want to fire Haas, you’ll have to fire me, too!

  The producer eyed Hans Haas. Don’t get too big for your breeches just because you’ve got yourself a crusader, he said before going on his way. Schmitz patted the producer on the back and stepped to the side for a smoke. Hans Haas followed behind as he watched Schmitz roll his tobacco. Thank you, he said. Schmitz shook his head and exhaled as he offered up a drag. Although Hans Haas did not smoke, he took it, trying for casual as he inhaled. You got it all wrong, kid, Schmitz was saying. Doing the right thing is nothing personal, see?

  Hans Haas returned Schmitz his cigarette.

  Schmitz stuck it back in the corner of his mouth. He frowned.

  Haas, my man, Schmitz said. It is very bad etiquette to take a puff of someone’s cig and return it wet! I can never understand this; it’s outside your mouth, not in it. You’d better figure this out right away, or I’ll fire you myself, you hear?

  IV

  Before retreating to the mountains for her shoot, Leni had to meet with the Doctor to get his signature for the paperwork in regards to the funding for Tiefland. For the meeting, she dressed as modestly as possible: stiff fabric, dark colors, thick stockings, covered shoes, unwaved hair, minimal makeup.

  Following the state’s incorporation of the once-private UFA film studio as part of the Ministry of Propaganda, Leni’s eponymous production company, Riefenstahl Film GmbH, was one of only three production companies permitted to operate autonomously of the Reich.

  The funds for Tiefland had been authorized from H to her, but that was not to say that it had come easy: after the Doctor’s lukewarm response to her proposal for Tiefland, she’d gone out on a limb, writing to H and explaining her concept to him, without sending the Doctor a carbon copy of their correspondence, as she knew he much preferred her to do. She was touched—what with everything else on his plate—that H wrote back in no time at all to say that she should go ahead, he would support her with whatever budget she found appropriate. Forgive the Doctor for being practical, he wrote. He has the Party’s best interests. I do, too, but just as importantly, I have so much faith in you. I can only hope I won’t let you down, she ended her response to him.

  His reply was brief: You can’t let me down. It is not possible.

  Oh, she felt herself turn pink, it was better than love! H and she did not see each other much—even when they met, it was rare for them to divulge any respective personal details, as if the sanctity and solidity of their friendship must be protected at all costs from the germs of the banal and the maudlin, and they were allowed to speak only of visions and ideals—but she knew they shared an elemental bond: how they craved for the world to be brighter, the stage larger. Trumpets in her head and flowers in her chest when she read H’s letter, but she would have to downplay her victory when she went in to see the Doctor. Each time she bypassed the Doctor to go directly to H, she knew she would have to be prepared to pay for it in some way, at some point. He had his mealy-mouthed, double-edged ways of getting back at her.

  * * *

  —

  THE DOCTOR WAS said to have a proclivity for actresses, and Leni had fully intended to use this to her advantage, but there was something in him that was closed to her, that caused him to keep her at arm’s length.

  Leni did not understand this until she decided to befriend the Doctor’s wife. Magda was a Party secretary, and another woman who enjoyed H’s special confidence. It seemed to Leni that all of H’s confidantes were female. He did not have any friends who were men, just as everyone she personally relied on was male. A small price to pay for large achievements. Men were intimidated by H, she thought, just as women must be resentful of her. In any case, male or female, keep your enemies close, and their spouses closer. Bring them expensive cream biscuits when their other halves are out of town, and you might learn something new.

  Sure enough, midway through the one-on-one afternoon chat, Magda dropped the decorous niceties, and after checking that the children were absorbed in a spelling game with the nanny, looked at Leni quite hungrily, cantilevering her bosom over the tea tray to say: Tell me, please. What is it like to know him as an artist?

  Leni was dismayed.

  Dunderheaded Magda must be experiencing marital woes—she was worried that Leni was having an affair with the Doctor. From the outside, they must appear to work so closely together. Leni could only hope it was not a widespread sentiment! Before she could say anything, Magda had gone on: Have you ever thought about how lucky you are? The only reason why I married Joseph was so I could be closer to him. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Leni, it’s an open secret in the Party, not a confession from me to you; I wouldn’t burden you that way. As you know, our leader has to remain unmarried, it is important for his image. But between us I will say this: it is not the same. It is not the same! He will never look at me the way he looks at you. Even with Joseph, he looks at Joseph like the good stage manager he is, but we’ve seen him look at you, Leni. He looks at me like—like a woman—but he looks at you like you are a great artist!

  Magda did not think she was having an affair with the Doctor. It was H she hankered after. Leni was appalled by the directness of this woman’s wild-eyed proclamations, but a part of her wanted to crow with pride: If you want him to look at you that way, why don’t you go ahead and see if you can be a film director instead of a desk secretary, and oh-so-run-of-the-mill!

  Then it struck her—why the Doctor threw his tempers—he, too, was jealous.

  Tea was cleared, and Magda suggested a little tour of their home. Leni went along with it. In their study, Leni found out that the Doctor had a PhD in Romantic literature from Heidelberg and had tried for many years to become a published author. None of his plays had been staged nor his poetry printed, Magda told her, but one work of fiction had appeared in book form. A coming-of-age novella called Michael, it was inspired by Dostoyevsky. Leni was not much of a reader, but thumbing through the Goebbelses’ personal copy in their library, even she could sneer at the Doctor’s shallow juvenilia. Don’t tell Joseph I showed it to you, Magda said. He’s sensitive about it, but the way I see it, a book is a book, isn’t it, Leni?

  Of course, Leni agreed, writing is a most worthwhile endeavor.

  I knew a creative woman like you would understand. Magda smiled at her as she replaced the browning paperback in the bottom drawer. I’m so glad you stayed for tea, Leni. I hardly get to have a real conversation with anyone these days. You’ll come again, won’t you?

  * * *

  —

  AT THE APPOINTED time Leni showed up at the Doctor’s office in the Ministry of Propaganda to get her money. She knocked on the door and was told to enter, but he appeared to be dictating a note to his secretary as he viewed a projection. Each time she saw the Doctor, he was more tanned than the last, even in winter. Picturing him flipping around naked on a sunbed like a pancake made her queasy. He held up a hand, but it was not to say hello. Rather, it was a signal that she should not interrupt him. She stood awkwardly until the Doctor motioned for her to have a seat as he wrapped up. Leni positioned herself adjacent to him on the two-piece sofa.

  On the screen before them was a Hollywood movie.

  Every age that has historical status is governed by aristocracies, the Doctor was saying to his secretary, weighing the words slowly on his tongue, eyes on the screen. Aristocracy with the
meaning the best are ruling, he continued, without looking at Leni. Peoples never do govern themselves. That idea—no, better—that lunacy was concocted by liberalism.

  He paused to rub his temples.

  His speeches were cotton candy, Leni thought. When the style melted away nothing was left at their center. H spoke like a mystic, but with purpose. It made you want to pull yourself up by the bootstraps, not float away on a breeze. As the Doctor droned on, Leni saw to her surprise Marlene Dietrich cross the screen. Marlene’s fair hair was in tight ringlets. She was wearing a frilled corset with dark lace insets and a hat trimmed with a trail of fluttering marabou feathers, as she sauntered into an American West–styled saloon. How could she be dressed in such an outlandish outfit and not look foolishly out of place? It was a natural-born talent Leni knew she lacked. Her own clothes were sensible, expensive, and well made, but she could never have pulled off whatever Marlene was wearing, not even in a movie. Leni had walked into the meeting prepared to be in control, but seeing Marlene’s assured likeness in the same room, radiating outward from a Hollywood movie, threw her off immediately.

  For the role, Marlene had a prominent beauty mark kissing the tip of her cheekbone. Perfect, Leni thought bitterly, she should wear it all the time, it suited her so consummately, making visible her vulgarity! Marlene was crass shimmying around with her beauty mark and skimpy outfits in this Western; she was crass as a bit-part player in Berlin who overplucked her brows and painted her lips whore red; she must have been born crass, and she’d done so little to deserve her success. It was some ten years past now, but Leni could easily recall her heart sinking that afternoon in 1929 when the phone call came from Josef von Sternberg’s assistant, informing her she had not been selected for the part of Lola Lola in The Blue Angel. She liked Jo, admired his movies, and was hoping to manufacture an opportunity for them to work together. It was bound to be a fast track into Hollywood, which she had been trying to break into with no success.